A Fresh Baguette
Paris at sunrise. The simple pleasure of going out in the morning to buy a fresh baguette.
It’s a quiet time of day, there are a few people walking to the metro, early office workers, students getting in a few extra hours of studying because they stayed out late (who wouldn’t).
The air is sweet, the traffic non-existent, some pigeons peck away at last night’s sidewalk crumbs. I breathe in the slightly chilly air to clear the sleep from my brain and head to my favorite boulangerie (there are plenty to choose from within a few blocks).
When I enter the bakery, the smell of fresh baked bread surrounds me. The sight of the deliciously presented pastries—croissants, pain au chocolat, peach croustades, chausson aux pommes—are sitting tauntingly behind glass.
The two women look up and smile at their earliest customer, and always greet me with a sing-songy “Bonjour.”
I practice my crude French. “Bonjour, un tradition se vous plaît.”
“Anything else monsieur,” they reply in English? Always. Who am I fooling?
Ahh, the traditional baguette that the French are so proud of, magically made with only yeast, flour, and water. Somehow turned into a soft textured bread surrounded by a golden crackly crust.
I’m lucky. It’s still warm, just out of the oven in the back. I tuck it under my arm and feel the gentle heat. The smell makes me yearn to break off the crusty end that sticks out of the bag and eat it right there on the street.
But it deserves more. A thick slab of French butter (No, there is no butter like this in the United States.) and a drizzle of organic honey from Provence. With a strong café au lait.
How does a simple loaf of bread bring so much pleasure?
