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Give us this day our daily bread. And throw in a chocolate cupcake too.

Despite living as an impoverished student in Paris in the early nineties, I scraped together enough francs and centimes for a sweet treat every day. The anticipation of an éclaire caramel, a religieuse café, or a pain au chocolat was worth skipping lunch, a bus transfer, and walking three extra blocks to la Boulangerie d’Assas.

Then, a French pastry was a guilty pleasure. Not because of the calories. I walked miles a day, lived in a six-story walk-up, and wore size zero jeans. It was an indulgence because every 4 Fr (about USD1) mattered to me then. When you’re living off of cereal and simple sandwiches most of the time, anything that costs 4 Fr is treasured despite — and more importantly because — it is a precious sum. But what is living in Paris if you can’t afford the joie de vivre?

Frequenting French bakeries was, of course, the most natural French thing to do. When I lived there, I wanted nothing more than to be French. Many mornings, I queued up outside of la Boulangerie du Val de Grâce for a simple daily ficelle or baguette. Outwardly, I pretended the purchase was merely transactional. Mundane. I often feigned slight ennui, as if I had done this all my long-lived Parisian life.

But the truth is, every visit was a thrill. Theater. I played a small but central role. I waited my turn in line, which often ran many people out the door. I spoke few words with a subdued voice to disguise any accent. I placed my coin on the tray — never in hand — and with little eye contact — proof of being bona fide. There were breads I wanted to try but didn’t for lack of knowing the name. Maybe I “passed” as French. Maybe the woman chuckled as soon as I walked away. (“Who does this American girl think she is?”) I just know I was living my best French life.

But unlike the daily bread, a religieuse (a double decker choux pastry filled with crème topped with caramel, mocha, or chocolate) was no doubt an ostentatious choice. . . . for any day, let alone a normal Tuesday at 3:00. Most of the other ladies ordered their pain de mie and boules, tucked them into plain brown paper bags, and muddled home. I bought this crowned beauty, unwrapped it immediately, and ate it in full display right outside the patîsserie door. It didn’t take a sleuth to figure out I was new in town.

30 years on now, the guilty pleasure has nothing to do with money and everything to do with rich, cloying délices. As we age, we care more about our health (blood sugar, cholesterol, fiber intake), but, happily, we worry less about our clothing size. It is as it should be. What’s the point of carpe diem if it tastes like reconstituted hay?

As we age, we care more about our health (blood sugar, cholesterol, fiber intake), but, happily, we worry less about our clothing size. It is as it should be. What’s the point of carpe diem if it tastes like reconstituted hay?

Joining friends at Cannelle (literally, Cinnamon) today in Birmingham harkened me back to my earlier years. With its rustic wood-grain charm and friendly service, it’s easy to see why this patîsserie a favorite in metro Detroit. What’s better, the slightly edge-of-town location in Birmingham off of Eton Street makes it feel like a bit of a “hidden gem.” (Not everything belongs at the corner of Maple and Old Woodward.) There are locations in Detroit, Farmington, and Ann Arbor as well. I’ll be making the rounds.

I asked in French if it was okay to photograph, assuming the woman behind the counter was French as well. I don’t know if she heard me properly or understood what I said, but she said “OK” when I gestured with my camera and began to shoot. After listening to her more, I realized she was foreign-born but not French. She had kindness in her eyes. A soft-spoken younger man took my drink order and hand delivered it to the table a few minutes on.

A pain au chocolat was de rigueur. That was decided long before even getting into my car. To that, I added a savory gruyère bacon croissant and a chocolat chaud. Nary a green vegetable in sight.

We sat outside along the front window, cooled by the awning shade. 65 and sunny, the day could not be more Pure Michigan if it tried. As we walked out and the restaurant staff followed us with our plates, I spotted a perfect cozy corner that looked like a stylized vignette posing for a photograph. Thank you to whomever left the coffee cups, perfectly placed napkins, and crumbs behind. The three of us — all ladies of a certain age — talked about food and travel and books and handbags and college and kids and husbands — things that occupy life at such an age. On this day, we ate our daily bread and pastries with reckless abandon. We savored the joie de vivre.

I tip my hat to Matt Kneo for creating not only beautiful food, but a space where memories — truly lived or merely dreamed — can be savored one delicious bite at a time.