Oh man, that shit's rough. Happens to me nearly every single day.
Awwwwww shit. It's August 7th. You know what that means: The best bakery in Paris is no longer on vacation. Of course, they desperately wanted to stay on vacation just a few days longer, that way they could have gone to their sister's wedding, the one out in Orleans who was in that car accident last year, who they thought would never find love but somehow against all odds managed to find a charming and supportive husband, who they haven't seen in ages for one reason or another, and who might be moving to the Americas forever at the end of the summer. But too bad, that's the way the brioche crumbles, get back in the kitchen and bake my baguette already.
And oh, oh friends. Such a baguette. Such a baguette as I never before tasted.
And now, without further ado, bread porn.
As I think I mentioned before this is the winner of the 2011 "Best Baguette de Tradition" in Paris. The question that leaps to mind, of course, is just what the fuck is a Baguette de Tradition? Well, as luck would have it we are in France and not in the States, and so words like "tradition", "artisan" and "organic" are more than mere marketing fluff, they are rigid, legally binding terms. The French, as my vegetable hookup was explaining to me, take their cuisine very seriously. As a visitor from a foreign land, its particularly obvious to me just how much care and attention goes into every step of food production-consumption, from topsoil to tablecloth as it were (holy balls I'm clever). I notice, for example, something other casual French shoppers take completely for granted, which is that every single piece of produce is labeled not only with its price and sell by date, but also its country of origin and its category. This last qualification, whose meaning was certainly at first opaque to me, apparently refers to the intended usage of a piece of vegetable matter, whether it would be best utilized in a sauce or eaten fresh or chopped raw into a three-bean salad. You see, it would be a minor scandal to slice and consume a tomato that would better serve as a pasta sauce, or to braise a cut of beef intended for the saute pan. Actually, that last one should be obvious to anyone, but the point is this: when the French cook, they want to do it right. They want to use the right ingredients, they want to cook them the right way, they want to consume them in the tastiest way possible, and then they want to drink a digestif so that they can break it down in the most exacting and euphonious way possible.
This I think gives good insight into a broad conception of the French: they are a people who take things seriously. People sometimes accuse the French of pretension, or of being snobby and rude. In my mind this conception probably comes from Americans, more exactly from Americans trying to interact with French people as if there were themselves American. The tension stems from a fundamental misunderstanding, an incorrect broadcasting of intent. On first meeting I think that both parties actually do everything they can, in the first few moments, to indicate that the opposing side should feel relaxed and comfortable. Unfortunately, I think each approaches the problem from a totally different angle. The American puts on his relaxed bluejeans with a hole in one knee, he shows up slightly late and makes his introductions casually, with maybe a slight air of forced informality. In doing all this he is trying to say, "Hey there, look how relaxed this interaction is. I showed up in ripped pants, for fuck's sake. Oops, did I just say fuck? That's no big deal, since this interaction is a safe place where you can say whatever you want. So how's it going?" His French interlocutor, on the other hand, wants to stress the importance of the meeting. He puts on his pressed, color-coordinated pants, arrives on time and with 6% body fat. The message he wants to convey is as follows: "As you can see, I put on my nicest clothes and did everything in my power to make myself presentable. I am taking this meeting seriously, because obviously you are an important person to me." There is a strong sense of hierarchy in French society, so the message further emphasizes the equality of the two people meeting; if I dressed up to meet you then I certainly don't think I'm better than you. By now the problem should be obvious: each person is showing exactly the wrong cultural signals, albeit quite innocently. It's a bit like coming from a country where a raised middle finger signifies respect and a desire for detente. The Frenchman's stiff presentation makes the American feel formalized and awkward, and the American's casual attitude makes the Frenchman feel as if he's not being taken seriously. The whole thing falls apart, and cultural miscommunication leads to prejudice and bigotry for the first time in history. Just kidding, it happens all the time.
Wasn't I talking about baguette? So a baguette de tradition actually has a relatively loose definition, by French standards anyway, requiring only that the baguette be at least 26 inches long, weigh more than 250 grams but not more than 350, and contain only flour, water, salt and yeast. As for the guidelines for what distinguishes a champion baguette from a wet mass of carefully weighed and elongated dough, there's a bunch of junk about air pocket size and crumb elasticity and color, but really there's only one thing you need to know. A perfect baguette is all about the marriage between crust and crumb (crumb being the word I've chosen to use in English to refer to the white of the bread). A less than perfect baguette might have a crumb that pulls away from the crust, so that the two separate when you cut it and you're left with a slice of crumb with some shards of crust. Biting into the perfect baguette, however, the crust yields with an even consistency, fracturing into flavorful, caramel-scented morsels with an audible crispiness and pleasant crunch. The interior is soft and chewy, almost like chewing gum, in fact, with irregularly spaced and sized air pockets so that the bread has both texture and character. That's about all there is to it. One could go on and on about aroma and notes and different phases of taste and all that shit, but this is bread we're talking about, not wine. Part of what makes it so great is that anyone can enjoy it. Even kids can recognize good bread.
Moral of the story: be jealous, I'm eating better bread than you right now.
Awwwwww shit. It's August 7th. You know what that means: The best bakery in Paris is no longer on vacation. Of course, they desperately wanted to stay on vacation just a few days longer, that way they could have gone to their sister's wedding, the one out in Orleans who was in that car accident last year, who they thought would never find love but somehow against all odds managed to find a charming and supportive husband, who they haven't seen in ages for one reason or another, and who might be moving to the Americas forever at the end of the summer. But too bad, that's the way the brioche crumbles, get back in the kitchen and bake my baguette already.
And oh, oh friends. Such a baguette. Such a baguette as I never before tasted.
 |
| Honestly? I think Montmartre looks kind of shitty in the morning. |
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| Oh my god I can see it. I can see and smell it from here |
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| Look at it. Fresh. Delicious. Helpless. |
As I think I mentioned before this is the winner of the 2011 "Best Baguette de Tradition" in Paris. The question that leaps to mind, of course, is just what the fuck is a Baguette de Tradition? Well, as luck would have it we are in France and not in the States, and so words like "tradition", "artisan" and "organic" are more than mere marketing fluff, they are rigid, legally binding terms. The French, as my vegetable hookup was explaining to me, take their cuisine very seriously. As a visitor from a foreign land, its particularly obvious to me just how much care and attention goes into every step of food production-consumption, from topsoil to tablecloth as it were (holy balls I'm clever). I notice, for example, something other casual French shoppers take completely for granted, which is that every single piece of produce is labeled not only with its price and sell by date, but also its country of origin and its category. This last qualification, whose meaning was certainly at first opaque to me, apparently refers to the intended usage of a piece of vegetable matter, whether it would be best utilized in a sauce or eaten fresh or chopped raw into a three-bean salad. You see, it would be a minor scandal to slice and consume a tomato that would better serve as a pasta sauce, or to braise a cut of beef intended for the saute pan. Actually, that last one should be obvious to anyone, but the point is this: when the French cook, they want to do it right. They want to use the right ingredients, they want to cook them the right way, they want to consume them in the tastiest way possible, and then they want to drink a digestif so that they can break it down in the most exacting and euphonious way possible.
This I think gives good insight into a broad conception of the French: they are a people who take things seriously. People sometimes accuse the French of pretension, or of being snobby and rude. In my mind this conception probably comes from Americans, more exactly from Americans trying to interact with French people as if there were themselves American. The tension stems from a fundamental misunderstanding, an incorrect broadcasting of intent. On first meeting I think that both parties actually do everything they can, in the first few moments, to indicate that the opposing side should feel relaxed and comfortable. Unfortunately, I think each approaches the problem from a totally different angle. The American puts on his relaxed bluejeans with a hole in one knee, he shows up slightly late and makes his introductions casually, with maybe a slight air of forced informality. In doing all this he is trying to say, "Hey there, look how relaxed this interaction is. I showed up in ripped pants, for fuck's sake. Oops, did I just say fuck? That's no big deal, since this interaction is a safe place where you can say whatever you want. So how's it going?" His French interlocutor, on the other hand, wants to stress the importance of the meeting. He puts on his pressed, color-coordinated pants, arrives on time and with 6% body fat. The message he wants to convey is as follows: "As you can see, I put on my nicest clothes and did everything in my power to make myself presentable. I am taking this meeting seriously, because obviously you are an important person to me." There is a strong sense of hierarchy in French society, so the message further emphasizes the equality of the two people meeting; if I dressed up to meet you then I certainly don't think I'm better than you. By now the problem should be obvious: each person is showing exactly the wrong cultural signals, albeit quite innocently. It's a bit like coming from a country where a raised middle finger signifies respect and a desire for detente. The Frenchman's stiff presentation makes the American feel formalized and awkward, and the American's casual attitude makes the Frenchman feel as if he's not being taken seriously. The whole thing falls apart, and cultural miscommunication leads to prejudice and bigotry for the first time in history. Just kidding, it happens all the time.
Wasn't I talking about baguette? So a baguette de tradition actually has a relatively loose definition, by French standards anyway, requiring only that the baguette be at least 26 inches long, weigh more than 250 grams but not more than 350, and contain only flour, water, salt and yeast. As for the guidelines for what distinguishes a champion baguette from a wet mass of carefully weighed and elongated dough, there's a bunch of junk about air pocket size and crumb elasticity and color, but really there's only one thing you need to know. A perfect baguette is all about the marriage between crust and crumb (crumb being the word I've chosen to use in English to refer to the white of the bread). A less than perfect baguette might have a crumb that pulls away from the crust, so that the two separate when you cut it and you're left with a slice of crumb with some shards of crust. Biting into the perfect baguette, however, the crust yields with an even consistency, fracturing into flavorful, caramel-scented morsels with an audible crispiness and pleasant crunch. The interior is soft and chewy, almost like chewing gum, in fact, with irregularly spaced and sized air pockets so that the bread has both texture and character. That's about all there is to it. One could go on and on about aroma and notes and different phases of taste and all that shit, but this is bread we're talking about, not wine. Part of what makes it so great is that anyone can enjoy it. Even kids can recognize good bread.
Moral of the story: be jealous, I'm eating better bread than you right now.
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