Nowadays, I go to an outdoor market to buy all of my fruits, veggies, meats, tapenades, cheeses, etc., at least once a week and I am convinced of the superiority of this system. Last week, while I was poking and prodding avocados, I spotted, just beyond the bin of cherries, that elegant, magenta wonder: rhubarb. I dropped the avocados, which were all way too soft for my needs, and rushed over to scoop up an armful of stalks, my tongue tingling with rhubarbian memories : jam and Roquefort on bread last summer in Aveyron, my mother's pie, made every summer when the Waterstreets (our next-door neighbors) harvested their rhubarb crop. Rhubarb crumble, rhubarb tarts. I was going to make it all!

That is, until, I had the ultimate in rhubarb desserts last Friday. Now, normally, I don't use this blog to write about my deep dessert passion, which pretty much is the basis of my eternal optimism. But it is now nearly 72 hours later and I am still smiling, thanks to this dessert.

The restaurant was Les Artistes, 48 rue de la Folie-Mericourt. Owned by a very cute gay couple, the menu changes every day based on what they find that day at the market. That night, I had eaten stuffed eggplant and Stephane dared to try the mountain goat, which was really pretty delicious. The table next to us, having arrived an hour earlier, nearly emptied out the rhubarb tart that was on offer, but left one piece when I expressed my undying love of rhubarb. They were all so awed by this rhubarb tart, that they actually stuck around to see my reaction when I tasted it. To be more precise, it was a rhubarb-chestnut cream tart. I cannot even explain the divinity of this creation. I now look at the shelf of rhubarb in my fridge and feel shamed, knowing that anything I make will never make rhubarb as beautiful as this tart did. I have reached rhubarb nirvana and there is no going back.