Heaven Is on a Street Corner in Paris

Take the Metro #12 to the Abbesses station. Climb an endless circular staircase until you begin to see daylight. Only a few more flights from there. When you emerge, you may, as I did, hear church bells.

A narrow alleyway will take you to more stairs, the stairway to Heaven.

It’s high on a hill, as they said it would be.

What, people ask, have you missed the most in the five years since your doctor told you no more gluten? It’s not pizza or pasta, I’ve learned to appreciate those substitutes well enough. Almond flour goes a long way in making cakes and muffins pretty darn good.

My one and only answer is croissants. A large portion of my pre-gluten-free diet consisted of sandwiches on a croissant: bacon and egg, tuna salad, ham and cheese. Croissants with butter and peach jam.

I have tried gluten-free substitutes for many things, but I didn’t even want to try a GF croissant. I wanted to remember them just the way they were: flaky, light, buttery.

Gluten free bakery items have two main faults, too much sawdust in the recipe, or a gummy texture.

Enter my guardian angel: Michael O’Neil, great friend to me and husband to Terri Ann Glynn, the world’s best friend and colleague, formerly of the Times’s sports department and now with the Athletic.

Michael heard of my plight — in Paris, surrounded by patisseries taunting me with their wares. “I’ll find you the best gluten free croissant in the city,” he said. A noble, if foolhardy, pursuit.

On the morning he was to leave, I got a text, “Are you at the hotel?” I was, and he arrived, sweaty from his travels, with a fairly large bag from a bakery on the north side of Paris. “You, didn’t?” I said. “You might hate them,” he said, “but these are the best in the city.”

I could smell them. “They’re just out of the oven,” he said. “Still warm.”

Flaky! light! buttery! Some filled with chocolate. Pastries filled with warm, soft apples.

This changes everything. I would need to go. See it for myself. Find this place on a hill.

It was Saturday morning and a rare off-day for me at the Olympics. I set my alarm. I’d be there when it opened. It was pleasantly cool and the sun seemed extra bright.

At the top of those stairs was the gleaming La Manufacture du Sans Gluten. It might as well have said, “You Have Reached the Pearly Gates.”

My name is now on a waiting list for a pied-à-terre on the second floor. I would entertain ones on the third or fourth floors but they seem so far away.

It’s the quaintest part of town. You’ll love it Anne.