Crepes Quotes

“The moral of this story is not everything that's slick is non-stick, and not everything non-stick is slick.”
― Alton Brown

“My stomach is a flimsy crepe, my heart a raging woodpecker, my blood a river of anxiety.”
― Tahereh Mafi, Shatter Me

“We started getting hungry again, and some of the women started chanting, "MEAT, MEAT, MEAT!"
We were having steak tartare. It was the only appropriate main course we could think of, for such a graceless theme, and seeing as nobody in the club was confident making it, we had to order it in. I made chips to serve with it, though. I deep-fried them in beef fat.
The steak was served in little roulades, raw and minced, like horsemeat. It was topped with a raw egg yolk, chopped onions, pickled beetroot, and capers. I had wanted to use the Wisconsin version, which is served on cocktail bread and dubbed "cannibal sandwich," but Stevie insisted we go classic. Not everyone could stomach theirs with the raw egg yolk, too, and so, unusually for a Supper Club, there was quite a lot left over.
We took another break to drink and move about the room. Some of us took MDMA. Emmeline had brought a box of French macarons, tiny pastel-colored things, which we threw over the table, trying to get them into one another's mouth, invariably missing.
For our proper dessert, we had a crepe cake: a stack of pancakes bound together with melted chocolate. We ate it with homemade ice cream, which was becoming a real staple.”
― Lara Williams, Supper Club

“Later that evening, I meet Alex and Gracie at a crepe stand on Fairview for dinner. He orders two ham-and-provolones and I chose a goat-cheese-spinach-and-tomato. We watch as the woman behind the stand pours the batter on the round wheel and rakes it into a perfect circle with a wooden tool. Within seconds, the batter thickens and bubbles, turning a shade of golden brown. She reaches for a tub of cheese labeled "Pro 3-5," then shakes her head and tucks it under the shelf before looking up at us. "Almost forgot to toss this one. Found it in the back of the fridge. Expired months ago." She opens up a new tub of shredded cheese and sprinkles it on Alex's crepe. I'm not thinking about expired cheese, however. It's "Pro 3-5" that haunts me. I know it's silly. It's an expiration date for provolone cheese, but I key Proverbs 3:5 into my phone, and read what comes back: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him and he will make your paths straight.”
― Sarah Jio, Morning Glory

“She set butter and sugar to warm in a sauté pan, and then turned to core, peel, and slice the apples, the sluicing sound of the knife against the crisp flesh of the fruit giving her whirling mind finally something to clutch. She dropped the apples into the pan, shaking it gently by the handle to coat the apples until they were slightly caramelized. Then she added a splash of cider and let the buttery, sweet liquid reduce before seasoning with cinnamon and pouring the softened apples into a serving bowl. She leaned over the bowl as she customarily did when making cinnamon apples to breathe the earthy-sweet aroma.”
― Karen Weinreb, The Summer Kitchen

“I want more, I said, putting a hand to my stomach, which rides higher than most know. Closer to the heart. I want the jiang bing that vendor will make when she runs out of nut butter. I don't think she's arrogant. I think she's right. I want to sample jian bing from every cart in Beijing, and I want to taste what those kids are eating at home, what they don't teach in cookbooks at Le Cordon Bleu. There's so much out there--- Helplessly, I said, I haven't even told you how much I love foods wrapped in other foods.
Then tell me.
I tried. I tried. Banh xeo in Hanoi, I said, and duck folded in the translucent bing of northern China. I spoke of tacos in Mexico City: suadero, al pastor, gringas. South Indian dosas as long as my arm, thinner than a rib of a feather. Oh, Aida, I said when I fumbled the names of the chutneys. How can I know all I've ever want? Something will get left out. I was wrong about cilantro.
Tlayudas, she said stubbornly, as if she hadn't heard. Blini. Crêpes.
They're basically French jian bing, I said with a strangled laugh.
Pita sandwiches.
Pickle roll-ups.
Calzone.
Bossam! I yelled, and the dogs barked and the children cheered and the streets of old Milan rang with the imported memory of pork kissed by brine, earthy with Korean bean paste, safe in its bed of red leaf lettuce.”
― C Pam Zhang, Land of Milk and Honey

“She sat down in front of her open pantry and breathed deeply. She reached forward and patted the large clear jar of dried flageolet beans. She pawed the ten-pound bag of basmati rice, sweet and fragrant. She kissed the chickpeas, haricot beans, dried wild mushrooms. Ah, yes, even the dried cèpes. Oh, she felt better. And look, her vinegars, balsamic, sherry, white and red wine, cider, raspberry. And the oils. So many oils. And so many marinated vegetables. She marinated them herself, picking the freshest, finest baby vegetables, adding extra-virgin olive oil, and enclosing them in beautiful jars. Ah, and look, she smiled. Walnut oil peeked from behind a linen bag of fresh walnuts. She could make a goat cheese salad at any moment. She took a deep, restorative breath. She fingered the labels of the canned smoked oysters, the mussels, the herring, and the boneless skinned sardines in olive oil. She could make a sardine pâté in seconds. And best of all were her vacuum-packed French-style crêpes, which she kept in case of emergencies. A flip of the wrist and she could sit down to a feast of crêpes oozing with fruit syrup and slathered in whipped cream.”
― Nina Killham, How to Cook a Tart

“She lifted a piece of sourdough bruschetta slathered with seafood and a light-colored sauce. She bit carefully into the creation.
Her mouth exploded with flavor. Prawns and lobster swimming in the most delectable sauce. Buttery and layered, with whisky and leeks and onions and simple herbs.
Sophia moaned.
There was more than just one bite on this plate. Thank God. Not strictly a true amuse-bouche, but Sophia didn't care.
Was it bad form to lick the plate in a cooking competition? This drab little plate had miraculously fixed her taste bud deficiency. Unbelievable. The moment had just shifted from black-and-white to color, like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. Who had created this dish? Someone with a sophisticated palate but no eye for visual presentation.
The last plate beckoned, but she already knew it was a lost cause. There was no way it could best that seafood stew. It was a lovely crepe, packed with grilled eggplant and goat cheese. And now that Sophia's taste had been awakened from hibernation, she was able to enjoy every bite.
But it still wasn't enough to out-shine the prawns.
Those prawns sang to her, and they needed her. They demanded color and brightness. The sauce was bold and rich. That plate clamored for the balance of her garden. She could imagine a prickly little salad to offer texture and bite, to complement that exquisite sauce.
Those prawns needed her.”
― Penny Watson, A Taste of Heaven

“He requested recipes from his mother and combed the markets for ingredients, shaping his nostalgia for her cooking into Sunday meals- pickled beets with crème fraîche, crabapple and cabbage dumplings, plum turnovers- and filling envelopes with fantasy menus addressed to Nina. Maman, we must add crepe soufflé to our desserts. You simply fold meringue into your vanilla custard, spoon it into the pancakes, fold them in half, sprinkle with sugar, and bake them. They puff into golden pillows!”
― Donia Bijan, The Last Days of Café Leila

“The gallettes were darker, a nut-brown from the buckwheat flour, and folded from a circle into a square, with the savory toppings peeping through invitingly. Rosie saw what looked like goat cheese on Yumi's plate. And maybe ratatouille on Marquis's. And over on the plate between her and Henry- ugh, a fat yellow egg stared back at her. Rosie still hadn't forgiven eggs for the whole omelet debacle.
"It's called oeuf miroir," Henry said, poking the yolk with his fork almost reverentially, as Marquis and Yumi debated whether or not they should wait for everyone to get their food before they started eating. Yumi, her cheeks full of goat cheese, was firmly on the side of not. "It means egg mirror. Or mirror egg. I think. It looks kind of like a mirror, yeah? And then there's ham and Gruyère underneath. Here, you can have the first bite."
Rosie loved Gruyère. The flavors exploded in her mouth. Buckwheat flour was a revelation- nuttier than she'd expected, not like a nut, really, but she couldn't think of any other way to say it. It had a subtle flavor all its own, crisp edges from where it had been seared on the hot pan, and a perfectly soft, almost spongy texture within, where the Gruyère melted into the salty ham, and before Rosie knew it, she'd eaten three bites.”
― Stephanie Kate Strohm, Love à la Mode

“Next to the gallettes with their savory fillings, and even the banana-Nutella crêpe with its seductive chocolaty drizzle across the top, and especially next to whatever monstrosity Henry had ordered topped with three scoops of vanilla ice cream, the crêpe au sucre Rosie had selected certainly looked plain. It was a slim triangle dusted with sugar, but Rosie swore the sugar was sparkling in the dim light of the restaurant. She cut a tiny triangle off the tip and took a bite. Now this, this was everything. It was simple, but in the way that reminded Rosie that sometimes the simplest things were the best. The crêpe was golden and buttery and the caramelized sugar crunchy before it dissolved instantly, melting on Rosie's tongue. It couldn't be anything more than butter, sugar, flour, and milk. And yet... those simple ingredients were transformed into something transcendent. And that, Rosie thought, was exactly the power of cooking.”
― Stephanie Kate Strohm, Love à la Mode

“Pinky Fein, a friend of Oscar's, owns the Gilded Lily, a four-star Midtown restaurant renowned for its beggar purses- paper-thin crepes filled with créme fraîche and Beluga caviar, tied into small bundles with chives, lightly sprayed with edible gold leaf, and presented like candles in a candelabra.”
― Hannah Mccouch, Girl Cook: A Novel

“For the meeting, I'd laid out a wide variety of fillings and sauces on the table, with the sauces in my antique chafing dishes to stay warm. And it was true---there was a lot of food. I'd provided prosciutto, roasted red peppers, toasted walnuts, fig preserves, and a cheese sauce made with fontina. The savory ingredients were intended for the brown-butter buckwheat crepes.
For dessert, I'd provided sweet crepes made with my grandmother's recipe. Antique china bowls containing Nutella, sweetened mascarpone, lemon curd, and sliced fresh fruit fought for space on the table.
The crepe I was most proud of, though, was my stracciatella crepe. In a nod to the gelato flavor, I'd attacked the chocolate bar with my trusty Microplane zester and incorporated it as a last ingredient in my chilled crepe batter.”
― Hillary Manton Lodge, A Table by the Window

“Séb and I explored the beautiful neighborhood of l'Île Saint-Louis, eating savory crêpes made of buckwheat and filled with creamy goat cheese, crunchy arugula, and juicy tomatoes at one of the cafés, me doing my best to savor the textures. Lunch was followed by the famed Berthillon sorbets and ice creams, the latter of which we ate on the banks of the Seine, Séb drooling over the richness of the flavors. Considering they had over seventy parfums, we'd both found it hard to settle on one. Séb, the adventurer, took café au whisky with another scoop of tiramisu. I'd ended up taking abricot and framboise, always loving how apricot mixed with raspberries, and wanting something cool on this scorcher of a day.”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“I head back to my apartment, but not before popping into a small creperie for a Nutella, banana, and coconut crepe because, let's be honest, I'm only human. The shop sits a few doors down from Peregrine Espresso, and even though I spend most days surrounded by flaky croissants and fudge brownies, God help me, I still cannot resist the siren song of a sweet Nutella crepe.
I order it to go, but I dive in before I even leave the store because Nutella is my kryptonite. The rich chocolate hazelnut spread oozes from within the sweet eggy crepe, each bite filled with fresh bananas and bits of toasted coconut.”
― Dana Bate, A Second Bite at the Apple

“Stacks upon stacks of cooked crepes that you could stuff with savory fillings to make lumpiang sariwa, as well as shredded green jackfruit adobo and/or chicken adobo crepes. There were also various cut-up fruits (cut-up fruit=love), ube halaya, minatamis na bao, and whipped coconut cream, plus calamansi and panutsa (my spin on the classic lemon and sugar combination) to round out the sweet offerings.”
― Mia P. Manansala, Murder and Mamon

“He's made her a chicken Florentine crepe. The crepe itself is thin and crisp, a beautiful golden-brown blanket around its savory filling. The rotisserie chicken is mixed in with bits of juicy mushrooms, chopped up spinach, and a very healthy helping of Italian blend cheese. Eden can smell the roasted garlic and the hint of nutmeg he threw in.
The first bite is like taking a bite out of heaven. She almost inhales the whole damn thing.
It's rich, it's buttery, it's perfect.”
― Katrina Kwan, Knives, Seasoning, & A Dash of Love