In Need of Daily Bread

You know these questions that people inevitably ask you?!?
"When are you getting married?"
"Are you planning on getting a kid anytime soon?"
"How long before you decide to move on?"
blah-blah-blah..........I have a few of my own to deal with. Sweet, huh? And here they mainly have to do with my being French. Ohhhh....this accent. I can't quite pin it down....
Yeah. I am learning to be ok with it and accept it as a 'charming asset' of mine. After all it is So cuuuuuuuuuuuuuute. But then - once my country of origin is figured out - come the following duet, as exasperating as a solitary mosquito trapped in your bedroom on a hot summer night:
- what are the differences between France and the US?
- what do you miss from France?

Zen.
It's not a coincidence if I started yoga recently.
I have a lot to learn.

I am usually so annoyed by the first question that I want to scream. There is a silent nuclear explosion going on in my head every time I hear the words. You want to know? Jump on a transatlantic flight and see for yourself.
Just. Leave. Me. Alone.

As for the second one - that's easy. And I have to say that I were just a tad religious I would be pretty upset with you, peeps - because you are failing me as a Christian.

You - are not giving me my daily bread.
Therefore I am a lost soul.
Shame on you.

I miss BREAD. Good bread.
I used to live above a boulangerie.
A very nice one. A few steps above the ground, two nice windows filled with cake displays and other goodies, a wonderful aroma escaping from the wood-burning ovens in the basement. People were coming from all around the neighborhood to buy their award-winning bread.
They were closed on Sunday afternoons and Mondays.
I was inside every single other day of the week.

Because it's just what we do in France. We buy our baguette, pain de campagne or pain aux céréales daily. EVERY DAY. Rain or shine. Snow or hurricane.
Fresh. Crunchy. Moist. Odorous. Magic.
It is a ritual, a delightful one, a happy pause that doesn't belong to the long list of chores one has to accomplish during one's day. To me walking in and asking in a cheery voice: "Une baguette pas trop cuite, s'il vous plaît" was a definite highlight of my routine. I liked my baguette not over-cooked: the outside crust still has a very blond, soft yellow color, reminiscent of the wheat it is made of; the crunch is soft and delicate, and the crust slightly gives in without breaking.
Perfection to me.

So yes, the joy of using a serrated knife in the morning to cut and open your tartine, and then spreading a nice sweet butter from Normandy on its still slightly warm mie is unparalleled in my world.
But I haven't known such a feast in a very long time.
And you wonder why I am always in such a bad mood.

As heartbreaking as it is to admit - most French people buy nowadays their bread in supermarkets and desert their beloved bakeries. Cheaper, more convenient and sometimes even better quality. Shocking?!?!? Good bakers are like good husbands - hard to come by, and they would be a hot commodity on the market of 'wanted goods'. I was lucky but that type of love is not equally distributed among the population.

So massive production it is. If you cannot get quality, shoot for quantity.

But even in the most intimidating, 30,000 sq. ft. store where everything looks robotic, soulless and sterile - you will never, EVER find bread that can stays in the back of your dark cupboards for weeks on hand and still be 'good'. Let's say - consumable. Without one single speck of mold. No green to be seen on the horizon. Just.....slices of carbs.
Because this cannot be bread.



Yucky?!? Hell yeah.
But NA-TU-RAL. Just the way things should be.



Have you ever wondered how such a culinary prowess is possible?!? Seriously - this requires some sort of genius. A very twisted, devious, oblique type of genius sure, but genius all the same. I wouldn't know how to achieve such a result.

My guess? They - the wicked - load their loaves with sugar. How do you think diners can keep their ketchup bottles on tables for weeks?!?
Saccharin, fructose, corn syrup and sucrose are the A-Team of the American food industry.
Hallelujah.

Good bread around the 87th meridian (that would be Chicago) does exist. I saw it. And tasted it. But mainly in restaurants. When I come across such a miracle the following usually happens:
- I pinch myself really hard to check that I am not dreaming - you never know.
- you can then see frozen on my face the most stupid, idiotic smile you'll ever seen. Just enjoy live but no picture please. I do have some pride left in there.
- I empty the basket, ask a refill and butcher whatever spread comes with it.
- I sing the praise of the baker to the waiter/waitress and usually don't find anything more about him/her.
- I keep thinking about this moment of pure ecstasy for weeks.

Yup....not easy to be me.

All hope is not lost though. Since I am not planning on going back to France and since I need good bread in my life to be consistently happy I decided to track my carbs bliss high and low and relentlessly. Lucky for me someone decided to make my life easy; Vincent Colombet French (ha! who would have thought?!?!), already owns a whimsically-named catering business (Cook au Vin) and is all set to open - ready?!?!?! - a bakery in Logan Square at the end of the summer.
Its name?!?
La Boulangerie.
He is even going to set up a Bread Delivery system on his bike. You can get fresh bread to your door twice a week.
And no, this is not a dream.La dolce vita.
Pane, amore e fantasia (Bread, love and dreams. A Italian romantic comedy from the 1950s with Gina. And next on your Netflix list).
I wouldn't be married already I would totally ask his hand.

We have come to full circle.
Stay tuned, and don't forget - always stay gourmands!