Wendy

She had to be the only other American in Dijon. She looked like Dolly Parton in velor sweats.
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“I always think it’s nice to meet fellow Americans and share a bit of information on those beignets y’all are chowin’ down on.”
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Half a warm, soft pastry was crowding my mouth. I settled in for a story.
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“You should know how this little patisserie ended up in all them fancy guide books—American ingenuity.
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“Note the smoky, maple flavor? Well, that touch is an import.”
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I shook my head. Nothing too surprising about imported maple syrup.
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“In the 1950s, there was a cattleman up in Jackson Hole, called Jerome Kitchen. Maybe it was the name, but he spent the days roundin’ up cattle, smokin’ Marlboro, and takin’ in mountain views. Evenings he spent with his mother, bakin.’
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“Soon enough, he stole off with nothin’ but his beloved rolling pin and a brand name Coleman camping edition thermos he’d sent away for with 25 Marlboro box tops. He’d show it to anyone, dead useful thing to have for a cowboy.
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“He picked his way east and a Vermont diner took him on for desserts. He shed his ten-gallon for a hair net. Soon the only traces of the old cowboy were his cigarette breaks, his thermos and the holster under his apron.
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“Kitchen’s maple sticky buns, made with sap from a local sugarhouse, soon won him a listing in Gourmet magazine.”
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“And this place imports the maple?” I asked.
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“Yep, but there’s a bit more to it. His ego got the better of him.”
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“His ego?” I asked, no longer really caring how my pasty came to be. I was eyeing another.
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“He had recognition now, and the rebel in him longed to break one of mother Kitchen’s rules: No smoking while you cook. Soon after, he was alone at sunup, in the diner, bakin’ sticky buns with a Marlboro hanging out one side of his mouth, when he heard a rustlin’ out the window, then a sufflin.’ Suspecting a bear—big black bears are common up east—he turned his head so fast, some ash fell from the very tip of his cig and landed smack in the folds of an otherwise gorgeous bun.
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“He ran outside, pulled a pistol from under his apron, and caught it, right between the beady eyes. When it fell, the thump was soft. Turns out it was just a biggish raccoon. He called a furrier friend to make it a hat for Momma.
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“That morning the town’s mayor and his little wife arrived. Young Kitchen sauntered over, tellin’ his coon story, placed down the prized bun and tipped his hair-netted head. But you can guess what happened: His most important customer bit into a little pile of ash.
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“Now, the mayor was a forgivin’ man, and turned the whole incident into a joke. He said the raccoon spooked Jerome Kitchen. Kitchen called his momma up that week and said, ‘Momma, toss that coon hat I have comin’ to you. It spooked me.’ But his momma shared the hard truth, ‘Jerome, you need an ego check.’
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“But where could he get his ego checked?”
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“Paris?” I ventured.
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“Right-o! He read it in that same issue of Gourmet. The best chefs apprenticed in Paris. He set off and learnt humilty straight away. The first chef smelled smoke on him, and sent him out here to Dijon. Paris kitchens won’t even hire man who needs a smoke break!
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“On the way, Kitchen gave up cigarettes and stopped at a street market for some chewin’ tobacco. To keep this new habit a secret, he brought his thermos to his lips not to drink, but to spit.”
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I gulped my espresso.
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“His next chef, at this very patisserie, never suspected. Not even,” she whispered, “when a pretty American woman caught his eye, causin’ him to tip the Coleman thermos right over, into his what is now his signature maple glaze.”
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At this she paused to stare at the grizzled old man in the oven room, beyond the front counter, holding a red thermos to his lips.