The simple answer is yes.  After packing up Geoffroy’s Paris apartment and loading its contents into our tiny rented car, we drove 8 hours south to the French Riviera to visit his family. Grandma and Grandpa greeted us with welcome arms in their lovely two bedroom apartment in the heart of Nice. Geoffroy specifically asked his grandmother to hold off making her infamous tarte tatin until after we arrived. I was anxious to learn how she made it.

The three of us squeezed into her tiny but well-appointed kitchen for the lesson. She began by making the crust. In a bowl she threw together flour, a little salt, olive oil, and some warm water. She mixed it with her hand until it came together in a lump and then she set it aside to rest.

She didn’t really measure anything – she just did it by eye. When I asked how much of a certain ingredient she added, she sweetly replied, “Until it looks right.” She’s been making this same recipe for 20 years, so I trust her to know when it looks right. However I haven’t the faintest clue when it looks right, so I made some wild guesses in terms of quantities, quickly scribbling them on a scrap of paper.

Grandma then set a bowl of apples on the table called Reinette. I have no clue what that translates to in American apples, but I’m guessing something firm and slightly sweet would do the trick. Together we all peeled and cored the apples, slicing them into thick slices. She set a tart pan over the burner and began melting the sugar, turning it into a dark, rich caramel. Next came the apples, carefully placed in a snug layer so they can absorb as much caramel as possible.

While the apples bubbled happily in their caramel, she generous floured the table. She set the dough on top and using her fingers, pressed the dough out in a large round. No rolling pin needed. Evidently she believes this implement is too hard on the dough. “You need to feel it under your fingers,” she said. Once it was large enough to cover the whole tart, she lifted it gently between her hands and laid it on top of the apples. She carefully tucked the edges around the apples like she was tucking a baby in for a nap. Then into a hot oven for 30 minutes.

I couldn’t ignore the amazing smells of caramel and apples that danced thought the apartment while she finished preparing lunch. On the menu were many dazzling delights – thinly sliced ham made my a member of her family, a crisp rose wine, a green salad dressed with a tangy vinaigrette, authentic ratatouille, tiny Niçoise-style ravioli in a beef sauce, and of course a fresh baguette.

Despite the fact I was stuffed beyond belief, I still had room for the tarte tatin. When it came piping hot out of the oven, she laid a large plate over the tart pan and quickly turned it upside down. When she pulled the tart pan away, the luscious caramel-infused apples sat temptingly on top of the flaky crust. I had two pieces. Geoffroy had more.

As I sat back with a contented smile on my face, she mentioned that to save time, I could use a purchased crust. In France that would be fine since they don’t use anything other than butter, flour, water, and salt. But here in the good old US of A, we add some nasty sounding chemicals that I’d rather avoid. I tried to explain this fact in my mediocre French using the word preservatif thinking it stood for the word preservatives. Not so. Evidently preservatif means condom in French so instead of saying preservatives I said there were condoms in our pie crusts. Reason alone never to buy them!

What a lovely meal with such lovely company. I will cherish this memory for a long time to come. And despite my bad handwriting on that scrap piece of paper, I managed to recreate Grandma’s recipe at home. It was pretty darn good, but it wasn’t quite the same!

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