Atlanta area crepe makers do it their own way

11 a.m.-4 p.m. Mondays-Saturdays, closed Sundays. 209 Edgewood Ave. S.E., Atlanta. 404-647-2747, lemetrocreperie.com.

CREPE MASTERS

Operates at various farmers markets; check website for schedule. 404-617-3685, crepemasters.com.

PALACSINTA

2-6 p.m. Fridays, 10 a.m.-6 p.m. Saturdays, 11 a.m.-6 p.m. Sundays. 1404 McLendon Ave. N.E., Atlanta. 770-906-1333, facebook.com/pages/Palacsinta-LLC/440711469377667.

When I mentioned to a few friends that I was surveying area creperies, the usual clamor for free meals was glaringly absent. Instead, I got texted demurrals.

"Hungarian tastes like baby food to me," wrote one friend. Though he lives just up the street from Palacsinta, a Hungarian crepes place in Candler Park, he admitted that he's never been tempted to go.

"Tacos way cooler," wrote my husband.

After a few crepey forays, it was me sending a sighing text: "Am questioning crepes as a food group."

I felt like everything I’d eaten had been floppy and bland — a limp handshake of a snack. I wanted a crispy, light-as-air Parisian crepe — paper-wrapped and romantic.

But, here’s the thing. None of the Atlanta crepe shops I patronized set out to make that thin French delicacy.

At Le Metro Creperie, for instance, co-owner Gwen Denninghoff is all about gluten-free pancakes made with buckwheat, teff, tapioca and rice flour.

Crepe Masters owner Alexandre Deschamps — who slips his crepes into cardboard cones and sells them at farmers markets — said he adores the way his crepes get meat-soaked and saucy at the bottom of the cone.

So, I decided to meet these creperies where they lived. Once I did, I found there was something to love about each.

Julianna’s

The Euro-charm of Julianna’s is reflected in every bite of its Hungarian crepes. The tiny cafe — in the basement of an ivy-covered Inman Park house — is uncannily European, from its rough-hewn brick walls to its rustic shelves of pickles and preserves. The crepes are massive and amply stuffed with very tasty goodies like Spotted Trotter tasso ham and housemade pesto.

While the savories make for a decent lunch, one should heed the hidden message in the menu. The sweets are listed first and they outnumber the salty side, 14 to seven. (Even the savories are sometimes sweet. The ham, gruyere and field greens in the Royale are overpowered by the sugar in its Georgia peach chutney.)

Once I tasted the dessert crepes, I agreed with their star billing. The Lemon Love, spritzed with lemon juice and dusted with confectioners sugar, was simply elegant. The old-world Zserbo, filled with walnuts and apricot jam and zigzagged with chocolate sauce, gave me the same nostalgic tug I get from eating rugelach at a Jewish bakery.

And, yes, there is a Nutella crepe on the menu. There is always a Nutella crepe on the menu. But it doesn’t hold a candle to the more authentic sweets — unless, of course, you ask my 6-year-old.

Le Metro Creperie

This nook resides in one of the sunnier corners of the Sweet Auburn Curb Market. With its marble-tiled counter and stenciled windows, it seems adorably French — until you order your crepe. The gluten-free pancake is nut-brown and squiggled with whole grain texture. It looks way too healthy for any chain-smoking Parisian.

But, no worries — my Grandma Prince tasted properly indulgent. It was thinly laced with arugula, brie, prosciutto and peach-apricot jam. The minimal ingredients didn’t fill me up, but they made for a nicely melded, light morsel — one in which the bitter greens balanced the sweet jam and the ham and cheese provided just a hint of fatty luxury.

When it came to the coconut-chocolate Samoa, this restraint disappeared. The chocolate was good and dark and the caramel drizzle on top was richly buttery, but all I tasted was coconut.

Go for Le Metro’s simpler fare and you’ll be happy — especially if you’re one of the legion of gluten-free folks in search of a flourless lunch.

Crepe Masters

At last, a crepe I didn’t have to eat with a knife and fork! I stumbled upon this clever catering operation at the Sunday morning Grant Park Farmers Market. Actually, some of Crepe Masters’ passionate fans stumbled into me, so fixated were they on their bulging, conical crepes.

I was so overwhelmed by the bountiful menu (among the ingredients were strawberry bacon bourbon barbecue sauce, pear chicken sausage, pumpkin butter and local cream cheese) that I let the chef decide for me.

The Mexican, he advised, and that’s how I ended up with a wonderfully spicy-cheesy-creamy bundle of chorizo, egg, cheese and, most essentially, crunchy salad greens. It was a celebration of fresh and local ingredients, and it was the best crepe I had all week.

It was also the messiest. The only way to eat such a dish is to faceplant yourself into it. Juice will drip down your elbows, you’ll swiftly run out of napkins, and before you know it, you’ll be a blissed-out nuisance in the farmers market crowd.

Palacsinta

I love this little place.

For a handful of hours each weekend, Hungarian-born Maria Nagy throws a few tables under the porte cochere at the corner of Oakdale Road and McLendon Avenue. Armed with a cast iron crepe pan, a propane-fueled grill and plastic tubs of batter, she whips up exactly three savory crepes: goulash, chicken paprikash and the Popeye.

The latter is a surprise — a green pancake embedded with chopped spinach rather than stuffed with it. The end product, nicely latticed with char from the well-seasoned pan, tasted so faintly of spinach that my children actually ate it. There is little else to the dish except feta crumbles and paprika-tinted sour cream sauce, which the kids also enjoyed.

Or, maybe they were just angling for dessert. Do you even have to ask? We got the Nutella raspberry crepe.

Baby food, it was — soft, melty and super sweet. But somewhere between the heaping whipped cream and the generous dollops of raspberry jam, I fell a little bit in love.

Which is to say, while we won’t ever have Paris here in Atlanta, we do have some passionate crepe makers who are doing a pretty lovely job on their own terms.