When I found myself in Paris with my husband earlier this year, my goal was no different from the usual quest for memorable culinary moments. But where and when I found them surprised me. It wasn’t anywhere near the starred inhabitants of le Guide Michelin, but surreptitiously one evening after hours of walking. Tired, starving and chilled to the bone, it was too early for dinner and too late for lunch. We found ourselves making a bee-line for a quiet crêpe window in the 6eme arrondisement. The warmth and heft of that buckwheat crêpe, a salty and creamy marriage of San Daniele prosciutto and Greyere cheese, expertly folded and swaddled in paper, was nothing short of an epiphany. As we walked arm in arm back to our Left Bank apartment, we passed the crêpe back and forth, silently savoring our final day in the city as we dined in its streets.