Petite Provence: A Tale of Love and Lattés

Petite Provence on Southeast Division in Portland, Oregon is a French bistro and bakery; that, in itself, is enough to excite the casual appetite with dreamy images of artful espresso drinks and hordes of motleyed macarons. However, when considering this establishment, I look beyond the pleasantries and see a love story: a tale of two young people, a Bakery, and the pain au chocolat that drew them together.

Before a description of the patisserie can be given, the key characters of my story must be introduced: meet Jeff, a lonely young man snared in the seemingly hopeless task of finding a life companion. Next, we find Bonnie’s shining face tucked behind the counter at The Bakery; yet beneath her sunny disposition is a similarly lonely heart that still hopes, and waits.

“I’ve met this girl! She’s really something,” Jeff sighs. “I’m going to ask her to dinner.” I pause from my book long enough to skeptically raise my eyebrows; unfortunately, my cynicism often triumphs over my half-hearted optimism.

A few days later: “Dinner was amazing! We have so much in common. Did I mention she works at a French bakery?” A Bakery? A French Bakery? Glowing images of well-proportioned éclairs drift across my vision; dropping my crossword, I look him intently in the eye.

“Bring her home. Tonight. Tomorrow. As soon as possible.”

In the following days, Bonnie is a hit with the Family; she can laugh as hard and well as the rest of us, and she simply adores Jeff. “Comes visit me at work tomorrow,” she eagerly urges me, and obviously, little encouragement was needed.

On the following day, my sister Ellie and I step through the doorway vaguely resembling the Arc de Triomphe to be greeted by the bustling interior of Petite Provence. The pleasant yellow wallpaper brightens the small but open space, and the tastefully sedate furnishings complement the stone tile floor nicely. Immediately our senses are overloaded with the scents and clamor of a French bakery with lunch rush in full swing; I hungrily eye the chocolate soufflés and golden brioches imprisoned behind a glass pane, begging to be released.  Behind the pastry counter, Bonnie glides silkily from one task to another, concocting a café au lait here and cheerfully ringing up a customer the next moment. Catching my eye just as a tentative maître d’ shuffles towards us, she motions that we should follow the lurking attendant towards an empty table. “Don’t worry, it’s on me,” she mouths.

We have arrived during an initial wave of lunch patrons, thus we are promptly seated at a table situated towards the room’s far end; this location provides us with the ideal modus operandi to observe the many happenings of The Bakery. I survey the menu whilst slurping the foam off a vanilla latté, my eyes feasting on the likes of French Onion Soup and Blueberry Crêpes; the price spectrum, although not inexpensive, is reasonable, with meal offerings ranging from $6.95 to $12.95. Promptly sailing over to our table, a young waitress smilingly takes our respective orders: the Quiche du Jour and a Monte Carlo sandwich, and we settle in for the wait.

The clientele of The Bakery are of differing mode and make, although all bear a distinct Portland flavor. Trendy mothers clad in REI sportswear chat over a salad as impish tots guzzle cream puffs; austere older gentlemen nibble a spartan croissant and clip away at a laptop; and of course, quintessential plaid-sporting hipsters coolly sip espresso, and wax poetic over the Opera Cake (almond cake with coffee syrup, layered with chocolate ganache and coffee buttercream).

Before I have even sated my people-watching appetite, a generous slice of vegetable quiche sits hot in front of me; Ellie’s eyes light up at the sight of her sandwich heaped with smoked turkey, bacon, pepper jack cheese, and fresh tomato. Although some could argue that a simple quiche leaves little room for variation or spontaneity, the first bite was perfectly salty to my taste, without diminishing the effect of succulent tomato and pungent basil. Thrusting inhibitions aside, the meal is quickly consumed, along with the accompanying lentil soup.

Off come our coats and sweaters as the glow of a contented belly and the heat of the humming Bakery warm us to our very core; it is often overlooked that to achieve such satisfaction of heart and mind, one need not look far beyond the dinner table.

“How was everything?” Bonnie queries in a free moment, slipping away from the counter.

“Wonderful!” we chorus together, and sing the praise of all things French and butter-laden.

            Once at home, the Family is regaled with our tales of The Bakery, its decadent pastries, and the smiling lass that led us there. Jeff, who as always talked more than all of his five sisters put together, chatters incessantly about their uncanny similarities of both temperament and emotion. Throughout his reveries, he dreamily clutches a somewhat-battered chocolate croissant, a token of affection from his most recent visit to Petite Provence.

“I really think I’m going to marry this girl,” he earnestly states, with hopeful eyes and an even more hopeful heart.  My cynical nature begins to falter, and a hesitant ray of optimism slowly begins to shine.

Life carries on as usual, and our rich uncle comes to visit; Uncle Jeff (Jeff is his namesake) is the classic wealthy relative: eccentric, affectionate, and generous beyond belief. Without fail, he showers us with electronic playthings and caters to our every whim; one sunny morning, he innocently offers to treat my sister and I to a lunch of our choosing.

“Anywhere you like!” he heartily encourages.

Ellie and I exchange a sly glance, and reply, “We know just the place.”

For the second time, we stroll through the entrance of Petite Provence and inhale the already-familiar aromas wafting through The Bakery; keeping pace with our previous visit, we are seated quickly and coolly by the attractive attendant, and subsequently we begin to peruse the menu. Amongst his peculiarities, Uncle Jeff is an exceedingly timorous and careful eater, having a cautious palate that does not venture far beyond the familiar; thus, he skims over offerings of goat cheese and crab, settling instead upon Ellie’s previous choice: the comfortable turkey and bacon-topped Monte Carlo. Sandwiches similarly prevail over Ellie and I, as we fall prey to the Chipotle Chicken Sandwich and the Vegetarian Croissant, respectively.

         Ellie dashes to the front counter as soon as our orders are submitted, that she might better admire the stratified French cakes, resplendent with ganache and buttercream. The Lemon Graffiti layers white chocolate cream and tart lemon cream upon delicate chocolate cake, finally to be rounded off with almond-topped ganache. Diced apricots furtively peak out of the Crunchy Hazelnut and add a delightful surprise beneath slabs of ganache-painted chocolate cake.

         Behind the case, the idle barista leaves his station to shyly discuss the complexities of cake preparation and assembly with Ellie. “Carlo?” Bonnie later remarked, “He doesn’t know anything about cakes. He just makes coffee.” I spy many a subtle glance sent in her direction throughout our visit; when our espresso drinks arrive, the surface of Ellie’s mocha is etched with an intricate floppy-eared dog, whimsically peering up at her. My latté has hardly a swirl.

         Uncle Jeff hums contentedly to himself as we wait impatiently for our fare, and my people-watching efforts yield much the same results as before. Our table, off-balanced by the uneven stone floor, lurches hazardously back and forth; with a practiced air, the waitress surreptitiously dives beneath our view to insert a steadying wedge beneath the table legs. She apologizes with a look of chagrin, and in reparation, scurries back momentarily with a haul of sandwiches. Ellie’s smile oozes caramelized onions and chipotle aioli, while Uncle Jeff’s humming becomes louder and more rampant as he chews. I am again entirely fulfilled in every sense of the word by the food of Petite Provence: a fresh, airy croissant serves as the perfect foil to a medley of vegetables slathered in basil pesto.

         Once our business is completed, we saunter over to the pastry counter to say a quick hello to Bonnie, and Ellie and I successfully coax Uncle Jeff into the acquisition of several colorful macarons, a pink meringue pig, and a regal crème puff shaped like a swan; gleeful expressions coat our faces as we march triumphantly out the door.

         It’s only a matter of time before Jeff sidles up to me, face awash with excitement, and grasping a small velvet box. “I bought her a ring!” he whispers breathlessly, “Now I just need to find a way to propose.” A petite diamond glitters on a slender gold band, and my hardened heart melts like a pat of butter; an excited phone call later, I discover that I’ve gained another sister and a euphoric brother.

         Wedding preparations begin with a bang, yet the daily routine must be maintained; my sister Esther’s birthday approaches, and so I decide a lunch outing is in order. Naturally, we head to Petite Provence.

         Bonnie is radiant with happiness, her left hand sparkling and twinkling like a star in the night sky; she hands change to customers with grand flourishes, and pauses to allow pleased patrons to admire the dainty rock on her finger. It seems as though I’ve been coming here for years: the familiar waitresses, the topsy-turvy tables, and the steamy lattés are just like old friends; The Bakery sways to its vibrant rhythm, as women chatter, keyboards clack, and sentimental French music drifts over my head.

I think I’ll have the Quiche du Jour.