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Not
long after I’d arrived in Paris, I met Jacques
Genin. At the time, he was working out of a small workshop
deep in the 15th arrondissement. Inside, he and his team of five or so
worked in a very tight space: A large table where they worked sat in
the center of the room, taking up probably 90% of the space, enrobing
machines churned shiny melted chocolate off to the sides, steaming
cauldrons of butter and sugar bubbled madly together, and the
workers slid around the narrow passage between the two, pouring,
cutting, dipping, and packing up chocolates and caramels.
The
chocolates and caramels were only available wholesale to hotels and
restaurants that knew the unique quality of Monsieur Genin’s work. The
door of the workshop was made of battered wood, fitted with one-way
glass so if you were standing on the sidewalk, you couldn’t see in, but
he could see out. If he was in the mood, he’d let you in to buy
chocolates. But you had to buy a kilo (2.2 pounds) and you couldn’t
stand there and decide “I want two of those, one of those, six of
these…” You were lucky if he opened the door at all, and even luckier
if you had a kilo of his coveted chocolates in your possession. You
took whatever he gave you, gladly.
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