I've been in love with this place for twenty years. The only thing I don't like is that they haven't yet opened a satellite location around the corner from my apartment. Apart from that, the relationship is entirely unmarred by disappointment or regret (no, not even for the extra pound or six I've put on from diving face-first into the mille-feuille).
I have to credit my high school French teacher for the introduction. Monsieur Marquis knew the shortcut to the hearts of disaffected teenagers was flaky pastry, and he'd put out a sign-up sheet every other Friday or so that would have us (students and teachers alike) scrambling for change for a fresh warm pain au chocolat or crisp palmier or a simple, perfect baguette. On the day, he would dispatch a couple of students to pick up the order and we'd watch through the windows for the car to come racing back. Unpacking the boxes was an exercise in patience as we tried to keep from falling on them like wild dogs. Un homme sage, notre professeur. Proust had his madeleine; my classmates and I have our croissants.