For the love of markets

Like most French neighborhoods, mine has a market which takes place twice a week. In fact, it has two markets, each taking place two days a week, both less than five minutes walk from my place. Both markets are a collection of vegetable sellers, a butcher, a fish monger, a flower seller, a baker or two, some cheese hawkers, and some guys with carts of cheap plastic crap. Since moving into my new home in the 20th* I have been cruising through the market to pick up what I need - lots of fresh veggies and kindly people.

I am a universal supporter of farmers markets, but the extreme cuteness of French markets puts me in a particular gleeful mood. They may not be full of the extreme variety of peppers that Mexican markets boast; they may not have as many things I can't identify as Thai markets; true, they don't include the high pressure sales and crazy colors of Indian markets, but they do include lots of really cute French people and fresh food, and for the moment, that's all I need. On top of that, walking through the market is almost like walking through a musical. Each vendor is calling out in a cooing voice the special he or she has. Clementines deux euro kilo is a particularly sweet ballad. The prices are good, the food is fresh, and everyone throws in an extra handful of whatever you are buying after they have weighed the bag, accompanying it with a sly head nod and a smile.

While I love the market so, I didn't truly appreciate it until I went to a supermarket this evening. Opposed to the bright light, brisk air, and cheerful voices, the supermarkets in France are just like supermarkets in any developed nation. Cold, quiet, and full of rushed folks trying to get in and out with a minimum of irritation overtaking them. I needed flour and rice, so I had to go, but I will make it a point not to be returning more frequently than I have to. France's commercial sector is diverse and interesting, and like all things diverse and interesting, it is slowly being overcome by things dull and depressing - because the dull and depressing are easier and more convenient.

The Metro stop nearest my home is on the corner of an intersection. In all four directions you can walk from there you will pass by a supermarket. Just about everything supermarkets sell seems to be available at other shops specialized shopts - but inferior quality and lower prices win out when everything is all in one place. If I take the longer walk from the Metro station, I pass two cheese shops, three butchers, one sausage shop, and four bakeries (none of the bakeries, sadly are independent, but one of them is actually pretty tasty). Same song, different verse, people used to have the time to go to four or five shops daily, now they want to do it one stop once a week. Admittedly, the cheese, meat, sausage, and bread selections at virtually every French supermarket is than they are at any supermarket back home, but only time will tell if that trend will continue. I will keep on spending the extra time (and sometimes money) getting my food from the little retailers while I can.


*Which incidentally, I have realized is the first time I have ever lived alone in an apartment, oddly. Through the past twenty-four years of existence I have always managed to have housemates, roommates, or family of some sort, and damn, this living alone thing can be kinda... err... lonely?

The French Infection

Life in France is good. If it weren't for the cold, the cost, and the difficulties described below, I would say life is approaching perfection. I have been spending much of the past week dealing with a number of less than fun tasks, but thanks to the bounty of breads and the friendliness of the French, I can't really complain.

Issue number one has meant more trips to the doctor. India gave me a parting gift of some sort of fungal infection and perhaps mites. Itching more than I would like, I finally took the plunge and went to the doctor. It was a lengthy and awkward process which involved me walking around a hospital for a long while. Unable to get anyone to understand my description of my symptoms in French, I was reduced to having to gesticulate that my feet, chest, and groin itched to anyone who was willing to look at me. After confusedly getting pointed around in circles for a while I was finally hooked up with an English speaking dermatologist. Two creams, a spray, a pill, many trips to the laundromat, and a week later I have finally been pronounced clean.

I am in Paris to do an apprenticeship with a bakery. Surprisingly, not all of the breads of Paris are quite as sublime as one might hope and while I am determined to get to the bottom of why, how, and with what frequency bakeries here are cutting corners to bake bad breads, my big goal is to be making good bread myself. So with a noble investigation as a side project, I will be spending a bulk of my time apprenticing in the work room of one bakery. Making the transition from India,where everything was possible for a price, to France, where nothing is possible without a form, has taken more adjustment than I expected. After finding a bakery who was willing to take me, I finally yesterday secured and presented the form they wanted. Huzzah.

Along with things to do, I have been in desperate need of a place to be. For my first two weeks in Paris I was bunking with blessed friends while I tried to find myself an apartment or sublet. In the course of two weeks, I heard a lot of 'non' and got to see a wide range of apartments. From miniscule rooms with no shower, sink, kitchen, or windows (all for $600 a month) to slightly less tiny rooms with all the modern conveniences adorably folded into one closet sized space. No one wanted to take me for short periods of time, but I was finally able to get a sublet from a student going away for a bit. Starting on Sunday I will be the proud owner of a little apartment with more than enough stuff to be called home for the next two months.

I have decided to hold off on my boulangerie reviews for little while. Realizing the internet is a pretty open place and giving mediocre reviews to someone I am trying to talk to for research likely wouldn't go over all too well.

How to spot the elusive good bread

As is natural with any project of this sort (that being the independent, no reigns, self directed, year long, globe trotting, quasi-research sort) my focus has shifted and refined over the first eight months of my travel. When I wrote my initial proposal way back in the fall of 2006 I had no idea what I was talking about and no idea what I was going to be doing. Both of these things are okay... I guess. I threw out a wide net, essentially proposing to study anything which involved the development, growth, cultivation, processing, cooking, or consumption of wheat... or other grains... or other crops and sometimes related to the Green Revolution. And I have studied a little bit of all of that. But as my travel, and my research goes on, I realize my interest lies primarily in breads. What, why, where, how, how often, is bread is bread is bread?

And I have come to France, the final stage of my journey. In between trying to adjust to the prices of things, trying to reorient myself to a life style much more similar to mine back home, and beginning to establish what I am doing here, I have been eating bread. Lots of bread. So much bread that one might think it would kill a man. But it doesn't. Oh, no it doesn't. It just makes him stronger. And makes him want even more bread.*

My breaducation (cause that's what the cool kids are calling it these days) started a couple years back with the works of Nancy Silverton and have meandered about a bit. While I respect all breads, the love of my knife goes to the products of sourdough. Sourdough is essentially a wild yeast which has been caught and tamed to produce slow developing, flavorful bread. Contrary to popular belief sourdough breads need not be sour. Most breads labeled as sourdough in the US actually just have extra acids added to them to make them taste sour (the exception being many of the sourdough breads of San Francisco where naturally occurring yeasts just happen to have a stronger twang than most areas - but even there lots of bread is adulterated.). Sourdough breads can be made in any shape or size, but France of course loves the sourdough baguette.

Many of my friends ask me,** "How can I tell if a loaf of artisan sourdough is good?" and through long-winded explanation I try to describe the mythical beast - the well made bread. For your reading pleasure - and perhaps even the first part of your breaducation - I attempt to summarize as succinctly as possible how to spot good bread in six easy steps, so if and when I talk about good bread in the future, there is some basis as to what I am talking about.

1. Location, location, location. You don't find good bread in bad places. Boulangeries abound in Paris and elsewhere, but worldwide many knock offs try to pass off previously frozen doughs as being just as good as fresh baked loaves full of love and care. They are not. If it's more than a day old or came from a supermarket you have low chances of getting good bread. Find a standalone bakery which bakes fresh daily. Or a friend with a knack for ovenworks.

2. Judge a book by its cover. Ugly bread is rarely good. This is a picture of shamefully, one of my early breads a couple years back. Pallid, dimpled, and dull, this bread makes me not want to eat bread. Good sourdough should have a dark, caramel crust with weight to it. The bread should be aesthetically pleasing - well formed, balanced, even. It is saggy or looks over stuffed, no good. The crust shouldn't shine like it's been lacquered - but it should have a healthy amount of texture to it. If you've got a real winner it will have a pinhead sized, light bubbles evenly spread about it. Slashes across the top should be pretty and should have prevented the bread from ripping at the seams and should have risen slightly for figure.

3. Listen to your bread. When picking up a loaf of good bread, you should have an even feel to it, not be lopsided or off kilter. Knock lightly on the bottom with your finger tips and you should hear a hollow thump like you are striking a drum. Squeezing lightly, the bread should have some give, but still make a crackling noise.

4. What's on the inside counts too. The inside of the bread (called the crumb) should have airy holes in it. Unevenly spaced, unevenly sized, with stretches of gluten on the edges. How dense or light you like your crumb is all a matter of personal preference, but you need some holes to show that there was some action inside the loaf.

5. Smell it. Go on and smell it. Good bread shouldn't be just a neutral medium to pile other things atop. It should have a flavor and smell that compliment what you are eating. Breaking open a loaf and pushing your nose in it should give you the best idea of what's going on in there. Depending on the sourdough used, flavors can run the gambit - but most importantly there should be some sort of fragrance and it shouldn't be the dull, sweet, hollow smell of industrial yeast.

6. Tonguing it. Since the point of bread is eating, a bread should in the end be, well, good to eat. Biting into bread you should have a bit of pull on the crust, but not have to fight with it. The crumb shouldn't be so dry as to make you feel parched, but not so soggy to make you feel icky. The French seem to like their bread to dissolve a bit in their mouths. Germans seem to like it to put up a good fight. It should feel good to loll around in your mouth for a little bit before you finally get to eat your good bread.

And that's it. That's how you find a good bread. The bread I am pictured holding above is an okay bread - not great, but not bad - bought from a nearby market. I have begun exploring the bakeries of Paris, and soon, my map and ratings will come up online. Hopefully.



*This isn't meant to sound like a thinly veiled allusion to a recently developed drug habit. It's just my attempt at getting at how much I like bread and how much bread I have been eating.

** In truth, very few of my friends ask me, I just sometimes tell people