Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
I’m tough on crêperies. I can’t help it. I’m constantly comparing their crêpes to the ones of my French childhood summers spent in Brittany, the northwest peninsula of France and the crêpe’s birthplace. My great-grandmother made them in her two room farmhouse –– she poured the mixture of buckwheat flour, salt and water onto a billig, a hot, round, buttered, grill surface, then with her rozell, a small toothless rake, she spread this batter into a fifteen-inch-round sphere the thinness of butterfly wings. As the batter bubbled there and the edges browned, she coaxed the half cooked, wobbly, crepe onto her long, wooden spatula and flipped it over, intact. The crêpe continued cooking this way until completely golden, signaling to her to scrape this fragile delicacy gently off the billig with her spatula. From here she held the hot crêpe between her fingertips and the spatula. She then placed it onto a waiting plate, setting the crêpe down with the same carefulness as though she was putting a drowsy baby onto a pillow.
