Mystery Guest in the Kitchen

He said his pen name is Alfonso Debonair.

I presume he hails from… Italy? No, France (the first name makes it confusing). Yes, he’s French…at least he intends to be French… for the purposes of this blog post.

Truly, his name, at least his last name, fits him well – “courteous, gracious, and having a sophisticated charm; sprightly.”
The way he wrote his recipe was especially charming –
How many men do you know who use flower to make crepes? :)
Yes, I said crepes. How many men do you know who will make crepes? And let someone blog about it! Alfonso will.
What is there not to love?
A minute before 5:00 he enters the kitchen. I can’t exactly say he dresses the part of a French (or Italian) “debonair gentleman”…bare feet, shorts and a cut off t-shirt. Sounds like American flair to me. But that’s okay. He’s here to cook, not to give a lecture on style. (Thank goodness! Although, I have to say, he’s got style when he wants it.)
After deciding on 3 times the recipe for 8 people, he whips out the ingredients on his list and mixes them up in a bowl. Dry ingredients first, add the water. Then the eggs.
My favorite whisk comes in handy for breaking up the lumps.
It’s fun to take action shots when others are doing the cooking!
Alfonso oils the griddle over a hot flame…
Then spoons the batter on, swirling the pan as he goes to get a thin, even layer.
After the first couple experimental ones, they come out beautifully.
(My apologies for the lighting. It was getting dark outside, and without natural lighting it’s very hard to get good pictures.)
In the meantime, I’m making the filling for the crepes.  Cottage cheese, plain Greek yogurt, honey, orange zest, vanilla and a bit of cream.
And, of course, strawberries. I actually found some from the US that looked good. Spring is just around the corner.
Slices of these with a little honey… yum!
We are actually supposed to be making dinner, so Chicken Caesar Salad becomes the entrée and crepes the highlight.
Most unfortunately, Monsieur Debonair had to leave just before dinner was served. His parting words were, “Make sure they fold their crepes right, Mademoiselle!”, only he said it all in French of course.
And, of course, I understood because I know everything about French-ness. Doesn’t everyone who has been to France for 48 hours?
So how do you fold a crepe, anyway?