Mira’s footsteps slowed as she approached an alluring window showcasing all things Chanel. The latest iteration of the Chanel wool suit was prominently displayed behind the glass, an evergreen look, no matter the season. The summer beach collection was the other main draw, with a belted one-piece swimsuit featuring the brand’s famous monogram.

But these weren’t the pieces that caught Mira’s eye. She found herself drawn to an item that could’ve easily been missed; a full flap leather wallet displayed on a silver table. It was nearly identical to the one Mira’s future mother-in-law had given to her at her engagement ceremony.

Mira’s understanding of engagement ceremonies held in Sikh temples in upstate New York was minimal at best, but she knew that after an hour of sitting cross-legged on an uncomfortable carpet, you could always count on a series of gifts and several wads of cash. After years of watching cousin after cousin collect their own engagement ceremony cash and prizes, Mira’s turn had finally come on that cold November day. Her outfit had been pink with silver accents, dazzling by Western standards, but muted compared to the multiple lehenga outfit changes she’d be cycling through on her wedding day. The thing she remembered most about that day was her posed smile, and how strained it became with each additional photo. In the moment, she’d chalked it up to simple fatigue, but looking back, it was an early warning. And she’d missed it.

The past and the present seemed worlds apart, with only the full flap leather wallet tying them together. It was just another thing she would have to return, whereas every single memory stuck to her like glue.

Mira stepped away from the storefront window, eager to escape the somber mood by running from her problems—or in this case, power-walking the last few blocks to the restaurant.

Before long, Mira’s dark thoughts disappeared into the sights and sounds of a pleasing terrace—and the smell of the best French toast of all time.

Known as pain perdu or lost bread, it was a simple dish often made at home with the last stale pieces of baguette. Despite its humble nature, the version of the dish that landed at Mira’s table had nothing to do with humility. What sat on Mira’s plate was an updated French rendition, something that had gotten food bloggers talking. On the surface, the French toast resembled two fluffy cylinders of goodness. Each toast tower was yellow all around, lightly browned on top, and encircled with maple syrup and fresh blueberries. It was almost too good to eat. Almost.

When Mira used her gleaming fork to slice through the first tower, she could only gasp. Beyond the surface was the sort of light and airy sorcery she never could’ve conjured, not in her mind nor in her cramped Manhattan kitchen.

If the inaugural fork slice had been good, then the first official bite was an otherworldly joy-fest. The delicate eggy flavor and syrupy sweetness surrounded Mira’s taste buds in a warm embrace, which immediately validated putting modernized pain perdu on her bucket list.