I fell in love with crepes on a cold, late December evening in Paris. Famished as well as jet-lagged, I roamed the 1st arrondissement in search of something warm, filling and quick to eat. On a sex shop-lined street near our rented apartment on Rue Saint Denise Impasse I spotted a stout, middle-aged man standing on a street corner, cooking paper thin pancakes on an oversized, portable hot plate. After flipping them once, he filled his crepes with fresh, sliced bananas, the chocolate-hazelnut spread Nutella, strawberry preserves or a combination of the three. He then rolled up the griddle cakes, sprinkled them with granulated sugar, wrapped them in sheets of waxed paper and handed them out to the hungry. Mesmerized by the honeyed fragrance and simple artfulness of his creations, I slid into line and awaited my turn for a confiture d’fraise, or strawberry jam, crepe. In less than five minutes I had in my hand a warm, otherworldly meal. Tender to the tooth and with a delicate sweet touch, they were like nothing I …