Consider the noble crème brûlée; in its individual ramekin, fortressed against the world with its flambéed shell of sugary glass jealously guarding the wholesome custard from thine whetted mouth. Ah... with the stamina such a dulcet surprise would promise one could be rather steadfast in the composing of poesies in the name of such a splendid and sweet end to any meal.
My father, a gentleman of jolly disposition and good breeding, in a bout of fancy took my family to France in the summer of my sixteenth year. A Francophile byproduct of French colonialism via Lebanon, my father is a French-speaker and lover of French culture and a gourmand of imposing knowledge and exemplary tastes.
On this trip we had the pleasure of lunching at the Au Pied de Cochon brasserie in les Halles, just a short skip from the Rue du Louvre. A fantastic meal by any standards and thoroughly French; slow and multi-layered. While I've never been one for sweets or rather, for ruining such savory splendors with the vulgarity of dessert, I was becoming rather annoyed by the old man's insistence that I "make room for dessert."