So, about a million years ago I went to France via my high school’s French Exchange Program. I, of course, had Baguettes while there - in fact, many a meal was made from nothing but a Baguette and some cheese or spread. Good stuff.
So, a few months ago, I was thinking about how it’d been for freakin’ ever since I had real French bread. The crap you can buy at the chain grocery stores is understandably not particularly close to the real stuff. So I asked my wife, who does the majority of the shopping, “Can you even get real French bread?”
We were in the car, so I entertained my wife by going on and on about it. I’m talking all about the iconic French bread that shows up in illustrations and cartoons going back over a century. I’m talking about the stuff that is so ubiquitous in Paris that I’ve even bought some from the back of a freakin’ bicycle repair shop in an alleyway, and it was good. But somehow that basic, simple bread that’s so easy to make that even Christophe can churn out a few loaves on break from fixing bicycles is a delicacy that eludes every grocery store bakery I can recall, even the fancier ones.
My wife made it her quest to get some real French bread. Week after week, she’d pop into a different store and pick up some pillowy soft, bleached bread food product. “Non!” I would admonish her, and tell her all about how real French bread has a crunchy crust that crackles and crumbles in your mouth as you tear into it.
Then she came home with a variety of crusty breads, flattened rugby balls of multigrained goodness that I enjoyed, but nevertheless were not French bread. I again shared with her my dream of a simple, true, French bread, and implored her to use her superior procurement skills to acquire a sample of authentic French bread.
Her latest and last attempt prompted me to declare, “How can you not know what French bread is!” She cried, and I flogged myself repeatedly about the back and shoulders in remorse and recrimination for allowing my frustration to turn me into a boorish lout. You see, it wasn’t her fault; she was unduly swayed by the labels, the signs, the oaths of bakers riddled by delusion or charlatanry.
You see, in America, what they call French bread is not what the French call French bread. In fact, it would be illegal in France.
Finally, we called a high-end bakery in the area, one which had a sterling reputation. We asked questions, armed now with knowledge we googled up in preparation. “Yes!” They assured us, they made the real deal, not the American stuff. “No!” They promised, they never used frozen dough.
And so today I went many miles out of my way to pick up a loaf of this authentic, real deal, fucking French fucking French bread.
It was soft and fat, and terribly disappointing, Americanized French bread.
So, does anybody know how I can get some proper French bread in the states? Upper Midwest area, s’il vous plait.