The art of making baguettes is by no means a simple one. The intricate craft entails placing each one on a cloth and rolling it so they are all separated. They are all gently patted into place with a smooth paddle of wood covered in fine gauze. Each one is then scored with a knife. Even this ostensibly simple process is a step that distinguishes one< artisan baker from another, for all their scoring is an individual process and, therefore, an indelible mark of their craftsmanship. While it is a form of art, it is by no means as enduring as a Rodin sculpture. Day after day, the dedication of the artisan baker continues and all French people worship at the shrine of pain.
Creating a baguette for the esteemed award means that it will be judged by a formidable panel that consists of professional bakers, journalists, union representatives from various boulangeries, and prize-winning apprentices and previous winners. Winners even then supply their supreme baguettes for the following year to the Élysée Palace, the home of the French president. When President Sarkozy was in power, there was much speculation that Carla Bruni would most certainly not have succumbed to one of the most heavenly delights on earth.
Pascal Barillon has been awarded best Parisian baguette several times. This has ensured his boulangerie in Montmartre is one of the most popular in Paris. It comes as no surprise to learn that he produces a staggering 1500 a day. It is no wonder that bakers are awake long before the sun, to ensure their dough rises in time for petit déjeuner customers. Their ambition is to ensure that an artisan baguette has an uneven colour on the crunchy crust, and that inside the air holes are irregular.
For the first time in six years, the winner is not in Montmartre. Ridha Khadler, originally from Tunisia, has taken the award to the 14th arrondissement, Montparnasse. It is truly well-deserved, for he has been producing baguettes since 1976 and working from 3am until 9pm each day. The baguette is as symbolic of France as a French man’s béret. Dedication, devotion and craftsmanship are kneaded into every baguette by every artisan baker in France.
What are the other icons that are conjured up when your thoughts turn to France? Bérets, of course, and the Eiffel Tower. The Eiffel Tower, on the Champ de Mars, was named after the engineer, Gustave Eiffel. His company designed and built the tower in 1889 to commemorate the one hundredth anniversary of the French Revolution. It was the entrance arch to the 1889 World’s Fair. The original idea was for the tower to be dismantled after a twenty-year period. However, it was so well-engineered that it was decided it would be left in place.
Its design was the source of criticism from some of France’s eminent artists and intellectuals. They viewed it as a gigantic black smokestack that marred the beauty of Paris. Gustave Eiffel, however, likened the tower to the pyramids of Egypt. So it is today that just as the pyramids are synonymous with Egypt, the Eiffel Tower represents all that is iconic about France.
Bérets are the image of all that is quintessentially French. They were first worn by shepherds in the 1800s in the Basque country. By the 1920s, bérets were commonly worn by the working classes, and not long after, more than twenty French factories began producing millions of bérets. They took on a new life when military bérets were first adopted by the French Chasseurs Alpins in 1889. They were then used by the newly formed Royal Tank Regiment during World War I, when it was realised they needed headgear that would stay on while climbing in and out of the small hatches of the tanks. The béret is now a significant fashion statement on the streets of Paris.
Today, there are only two producers of bérets remaining. It is still strongly symbolic in the south-west of France, where our petite maison is. It is worn to celebrate traditional events, like our own vide-grenier, when all the band members entertain everyone, eating déjeuner in Marinette’s orchard. The fact that I too was wearing a red béret, just like theirs, made me feel a part of Cuzance’s special annual celebration.
These are the evocative images that linger long after you return home; the enduring true-life metaphors that capture the essence of France. The twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower, dominating the skyline of Paris as you wind your way through the film-set streets in the glowing embers of late evening. The Frenchmen in the markets, wearing timeless striped Breton shirts — introduced in 1858 by French law to locate fishermen who had gone overboard — their bérets tipped at a jaunty angle, a freshly baked baguette tucked under their arm.
Faking French
Our petite maison is now a well-known part of our life and everyone we know assumes — of course — that I must be taking French lessons. I know that I should be. After all, do I not have another French life now? However, as with everything in my crowded life, there simply does not seem to be the time for such a luxury. Mind you, many would see it is a matter of necessity, as I do also have a house in a little French village, where I do most definitely want to be accepted and a part of life once a year. My ineptitude with grasping the intricacies of French means that I turn to the internet in an attempt to gain an insight into how I can perhaps feign some degree of familiarity with French.
First, I learn that the first and most important part of how to ‘fake’ the French accent is the ‘r’ sound. Apparently, according to my research — for research is certainly part of my skill-set — you push your tongue to the back of your throat as if pronouncing a 'gee' sound. I attempt to practise this aloud as I drive to work at home. It seems to be the only time I can find to devote to such essential activities. I listen to the results and can only conclude that I truly can’t get the hang of it.
The next internet research lesson that I decide to devote myself to, on my drive to and from work each day, is that the ‘h' in words should always be silent. Since I know so few French words, I struggle to think of any with ‘h’. Ah, haute couture. That should do the trick. Not that in my other French life I have occasion to even contemplate haute couture. Let’s remember that at the end of the day, it is a life of rénovée.
Next lesson. I find out that when you pronounce ‘e’ you draw them out for as long as possible. It is again fortunate that I am alone in the car. Memories of the squealing pigs at feeding time in Cuzance are the closest I seem to be able to manage. Strike that attempt off the list.
Right, what’s next on the unique how-to-fake-French accent that I have cleverly devised for myself? I learn that in French, it is imperative to always stress the last syllable of a sentence, or before you pause, with a rising intonation, as if you are asking a question. Since I can only manage the most basic and essential of phrases and requests, like ‘Où est la boulangerie?’, ‘Where is the boulangerie?’, perhaps I can just manage this. Then again, perhaps not. It’s one thing practising alone in my car, and another thing actually attempting this in Paris.
I move on to my next self-created petite French language guide. I now learn that ‘th’ is pronounced as a ‘z’. Once again I struggle to recall a single word in my very limited vocabulary that may fit this particular linguistic trick. Perhaps I will check with Stuart on this exacting requirement. As with the myriad of things I always seem to be pursuing, he is puzzled by what I am up to now.
I decide to move right along to the next trick