Holiday traditions tend to be tied to numbers. In southern Italy there is the Feast of Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, while in Poland, the night before Christmas is celebrated with borscht, herring and poppy seed cake at the 12-course Wigilia. Here in Provence, our lucky number is 13, with the Treize Desserts de Noël. By no means a static tradition, the 13 Desserts of Christmas have evolved over the centuries. Its first mention in 1683 by Marseille cleric Francois Marchetti in Explication des Usages et Coutumes des Marseillais (An Explication of Customs and Traditions of the Marseillais) detailed 13 breads, not desserts, alongside cakes and dried and fresh fruit. The table was topped with three tablecloths to represent the Holy Trinity – a custom that some families still practice today.

Homemade bread was a byproduct of the Covid-19 lockdown worldwide, as witnessed by the lack of flour on supermarket shelves and proudly displayed loaves on Instagram feeds. I understood the trend – bread gave people a sense of purpose, warmed homes with comforting scents and filled the void left by closed-down everything. Plus, the act of kneading gave the one-two punch of stress relief and tactile pleasure. Yet, I felt no need to knead. For I live in France, the land where boulangeries churn out 30 million baguettes a day. A place where bread is such an integral part of life that no meal is considered complete without it. Whatever I made at home wouldn’t match the loaves of someone who has devoted their life to the craft of bread making.

Slices of strawberries bordered by pillowy puffs of pistachio cream. The fluted caramelized crust of custard-y canelés. Tidy layers of dark chocolate ganache, coffee buttercream and almond biscuits in an opera cake. The term “culinary arts” is at its most appropriate when considering the work of a pastry chef. Especially when the pâtisserie is hidden in the back of an art gallery. Parenthèse Enchantée is the second act for Nathalie Gnaegy. “Cooking was my weekend pastime,” she explains. Nourished by sharing food with her family and coworkers, she “progressively veered towards baked goods, more welcome at the office than a half-eaten whole tuna,” she winks. Her appreciative officemates insisted she should “bake professionally.”

Though half of France’s population is officially Catholic, only 5 percent of the country regularly attends mass. Yet, les français still remain faithful to their Christian holidays. After Christmas, Easter is the second-most popular fête – perhaps because it falls on a Sunday, when lunch en famille is a French tradition that is as revered as a religion. Like many nations, chocolate is France’s essential Easter ingredient. Not surprisingly, the French exception – the country’s belief that they are unique – extends to the shape of their holiday confections. Here, a cloche (bell), not a rabbit, delivers Easter’s chocolate-y treats. How did an inanimate object become the bearer of sweets?

Chefs have long touted – and scientific research has confirmed – that we “eat with our eyes.” Hence the swishes and swirls of plating. Yet the importance of visual stimulation extends beyond food to include restaurant design, a point that is not lost on the all-day café Monsieur Madame. The eye-catching space is so full of ‘60s and ‘70s knick-knacks that you might mistake it for a vintage shop. Vinyl records are used as placemats on the brightly colored Formica tables. Shelves overflow with old cameras and plastic figurines. From wooden crosses to mounted fish heads, the walls offer a visual feast – so chock-a-block with mementos the vivid print wallpaper is somehow mellowed.