“Let’s go,” I finally muster. The man in black nods curtly at us and walks away, while Henri and Simon begin making their way back out the way we came in. Alain and I start to follow, but suddenly, I catch the scent of something familiar, and I come to an abrupt halt. I turn slowly around and look at the young man behind the pastry counter, who is sliding a tray of rectangular, sugar-powdered pastries into the display case. I walk back up to the counter.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you, by any chance, have, um”—I struggle to remember the name of the pastry from the bakery in the Marais—“Ronde des Pavés?”
The man looks at me. “Ronde des Pavés?” he repeats. “I no speak good the English. Mais, non, I do not know what this is, Ronde des Pavés.”
“Um.” I look around for Alain. He joins me at the counter. “Can you tell this man that Ronde des Pavés is a pie made of poppy seeds, almonds, grapes, figs, prunes, and cinnamon sugar? Can you ask if that sounds familiar?”
I know I might be losing my mind, but I swear, I can smell Star Pie wafting through the air. Before Alain translates, he gives me a strange look. “That was my mother’s recipe,” he says.
I nod. “It’s our bakery’s specialty,” I tell him. “And my grandmother’s favorite thing.”
Alain blinks at me a few times, turns back to the young man, and quickly translates. I watch as the young man nods and says something in return. Alain turns to me. “He says yes. He says that here, though, they make the pies individually, and each crust has the pattern of a star.”
My mouth falls open. “That’s how Mamie taught me to make them,” I say softly. “She calls them Star Pies.”
Alain scratches his head. Beside me, Simon and Henri are silent. We all stare at the young man as Alain explains the Star Pies in French. The man’s eyes widen, and he looks quickly at me and then back to Alain. He says something in rapid French, and then Alain turns to look at me.
“He says there is a man who lives in the sixth,” Alain says. “Not so very far away. His family has a Muslim bakery. The recipe came from him. He might be able to explain where it originated.”
I nod and glance at the young man. “Thank you,” I say. “Merci beaucoup.”
“De rien.” The man nods at me and smiles. “Bonne chance.”
As I follow Alain and his two friends back through the courtyard toward the street, my heart is pounding. “Do you think the pies have something to do with my grandmother?” I ask him.
“There is no way to tell,” Alain says. But from the sparkle in his eyes and the quickening of his step, I can tell he’s hopeful, and that gives me hope too.
We hail a cab and ride in silence for fifteen minutes, until our driver pulls up in front of the address the young man at the bakery gave us. It’s a small bakery that looks typically French, except for its sign, which is in both Arabic and French. Inside, the smell of yeast is heavy, and the walls are lined with baguettes standing vertically. The display case in front is an endless array of pastries dotted with fruits and crystallized sugar. I recognize the large Star Pies immediately, with their signature crisscrossed crust pattern that I’ve been making for years, and my heartbeat picks up; surely this is a sign that we’re on the right path.
We ask the young woman behind the counter whether we can speak with the owner, and a moment later, a tall, middle-aged man with caramel skin and jet-black hair graying at the temples emerges from a back room. He’s wearing a stark white baker’s apron over perfectly pressed khaki slacks and a pale blue button-down shirt.
“Ah yes, Sahib telephoned from the mosque and told me you would be coming,” the man says after greeting the four of us. “I am Hassan Romyo, and you are most welcome here. But I am afraid I may not be able to help you.”
My heart sinks. “Sir, do you know where the recipe for the pies with the star lattice crust comes from?” I ask in a small voice, pointing to the pies in the display case.
He shakes his head. “I have owned this bakery for twenty years now,” he tells me, “and the recipe has been here as long as I can remember. My mother before me made it too, but she died long ago. I thought always that it was a family recipe.”
“It’s a Jewish recipe,” Alain interjects softly. Monsieur Romyo looks at him with raised eyebrows. “It comes from my grandmother’s mother, in Poland, many years ago.”
“Jewish?” Monsieur Romyo asks. “And Polish? Are you quite certain?”