Reading of the death of French pastry genius Gaston Lenôtre in the pages of The New York Times brought me immediately back to mid-’70s Manhattan, when I first met the woman who was to become my wife and love was in bloom. I need no madeleine to bring back my past; give me an inspired Lenôtre creation any day.

The obituary refers to Chateau France, an 80-seat restaurant and pâtisserie, which he opened on East 59th Street in April 1974, the same month Irene began work at Marvel Comics, and two months before my start date. I don’t remember ever eating in the restaurant, but the pâtisserie, which in my memory was simply called Lenôtre’s, was immediately next to the restaurant, and once Irene and I discovered each other it became somewhat of a hangout for us.

I can close my eyes and remember specific pastries, Irene and I holding hands across the table as we ate. There was a swan encased in spun-sugar. A large orange filled with cream. Irene and I would walk there during our lunch hours, or after work, and enjoy Lenôtre’s amazing confections, and our budding relationship. Lenôtre was a culinary god, and his pastries were so sensual that eating them was almost a form of foreplay.

Lenôtre apprentice Michel Richards is quoted as saying about the restaurant, “It closed a year later. Americans weren’t ready for his pastries.” Irene and I surely were. You may remember what music was playing when you fell in love. I remember what I was eating. And often, what I was eating was the brainchild of Gaston Lenôtre.

Continued Richard, “When you’ve been at Lenôtre, it’s like a drug. You’ve been injected with his recipes that you have to carry your whole life.”

I have. I do. And almost 35 years later, I’m still high.

Spotted in the supermarket—Iron Man chocolate!