Bread, like most food, may describe in one way or another how people relate to it according to their culture. For example, in Mexico most people will eat a tortilla, if you are in the north it will most probably be a flour tortilla, while in the center or in the south, it will be white corn tortilla, though it can also be of blue corn, and nowadays they have made some with chipotle or poblano added, or using a mixture of corn with cactus -the latter mostly preferred by ladies of all ages because of the lesser caloric intake. In France, like in most European countries, bread is what accompanies a meal. White, majorly, but whole wheat and organic in the poshest bakeries of the Ville Lumière.
When we first arrived here we did not enjoy completely the texture of what is known as a Baguette Tradition. Little by little we not only got used to it, but we learned to enjoy its flavor and textures. Oh, and we also found where the good bread was sold. One of the reasons for choosing to live this culinary adventure was my intention to find the secret to French bread baking. However, and unfortunately, this is not one class I will have for the time-being. It will take place, just not for now. Since the feeling of ‘urgency’, if I may be allowed to use such a term, was a shared with another one of my classmates, we decided to ask a third fellow student who has already gone through the pastry road to show us how to work the dough.
He gladly agreed to show us. We just needed to get our hands on the recipe to avoid making mistakes when measuring ingredients, since bread needs a certain amount of yeast, especially yeast. Got’em. Now we just needed to mix it, wham it, and dry it.
Oh my God! It was like a little piece of heaven. We prepared an insane amount of bread, some were baguettes. Other pieces were pain de mie. We spread butter and ate it as it came out of the oven. It was like a bread feast. We forced ourselves to stop eating it. We sprinkled zaathar to some, oat to some others, a few more were plain. But all of the pieces were equally tasty.
Truly, now my relationship with bread is different, like with most of the food, and although I still can’t bake a perfect brioche, I will keep on trying to nail it -preferably before attending the corresponding class. It’s just pride, I think.
Now, whenever I leave France, another little piece of the Héxagone will inhabit our home thanks to its bread, its home-baked bread. Care for some?
