The best croissants in Silverlake are from Café Tropical. They have delicious freshly squeezed orange juice too. Juice that is not a juice trying to be a hipster juice (insert wink here) Decent-price-stuff.
Within a distance that falls into the category of things I can do wearing my PJ's. It feels like home. I will admit I might be a little bit predisposed to like a place that uses two (2!) of my favorite words as its name.
On one croissant-craving morning I took my order to-go. I drank all the juice on my way back. Next time I should get two. Note to self.
Back home I poured myself some milk, topped it off with coffee. Serious dipping was about to go down.
The soaking treatment is an art form. Too fast and my shirt/face gets splattered, a problem of excess liquids. Too slow and the coffee will melt the pastry, this will detach the piece into said liquids. What remains of the piece make a not-so-nice comeback from the bottom of the mug. #LawsOfPhysics.
I sat down and broke my croissant in two. I grabbed one half and lowered the pointy side into my cup with gliding care. The first bite came with a familiar certainty. It was the best croissant I've ever had. It was so good, it reminded me of the other best croissant I've ever had.
My first time in France was with my sister. We were still in our twenties. It was our first big trip, the one where we discovered we were traveling soulmates.
It was so early in the morning that I can't remember if there was fog or Paris was just being cloudy. The color of the city was definitely grey. Not sad grey, though.
We needed to take a train to Toulouse, it departed from Garde du Montparnasse. At the train station we sat down at a little coffee place. In real need of caffeine and food, we took turns ordering one croissant et un café au lait each. The joy of having the words café-olé come out of your mouth should be enough to make you want to order coffee in French. Always.
The city had been magical. Past the initial cold, I adored Paris from the get-go. I was enchanted by the echoes of its many stories, one for each street corner. I swirled my way through all the major city highlights, used the metro and ate mussels.
Waiting for our train at the table, in that small café I sensed a type of certainty. As sad as I was to leave Paris, something in me was sure I would come back. The questions of how or when were not only unanswered, they had not yet been born. It was a feeling. An unnamable something I did not know I knew. Oh, but I knew.
I dipped my croissant, turned its edge to a brownish grey and had a bite of the best croissant I've ever had.
I swear Silverlake feels like Paris sometimes. Particularly on the days I eat croissants for breakfast.