So I got a terrible phone call last night. The voice on the other end of the line told me that people had been spotted taking stuff out of Le Petit Prince Patisserie on Broadway. Like, ovens and stuff. The kind of stuff essential to running a patisserie.
The clear implication was that Le Petit Prince was closing. I wept. I gnashed my teeth.
I biked by this morning and saw a little tiny sign taped to the grate saying the place is closed “temporarily.”
I pray to whatever god smiles down on our blessed neighborhood that this is true, and not just one of those signs people put up optimistically, while they’re trying to figure out how to get out of their lease.
Because if it turns out that Astorians did not support our one source of fucking awesome French bread and croissants enough to keep this place in business, I will wreak some terrible vengeance upon you, my neighbors. My “that’s a little expensive” neighbors. My neighbors who think butter isn’t good for them. My neighbors who can’t walk a few blocks out of their way for bread that kicks the ass of all that Greek and Italian fluff.
I turned my back for two months while I was traveling, and I expected some other people to pick up the slack on the pastry- and bread-buying. Did you? Did you? I can’t do it alone, people. Le Petit Prince deserves our love, even if it might make us a little fatter.
My friend’s 3-year-old daughter has a little song she likes to sing. It goes, “Pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat [BIG GASP FOR AIR], pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat….”
It’s easy, it’s catchy. I’m going to stand in front of Le Petit Prince and sing it until the place reopens. You’d better be with me.