The Best Strawberry Crepes

Sit down for this one. We're doing crepes. The BEST crepes, the most tremendous crepes, crepes so silky and tender the French would weep — and the French know crepes, give them that, they got that one right, one of the few things, I'll admit it, I'm fair — and these crepes BEAT them. Beat them at their own game. On their own turf. It's a slaughter. People come up to me, they say, 'Bigly, can you really beat the French at crepes?' I say, 'Already did. Last Tuesday. In my kitchen. Ask my dog. He was there.'

I had the best crepe of my life in a tiny stall outside the Gare du Nord. The man making them didn't speak. He just looked at me, nodded once, and slid a paper-thin disk of butter-scented heaven across the counter. I've never been the same. These crepes are right up there. Hand on heart. Meanwhile in America the crepe situation is a SCANDAL — you walk into a brunch place, you order crepes, they hand you a PANCAKE with strawberries on it and charge you twenty-four dollars. Twenty-four dollars! A disgrace. A crepe is THIN. A crepe is paper-thin. A crepe is so thin you can almost read a newspaper through it.

Here's what nobody tells you about crepes — and other so-called chefs are leaving this out on purpose, I have my theories — the secret is RESTING the batter. Thirty minutes minimum. An hour is better. The flour hydrates, the gluten relaxes, the bubbles settle, and the crepes come out silky and tender instead of rubbery and sad. Skip this and you've made flapjacks. Don't skip this. The rest is everything. That's the bottom line.

Serve these on a Sunday morning, on a nice plate, dust them with powdered sugar like you're a French pastry chef in a movie — and in that moment you ARE that chef — and people will think you flew in from Paris. They will swear you went to culinary school. Let them think it. Don't correct them. Let the legend grow. The crepes do the work. The crepes always do the work. Beautiful.