CAMBRIDGE, Mass. – Here’s how the croissants intended for breakfast with Julia Child turned into buns.

The day before our memorable meal, I had scoured Cambridge on foot with the help of a map and advice from my savvy friend Jim Dodge – a talented pastry chef and cookbook author who is currently director of food services at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.

After agreeing that croissants from a Boston bakery called Iggy’s (to be correct, Iggy’s Bread of the World) would fit the bill, Dodge offered to order them for me since he dealt with that establishment regularly.

Here was the plan.

The croissants would be delivered to the front desk of my hotel between 8 and 8:10 a.m. the next day, ensuring enough time for me to arrive, goodies in hand, chez Child for breakfast at 9 a.m.

The next day, 8:10 a.m. arrived and I was at the hotel’s front desk. The croissants were not.

By 8:20, I was biting my nails. A phone call to Dodge informed me the driver was stuck in traffic but only five minutes away.

By 8:30, I decided I could not wait any longer.

Star photographer Richard Lautens was dispatched to get the car. I decided to wait on the sidewalk and scan the horizon for an Iggy’s delivery van.

Minutes later, a vehicle bearing that name drove down the side street beside our hotel. I ran like the wind (luckily I was wearing sturdy granny boots with bouncy rubber soles), flung open the van’s door and began to babble, “I’m Marion Kane. Where are my croissants – the ones for Julia Child?”

The perplexed, dark-haired, olive-skinned young man at the wheel either spoke no English or was in a state of shock at the sight of a frantic woman who was, by now, rummaging through the brown bags containing baked goods piled on the seat beside him.

He managed to mumble a few words that sounded like, “Miss, I don’t know. . . .” but ’twas in vain. I had discovered a bag with stickers on it bearing my hotel’s name.

Inside, it appeared, was an assortment of buns and rolls but no croissants.

“These will have to do,” I reasoned. In hindsight, I was incapable of reason at this point as, glancing at my watch, I realized it was 8:45 a.m. Sheer panic had set in.

Clutching the large bag of buns to my chest, I slammed the van door shut and ran back to the front of the hotel where a nervous and confused Lautens was looking for me. “We’ll have to take these,” I gasped, opening the car door. “Let’s go.”

Sorting through several dozen buns as we drove, we agreed the rye sourdough ones – though nothing like croissants – looked best. Eight of them were dutifully offered to a gracious Child and consumed at our wondrous repast.

When I returned to the hotel a couple of hours later, a young woman called me over to the front desk. “This note arrived for you with a package.”

On it was written, “8:30 a.m. Your croissants are late due to problems with proofing.”

I didn’t have the heart or stomach to eat or even look at those pesky, proof-challenged pastries. “Please give them to the nearest hostel,” was my defeated reply.

As for that poor Iggy’s driver, he’s probably still scratching his head over what was behind that short, curly-haired wild woman and the carjacked bag of buns.