Let me set the scene: I went to France thinking I was “pretty cultured” about French food. I’d seen movies. I’d watched a cooking show once, maybe twice, while folding laundry. I figured a croissant and a shrug of Gallic indifference would get me through customs, security, and at least one dinner party. Reader, I was catastrophically underprepared. It does not care about your confidence, your carb-counting app, or your vague plans to “just have a small bite.” It simply sits there, buttery and smug, waiting for you to fall in love with it against your will, one flaky, saucy, wine-soaked bite at a time. What followed was two weeks…