Lucie Franc de Ferriere’s ‘Grub Street Diet’

Lucie Franc de Ferriere says she grew up “surrounded by cake.” Her family’s chateau, just outside Bordeaux, France, was also a winery, tearoom, and bed-and-breakfast, all serving homemade desserts. But not until a few years after moving to the city in 2018, when she began working at her now-husband Gurpreet Singh’s restaurant, Sunday to Sunday, did she realize she had a future in cake-making. “People were coming back for my baked goods, and I was like, Oh, I’m not that bad,” she recalls. “I stole all my mother’s recipes from France, and we decided to open an actual bakery.” Now her East Village storefront, From Lucie, is known for its delicate seasonal flavors of cake piled high with flowers and herbs; recently, she published her first cookbook, Cake From Lucie. “My favorite moments are when I start piecing the flowers together,” she says. “That’s when I genuinely forget everything else and just sink into designing a cake with no plan for how it will look. It simply happens as it happens.”

Friday, July 3
Today, as I do every morning, I get up at 7 a.m. in our apartment on the Lower East Side. Before I can even brush my teeth, I walk my Italian greyhound, Dalida, around the block and tiptoe back inside so as not to wake my husband, Gurpreet.

I don’t eat anything at home. Getting “ready” for the day just means showering, tying up my hair, and putting on the same pair of Levi’s I always wear. Today, I added a white shirt, a bold choice for a day at the bakery. From Lucie is only an 11-minute walk away on a good day — a small luxury I don’t take for granted in this city.

When I get to the bakery, around 7:45, the team is already assembling cakes, baking cookies, and setting up the pastry case. It’s a scorcher, but I still drink a hot matcha latte; I need that first sip of frothy milk no matter the weather.

I’m not someone who eats a whole breakfast. Once in a while, I treat myself to overnight oats. But as long as I have a matcha in the morning, that’s usually enough and then I wait until lunch.

Of course, at the bakery I’m always tasting things we’re making throughout the day, like buttercream and jam. For cakes, we trim the top of each layer so it doesn’t have as much crust. I like to expose the sponge so the jam really oozes nicely into the cake. I end up sampling that as well.

I decide that today, one of the hottest of the year, is perfect to make our first batch of ice-cream cookies. I’ve been wanting to make real vanilla ice cream ever since I had the rhubarb pie with a scoop of it at Chez Panisse in San Francisco a few months back. I’ve since found an early edition of Lindsey Shere’s Chez Panisse Desserts cookbook at Wild Sorrel, the new cookbook shop in the East Village. Vanilla-bean pods, five egg yolks, a rich, custardy yellow with flecks of vanilla throughout — I’ve never tasted anything like it.

With help from my bakery manager, Greta, I cut eight perfect circles of ice cream out of our sheet pan using a cookie cutter and sandwich them between chocolate-chip cookies. We open at 10 a.m., and the first one sold within a minute. I love sneaking a peek from the kitchen as people eat what we’ve made, especially when it’s an ice-cream sandwich and you know you have exactly 90 seconds before it starts melting down your arm.

I finish my shift around 2 p.m. and grab a scone to take back home. It’s the only savory thing we have in the bakery, with feta, sun-dried tomatoes, pumpkin seeds, and black olives.

In the afternoon, we drive out to Gurpreet’s parents’ place on Long Island. We play some tennis and then jump in the pool with Dalida, who hates every second of it — Italian greyhounds are nothing if not dramatic.

For dinner, we eat gobi paratha, homemade with chickpeas by his mum and grandmother and the most delicious thing in the world. We have it with yogurt brought home from the temple. A great thing about the Sikh community is that all the churches have free food in the basement, cooked by local families, that anyone can eat there, and they tend to bring stuff back. So the yogurt is still homemade, just not in that home.

Saturday, July 4th
We’re up early, and after Gurpreet’s grandmother asks me three times whether I’d like a banana, which I eventually accept, we head back into the city.

I go straight to the bakery to start another batch of ice cream. My little home machine only churns eight servings at a time and takes two days from start to finish, so this is very much a slow, small-batch operation.

In the afternoon, I get a call from my friend and fellow bakery owner Ashley Coiffard. Her husband, Gautier, scored us lottery tickets to watch the fireworks from the water in Brooklyn Heights, so the plan is we’ll meet at their place to barbecue first since they’re lucky enough to have a backyard.

When we arrive, Dalida and their dog, Chip, greet each other like long-lost sweethearts. Ashley and I head to the grocery store together while the guys stay behind to do whatever it is they do.

We come back having bought what feels like half the store: chips, corn on the cob, enough tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella to feed 20 people, beef patties and sausages for burgers and hot dogs, potato salad, cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, goat cheese, a wedge of Pyrenees cheese (just in case) and lemonade. And to Gurpreet’s despair, two pints of store-bought ice cream because I refused to part with any more of the bakery’s homemade batch.

We end up snacking so much while prepping that none of us is hungry for half of what we make. We wind down our very early dinner with a few rounds of Five Crowns, a card game my family back home in France is obsessed with, and — I’ll just say it — I won.

We’re running a little late getting to the waterfront for the fireworks. Someone in the crowd throws a can that hits me in the head while we wait in line, which I choose to interpret as a friendly check-in that I haven’t dozed off. We finally reach the water’s edge just as the Macy’s boats line up, and the show begins.

We have a perfect, unobstructed view. Afterward, we fight our way back through the crowd, collect Dalida, and wait nearly an hour to walk back across the bridge into Manhattan.

Sunday, July 5
We all sleep in because it’s Sunday. I manage to shower and make myself an Earl Grey with my favorite tea from Bellocq, a Brooklyn brand, before Dalida is even awake.

We do our usual morning ritual with the added bonus of her eating a whole chicken-wing bone off the sidewalk. I always wonder how there are so many stray chicken bones out there. Do people really eat one wing and toss it, mid-bite, exactly where a dog is about to walk by?

Back at the bakery, I drink a matcha and spend the morning decorating birthday cakes with fresh peonies and roses. We brainstorm new flavors for the season and decide to replace our chocolate-hazelnut marble loaf with a matcha-strawberry version through the rest of summer.

I jump in at the counter to help make a few iced banana-bread lattes, which we love calling out as “iced BBL” just to see how many heads turn. Two police officers come in and order a very specific, very Starbucks-style drink: an iced banana-bread latte, no ice, extra banana-bread syrup. I wait, hopeful, for Jess to call it out as an iced BBL, but she chickens out at the last second.

I get a text from Troy, the owner of Wild Sorrel, asking if I could set aside two ice-cream cookies for him to try. I wouldn’t normally do it, but I did get the original recipe from a book he recommended so it seems fair. He swings by to pick them up and drops off a book about edible flowers in cooking as a thank-you. My kind of friendship. After cleaning out the flower fridge and taking inventory, I head home for a 20-minute workout.

I’m a little uneasy about the flood-watch forecast for tonight, but I still head out to meet my friend Loreta for sushi at Takahachi. I love this place because the fish is always very fresh. We order steamed cabbage, sushi, and sashimi. I end up eating all the tuna before she can even have a bite — it’s so buttery and soft. We also get the edamame; it’s just the right amount of salty.

We have so much to catch up on that even though I’m thoroughly ice-creamed out after the weekend, we end up at Davey’s for two scoops of chocolate on chocolate topped with what turns out to be far too many crushed peanuts. We wander the streets licking our cones, half of mine dripping straight down my white skirt.

I walk home, hit my 10,000 steps for the day, and crash before I can even open my book.

Monday, July 6
I try to keep Monday as a half-day off, and booking a tennis lesson for 9 a.m. has helped maintain that. But after an hour, it feels more like a marathon thanks to the heat, so I stop for an iced matcha at our other business, Sunday to Sunday. At home, I have a big bowl of yogurt with a banana, strawberries, and maple syrup.

Then I remember in a small panic that I have a dentist appointment in the West Village. I rush over to Tend, which I love mostly because it takes my insurance and partly because they hand you fancy sunglasses that double as a screen so you can watch TV while they work on your teeth. I hate going to the dentist, so being able to watch Anthony Bourdain eat his way through Brittany while I’m being tortured is comforting. The dentist tells me to cut back on sweets. I tell her I’ll bring her a slice of cake next time.

I make my way back toward the East Village through Spring Street and, as always, have to stop at Dominique Ansel for a chocolate eclair. Mind you, it’s the hottest day of the year, and I’m wearing this tiny old slip dress because I genuinely don’t own anything lighter, fanning myself the entire walk through the city. A New York Times reporter stops me and asks if she can photograph my outfit for the “Style” section. I am without question the sweatiest I’ve been in years, and there I am, posing in my not so nice dress, sporting what can only be described as a sweat mustache. She tells me it’ll run the next day.

Back home, Dalida insists on a round of fetch in our tiny hallway before I finally sit down to tackle some overdue emails. We end the night ordering our favorite palak paneer from Bhatti Indian Grill and watching the season finale of The Gilded Age.

Tuesday, July 7
I wake up bright and early and actually find time for my 20-minute workout before heading to work. I make myself a bowl of overnight oats with banana and, crucially, remember to grab my water bottle since otherwise I won’t drink a single sip all day.

At the bakery, Raul, one of my head bakers, is already assembling one of today’s tiered wedding cakes. It’s an unusual day for that, but I love the idea of a Tuesday wedding. One cake is lemon, olive oil, and lavender; the other is my Victoria sponge with vanilla-bean whipped cream and strawberry-basil jam. I pull out my computer to look over the mood board each bride sent. I claim the front table, where there’s more room, since I tend to make a mess when I’m decorating the cakes with flowers. Raul politely calls it “creativity.”

For lunch, I grab a traditional egg-and-cheese sandwich at C&B and eat it in Tompkins Square Park. Back at the bakery, I make myself a quick iced oat matcha to keep going before heading to Sunday to Sunday for a menu tasting to review the club sandwich: finely sliced turkey, crisp bacon, lettuce, very thin slices of tomato, and our house garlic aïoli. Then we put it on a classic white toasted, buttered bread and serve it with really good potato chips.

At home, I receive a photo from a friend in France: my face in our local French newspaper alongside a lovely review of my cookbook. That’s what I call a productive day, so I reward myself with a summer salad of butterhead lettuce, tuna, hearts of palm, cucumber, tomato, a hard-boiled egg, bean sprouts, pine nuts, black olives, goat cheese, and half an avocado.

I’m not a snacker, but I religiously have to eat one Lindt 85 percent dark-chocolate square after every meal. I have a packet in the fridge at the bakery and one at home.

Wednesday, July 8
After my usual morning routine, I leave for the Union Square Greenmarket. I get a few wild cherries and strawberries for the bakery, some chamomile, and some cheese and lettuce for home.

I stop by the Strand on my way back to sign a few ordered copies of my book. I take out my Sharpie and timidly inscribe each copy with a little heart over the i in Lucie.

Back at the bakery, they hand me my usual matcha. We play around with my traditional dark-salted-chocolate cake and top it with the wild cherries I got that morning. I eat a slice with the team.

On my walk home, I stop by SOS Chefs to sample some produce (like candied mulberries and dried lavender) and then to Buci to find a dress for a wedding I’m going to in France next week.

At Le Chêne for dinner with friends, I ask for an Aperol spritz and immediately regret it since I don’t think that’s what people order here. The team probably has to run across the street to buy a bottle of Aperol just to make it happen.

Alexia and her husband, Ronan, who own the restaurant, are there. She whips up an incredible cold pea-and-watercress soup with a heart of sorbet. Then we have grilled leeks in a brown-butter sauce with dill and a tilefish with green asparagus. For dessert, something that tasted just like my childhood: cherry clafoutis.

Thursday, July 9
I head back to the bakery for a shoot at 10 a.m. with InStyle magazine. My team tells me we really need to get the AC looked at, so I leave a note for Gurpreet and selfishly let him deal with that particular headache while I put on my apron and start assembling mini-cakes for the shoot.

I’m trying to make them as pretty and appetizing as possible since the model is actually going to bite into one. The crew takes over the bakery for an hour, and it only takes about six people to fill the space completely.

For lunch, I walk to Formaggio at Essex Market, where I always get the same thing: two pieces of jambon de Paris, a good amount of salted butter, Pyrenees cheese, and dijon on a nice baguette.

After my 7 p.m. jazz-dance class at the Joffrey Ballet School, my friend Ashley and I get dinner at Via Carota. We have the pesto spaghetti and a branzino with an incredible butter sauce, a couple of glasses of house red wine, and a crisp green salad. Then we split a tiramisu.

I always love coming home from class since, without fail, Gurpreet asks me what song we danced to that week and then puts it on so I can show him what I learned. Most of the time I’ve already forgotten, but he looks impressed regardless.

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