Leavened or otherwise, as a crust or wrapped around a shawarma, a steamed and chewy bao hiding a quail’s egg or merely the fragrance cushioning the morning air of every side street in France—its qualities are sacred and its gift for creating community unparalleled. In this chapter, I will detail some of the more spiritual properties of this miraculous substance, and instruct the reader in a few techniques through which it can be employed in the meeting of strangers and fending off of loneliness and other such malaises. —BRUNO TANNENBAUM, TWENTY RECIPES FOR LOVE As Bruno left the Trevallier estate, he grew suddenly sad. He stopped and leaned on a rock wall, enjoying warmth from stones that had already absorbed the morning sun. Despite the lovely day and the promising turn of events, he was morose. He wasn’t exactly sure if it was self-pity at being so far from his family or leaving such a captivating woman behind. For the moment he was absolutely in love with Sylvie Trevallier. This morning he’d woken up ahead of Sylvie and had taken her cell phone from her nightstand while she slept and written down the number with a marker on the palm of his hand before placing it back exactly where he’d found it.
