Fauchon is a head feast. When the senses are jaded and the gall bladder sorely tried, Fauchon feeds the head. It is the Van Cleef & Arpel of gastronomy… An effete Zabar’s, squaring the far corner of the Place de la Madeleine. Rich Parisians actually shop there. A doorman supervises the limo line-up. Tourists brood among the brandies seeking status in Armagnac (advised by Georges, once the sommelier at Manhattan’s defunct La Seine, now Fauchon’s man-in-charge-of-spirits). And lovers reel. Sigh. Gasp. The adrenalin pimps. The eyes grow misty. The epicurean sensibilities are dazzled by the exotic fruit and fauna: fresh lychees and mangosteens – an angry purple shell hiding sweet tropical flesh – and giant strawberries from Belgium, big as summer peaches, like rubies nestled in cotton, $10 a dozen. And spongy black and gray morels, $50 a kilo, watercress as fragile as baby’s breath, the boldest ugliest grapefruit, the most arrogant of string beans.

        Here are truffles, canned mousse, frozen crêpes, gem fruits in cognac, peanut butter and marshmallows, a botanical garden of mustards – la moutarde de Meaux; à l’ancienne, with a crunch of seed; others spiked with lime, curry, tarragon, green pepper, garlic, horseradish, from the atelier of Paul Corcellet, whose newest creation is moutarde hippie. Not hash, my friends… flowers. (Visit Corcellet on the rue des Petits-Champs and taste them all.) Do not be insulted if the white-haired clerk responds to your Alliance Francaise French in English. He is Chris, from Astoria, Queens, veteran of 32 years with the Allerton Fruit Shop on Madison Avenue, now a fixture of Fauchon.

        In a marble gallery all by itself, the charcuterie. Fauchon owner Edmond Bory hates that word. “Charcuterie. It’s vulgar. Vulgar food from the insides of animals. I would have loved the word delicatessen, but that wouldn’t mean anything to the French. So I call one section Gastronomy.” Beyond the vulgarity of sublime sausage and the divinity of offal there are quail eggs in aspic, tiny white-meat squab, coulibiac of salmon, true Scottish salmon, terrine of eel, mousse of thrush. “I never eat or drink here,” Bory confesses. “People would be all the time saying ‘Taste this, taste that. This isn't good, taste it.’ If it isn't good, why should I taste it?”

        There is still a third Fauchon chapel, sacred to the sweet. Here Bory crumbles a macaroon to make sure it is moist and tender. Hard by the breath-taking confectionary – candy jewels, pastry masterworks, silken ices of currant, raspberry, banana, pineapple, passion fruit – there is a coffee bar and stand-up snacking. Hysteria peaks at noon as a new generation of French fast-feeders descend, devouring oeuf en gelée, mayo-ed crabmeat, croque-monsieur and pear sorbet.

        What a tug of deities in this famous square: Fauchon on one flank, the Caviar Kaspia across the way, the Maison of Truffles, all ringing the Church of the Madeleine. And around the corner up the Rue Vignon, at number 21, the supernal cheeses of A La Ferme Saint Hubert. Manna of cow and goat untouched by preservative, unhaunted by Pasteur. Alive! Fat! Pure! Displayed with reverence usually reserved for precious porcelains.

        Curious how the capacity to exploit milk has led he French to glorify cheese and America the 31 flavors. French ice cream feeds no fantasies. Le Sorbet – sherbets and fruit ices – is in a renaissance. Are you ready for Camembert sorbet? La Sorbetière (12 rue Gustave Corbet) serves a creamy smooth Camembert sherbet with toast, a knife and fork, and a pot of chopped nuts to sprinkle on top. Sounds ghastly. Tastes great, though frankly I can’t deciede if it’s necessary. The faintly sweet taste isn't sugar, it’s from a champagne soaking. La Sorbetière is the class icehouse in town. They do chestnut sorbet with a dash of rum, and a haunting chocolate ice.

        What was once a glorious little family bakery in Normandy, Lenôtre, has become the leading bakery-catering family dynasty in Paris. In the Lenôtre workroom they are dipping chocolates, stuffing boned suckling pigs with exotic ground meats, wrapping salmon in pastry, and dedicating gaggles of ducks to terrines glacéed with orange. The really lazy French housewife even has Lenôtre cater her Bibb lettuce – at 44 rue d’Auteuil or 17 Avenue Victor-Hugo.

        New York may be a summer festival, but Paris is surely a picnic for all seasons. 

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