Aunt Irene in France

Some years ago, I went on errands with my Aunt Irene in her small town in Central France. I loved how efficiently she bustled from shop to shop, purchasing her food for the day. We started at the butcher, where she discussed how she was going to cook the meat she bought from him in his pristine shop. Then we went to a small, cave-like place where fresh produce, straight from the ground with dirt and roots attached, sat in boxes on tables and the cement floor. The cheese shop was pungent, and I was thrilled when she asked what kinds of cheeses I liked. While I silently perused the dozens (hundreds?) of soft, hard, blue-veined, goat, sheep, and cow’s milk cheeses,  I realized a heated conversation was taking place. My grasp on French was pretty good, but I was confused. Everyone was debating something with the gravity of a political topic, but they were also laughing and seemed to be egging each other on. Certain expressions were repeated:  “Ooh, la la,” “insupportable,” and “incroyable!” 

Finally, I understood that the townspeople were expressing their outrage upon learning that both of the town’s bakeries would be closed at the same time over the upcoming summer vacation. Feeling like I was watching a tennis match, my head rotated back and forth as women and men on either side of me talked in raised voices. Then they simultaneously turned to me and asked what I thought of all of this. At first I was stunned. Me? How could I weigh in without letting them know how lucky they were to have TWO phenomenal bakeries in one small town every day? I was so envious! Although their situation was amusing to me, I did not want to insult them. Instead, I told them all their arguing was making me hungry and only a pain au chocolat would satisfy me (or something like that. My attempts at humor in another language do not always succeed). They did laugh, and we left the shop with three pungent chunks of cheese. 

I later learned this very French and very wonderful little fact: bakeries are obligated to plan their vacations so that there is always, 365 days a year, an open bakery in every town. Why don’t I live in France? 

Heading to my most favorite shop to obtain that chocolate croissant, I felt a skip in my step. Irene’s boulangerie of choice is the sort of gem I dream of and look for no matter where I am:  up and down the coast when I travel in my native California, in Mexico City two summers ago, in my friend’s village in England… The small space smelled of yeast, almost burnt flour, and to me, absolute joy. Differently shaped sourdough and whole wheat loaves were arranged behind the counter on wooden shelves, sold by weight. On the top of the counter were small, simple cookies on plates. And the pastry case was filled with quintessentially French pastries, such as croissants, brioches, and coiled raisin rolls. I am pretty sure I stood in the doorway, smiling with my eyes closed, for several moments before Irene asked what I wanted to purchase for my daughters and husband.  

This love of bakeries has been with me for as long as I can remember. What I would like to do in this blog is convey what local bakers are up to, how they create delicious things out of flour (and sometimes other grains), and what you should try when you visit them, hopefully by bike. Moreover, I hope to convey the unique qualities of each bakery, and encourage you to support the bakers and their hard working employees.