A plain croissant has never been my thing. My eyes typically glide towards its more showy neighbors stuffed with almond paste and dark chocolate batons.

But during a sentimental morning crawl up the Boulevard de Montparnasse, I spotted the beige façade of Maison Nicolas Rançon, which looked particularly understated in this colorful part of Paris that hosted Picasso to Cocteau.

I was in the creative stomping grounds of expatriate writers and artists from a century ago, who probably gratefully indulged in such simple snacks after completing long nights of toiling away on little food or sleep.

I inspected the caramel-colored cones that gleamed beneath the pastry glass. The server wrapped mine with a quick twirl of each hand in non-fussy paper.

Parchment removed, my teeth crunched then descended into silkiness. There is something to say about removing all the fillings and enjoying the pure power of a chef’s lamination executed well. Butter, flour, sugar, milk, yeast. Sometimes I am so thankful for God-given ingredients, I order a second serving of their result.

“Autre croissant, s’il vous plaît,” I requested, placing my 1,10 euros in the tray.

This time, I brought my croissant outside and ate it a bit faster with my Le Parisien newspaper flapping in the breeze and a thousand buttery flakes exploding like confetti around me.

Maison Nicolas Rançon
151 Boulevard du Montparnasse
Paris 75006