Scenes from the City of Lights: The boulangerie
To tell you the truth, there’s something vaguely anxiety-inducing about walking into a Parisian bakery. Nerve-wracking, but not enough to dissuade me from entering. Stressful, but on a very low level. Because a Parisian bakery isn’t just a bakery – there are no basic, boring loaves of pre-sliced, too-soft bread resting tiredly in neat rows in their individual plastic bags, and there is no sense that any one of the pastries arranged neatly in the softly lit display case might actually look better than it tastes – a Parisian bakery is a boulangerie, a simple difference in title that somehow elevates it into a class well beyond anything one might find in North America. A person doesn’t so much enter the boulangerie as they are drawn into it by the aroma, which hovers around the door in a sort of tantalizing aura responsible for capturing anyone who might walk by with their defences down. And I am always walking around with my defences down.
The anxiety kicks in as soon as I step through the doorway. The boulangerie is crowded – with locals rather than tourists, because I choose my boulangeries with the same selective criteria that someone else might use to pick out the perfect diamond ring – and a ragged line is snaking its way from the counter all the way to the door. Three energetic, slightly frenzied-looking employees are rushing back and forth behind the counter, passing baguettes to each other, sliding croissants into little paper bags, and slipping glistening tart slices into boxes. The heat from the ovens is filling the small shop, and the smell of butter and sugar is hanging heavily (deliciously) in the air.
At this point, there is no chance of escaping empty-handed. At least five more customers have filed in behind me, completely blocking off the doorway, and I can feel a pair of pointy-toed boots make impatient contact with the back of my ballet flats. At this point, the lady ahead of me in line is reeling off her order to one of the red-aproned girls behind the counter. Two baguettes, a pain au chocolat, and a slice of tarte abricot amandine. She knows exactly what she wants. There is no hesitation, no moment of indecision, no sense that she is completely and utterly overwhelmed by the sheer variety of bread and pastries spread out in front of her.
I, on the other hand, am completely overwhelmed. I have a few favourites, but if I stick with those favourites I worry that I’m neglecting an entire world of equally amazing pastries just waiting to be discovered. And if I deviate from my favourites – which are good, mouth-wateringly, temptingly, insanely good – what if I end up with something that I enjoy less? When a person is consuming the equivalent of an entire block of butter with every bite, careful selection is a necessity.
Suddenly the red-aproned girl is turning to me. “Mademoiselle?” She has one hand planted on her hip, the other is holding a paper bag expectantly. I hesitate. “Mademoiselle?” She repeats the question, and I hear the woman behind me give an impatient little click of her tongue while the pointy-toed boots dig a bit deeper into my heels. Clearly she has never felt awed into silence by a display of pastries.
I stammer. I can feel my already minimal grasp of the French language slipping away. I think the brightly coloured display of macarons, stacked into perfect little pyramids, might be blinding me. The air in the shop suddenly seems even warmer. Some sort of pastry-shop panic reflex (designed specifically to avoid embarrassment in front of a room full of Parisian women) kicks in, and I hear myself reverting to my usual order for the day: One chausson aux pommes (a pastry filled with smooth, almost unsweetened apples), one cravat (a long, flaky strip of perfection layered with buttery brown sugar and little chunks of chocolate), and, just to make sure I don’t ignore the savoury breads, a fougasse filled with cheese, bacon, olives and tomatoes. She nods efficiently, and suddenly a barrage of warm, paper-wrapped bread and pastry is making its way over the counter and into my hands.
Suddenly, I feel calm and happy. Is it really possible to feel unhappy with an armload of pastries? The anxiety – which, come to think of it, was minimal, almost non-existent, and certainly worth it – has vanished completely. And as I step out onto the busy sidewalk, I’m already getting excited for tomorrow’s trip to the boulangerie – but tomorrow, definitely tomorrow, I’ll convince myself to try something new…
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