The Glaze King of Versailles

France, late 17th century. King Louis XIV—the honest-to-god *Sun King*—was bored. The man had a palace with 700 rooms and a god complex so big it had its own postal code, yet his divine right to be endlessly entertained was flagging. His ego, however, was about to get a cream filling it never saw coming.

Enter Chef Antoine Dubois, a man whose previous greatest hits included “that time I gave the Duke of Orléans food poisoning” and “that other time I nearly torched the royal kitchens trying to flambé a peacock.” Desperate to get back in the King’s good graces, Dubois stumbled upon a grimoire—or maybe it was a family recipe book, the sources are hazy and probably drunk—titled *Le Gâteau d’Amour: Confections for the Carnal Connoisseur*. It was less of a cookbook and more of a culinary Kama Sutra written by a wizard with a sugar addiction. Its pages promised pastries that could “arouse the most flaccid of courtiers” and “turn a duchess’s parlor into a sailor’s brothel.” Dubois, bless his idiotic, ambitious heart, saw his shot.

He presented the King with a platter of what he called “Profiteroles of Perpetual Proximity.” They looked innocent enough. A little choux pastry, a dollop of cream, a drizzle of chocolate. Louis, ever the drama queen, took a delicate bite. Nothing happened. For a second. Then, a slow, dopey grin spread across his face. He looked at the Marquis de Cadanville, a man whose only notable feature was his spectacular wig, and declared him to be “as fetching as a freshly buttered croissant.” By the time the platter was empty, half the court was trying to discreetly unlace their corsets and the orchestra had switched from a stuffy minuet to something that sounded suspiciously like a striptease anthem. The Hall of Mirrors became the Hall of “Oh God, Is That My Reflection? We Should Invite Her Over.”

The pastries became the new currency of power at Versailles. Forget titles; if you wanted a favor from the king, you came bearing a tray of “Tarts That Turn Chaste Men Tasteless” or “Éclairs of Ecstatic Embrace.” The War of the Spanish Succession was politely postponed because the entire French army was too busy trying to figure out how to incorporate custard into their siege tactics. The meticulously manicured gardens of Versailles were trampled by horny aristocrats playing “hide the sausage” among the topiaries. Louis XIV went down in history not as the Sun King, but as “Le Roi du Glaçage”—the Glaze King—who ruled over a kingdom united by butter, sugar, and an unquenchable thirst for swapping powdered wigs and bodily fluids.