Le boulangerie

When Grandma made bread, armies stopped in their tracks. Waterfalls failed to fall. Clouds parted, and God smiled on our house. Music up and over. Everything was full of wonder on the days that Grandma make bread. Loaf after loaf of redolent, steaming bread. Clover-leaf rolls waiting for dripping butter. Pecan rolls, gooey and sweet. We would gourge ourselves after school, knowing that dinner that night would be scrambled eggs and... more bread!

Grandma had this huge aluminum bread mixer. She would make 12 loaves of bread at a time in this contraption, which looked like a bucket with a handle on top. Grandpa would clamp it down on this little black step stool that always sat beside the sink. Then he would turn the crank. And turn. And turn. This was a duet for two who had been married for over sixty years. They had done this ritual breadmaking so many times, they didn't even hav to talk about it anymore.

When we moved to San Francisco, the first thing I fell in love with was the bread. Once again, I could find wonderful, creative, delicious bread in abundance. Heaven.

I keep searching around Chicago, looking for harmonious bread. I have found a few places that sell baguettes, and of course, the French nuns with the croissants. Give me some good bread and some runny cheese and I am happy.

So a trip to Poilâne, the famous boulangerie in Paris, was high on the list. This is Ina Garten's favorite boulangerie in Paris. Mort Rosenblum, in his book "A Goose in Toulouse," says:

"Only n France could a loaf of bread come with a technical support phone number and an instruction manual thick with philosophy. Lionel Poilâne, who produces such bread, would be a mere baker in any other country, To the French, he is a national treasure..."

So on a sunny Wednesday morning in April, off we go to rue du Cherche-Midi to Poilâne. It's on a charming, tiny, very old street, just what you would imagine a Paris street would look like. The store is tiny. More than four people inside, especially bread-eaters, and you could have a claustrophobic attack.



The bread is huge, with the letter "P" artfully inscribed on the top. There is no mistaking this bread. This is bread with an attitude. Attention must be paid. While we struggle to say "Je peux goûter un peu?" or "Can I have a taste?" the bakery ladies in the white uniforms smile and give us each a slice. Warm. Brown. Hm-m-m. And I think of Grandma. Her bread made you want to sing. And this bread? Not so much. A Parisiene shrug of the shoulders, and a lesson learned.

Next door to Poilâne is a small café that serves the French open-faced sandwiches, called tartines. Of course, they use Poilâne bread. You are exictied about trying these sandwiches, but Mon Dieu! the shop is closed on Wednesdays. Who ever hear of closing on Wednesdays? Another lesson learned. So we drag our attention away from the bread and across the steet to these darling shops that have the cutest shoes....