The Bread of Life
Dateline: Paris, France, any one of a kajillion small boulangeries filling the streets with the aroma of baking bread and pastries.
Real French croissants, made in France by a boulanger with the secret ingredients of the ancient Celts, are deceptive for first timers. It looks so big, yet as you bite into it you encounter cascading layers of air and love, kissed with a soupcon of butter.
Mmmm... the warm soft fresh croissant implodes on itself as artisan love fills your soul. And your mouth, belly, all the way down to your tired little toes.
And the baguettes and ficelles. Ahh, it is all about the crust, baby.
Stop in on your way home, and pick up the genuinely inexpensive but a bargain at any price fresh loaf. The man or woman behind the counter smiles with pride and joy as they select a warm baguette for you, twirling a small nearly transparent piece of paper around the middle -- the way to hold it as you walk down the street, inciting the lust and admiration of all Parisiens.
Do your best to refrain from eating it while you walk (but there is no shame, as half of Paris eats in the streets, carrying their freshly made food in one hand, their cell phones in the other), so it arrives home in one piece. Finally home, break it open and raise the steaming middle to your face, inhaling the love. Then scoop the soft yeasty innards out and sneak them onto your husband's plate, leaving the thin crust for yourself. Hallelujah!
If you think this is purple prose, exaggerating an experience, well clearly, you haven't been to Paris.
All my life, I've heard people quote -- in fact, I think I've preached on it myself -- John Chapter 6, wherein Jesus repeatedly describes himself as the "bread of life." He had to have been talking to the French, for only they can understand what he means.
French bread is life. It sustains, fills, pleases, encourages, satisfies like nothing else.
Walk down the cobblestones in the morning, stopping to call out "Bonjour Madame!" as you pick up your morning croissant.
Lunch, take the metro to a patisserie or boulangerie and get a baguette fresh out of the oven -- eat it plain or perhaps with tomatoes, cheese, basil and an olive tapanade.
Dinner? A fresh grana ficelle, a bottle of wine, really what else do you need?
And the French miracle, thanks to thousands of steps a day on streets and metro staircases, is that you lose weight while crunching bread and quaffing wine. I am so moving to Paris.
So back to Jesus. I think the French, despite their fiercely, proudly secular state, have the best chance in the world of becoming sympa with Jesus; only they understand bread as life.
Did I tell you I'm moving there? They need pastors, I need the bread of life. 5% flour, 5% butter, 90% love. Amen.
Yap le boom!
Just returned from two weeks in Europe. I haven't blogged in three months, and there is so much to tell, including my grandmother's death, about which I am still in deep grief.
So, let me tell the happy European Vacation "making the waiter blush" story.
Dateline: Paris, France, early February:
Ambience: Cold, sunny day, in the 6th Arrondissement, Rive Gauche, narrow cobblestone streets, the groaning stones of two thousand years plus of civilization leaning all around us.
We'd been at the Cluny museum and were heading towards the new Orsay museum, and Zut! were we hungry. Walking down the Rue des Saints-Peres, we spied a clutch of cafes. We had passed innumerable cafes and brasseries, but one of these seemed particularly inviting for lunch.
First, people were crowded around the sidewalk tables, laughing, drinking wine, working at laptops (many of them MacBooks, hooray!) -- always a happy sight. (The French pronounce wi-fi as "wee-fee" which charms me to no end.) Second, the inside looked equally convivial. Third, it reeked of a neighborhood hangout, not a touristy place -- so, real food for a decent price.
We ducked in and yes, everything we hoped for was true. After a brief wait, we were seated and served. Richard ordered a Croque Monsieur that bears no resemblance to the American fakes foisted evilly upon the unsuspecting US masses, and a frothy, wheaty ale drawn on tap. Robin had the veggie quiche of the day with fresh micro-greens and hot tea. Manna in the form of the Bread of the Gods (I'll write the French Bread of Life post later) and jazz music accompanied the simple, delicious meal.
While basking in the happiness and discussing our next stop (the gorgeous museum at the former Gare d'Orsay), we realized the chalk board on our left wasn't what -- at only a quick glance -- it might appear to be. In somewhat formatted handwriting there was a list of headings: Lundi, Mardi, etc., with brief descriptions following in a scrawled chalk-writing. But it wasn't the specials of the day, it was a narrative of riotous living.
We were able (particularly Richard, who is quite fluent in French) to decipher the slang-ish descriptions of too much drinking, hang-overs, the embarrassment of no money and the need to hide at home, etc. But the last two entries for Saturday and Sunday eluded even The Man. "Yap le boom!" it read for Saturday, and then again for Dimanche.
After counting out our Euros (and Robin's second visit to the WC, which we'll discuss in our forth-coming monograph on French Toilets), we prepared to depart. Richard called out with a musical parting in French, and I lingered at the beaten metal (copper, possibly, or zinc) bar. My spoken French had advanced to the point that this conversation was conducted in basic French. With brief exceptions, I render it in English as follows:
Robin: Thank you sir, and a question if you have time, thank you very much. (The waiter was ringing up a bar customer while saying good-bye to us)
Waiter: (A compact, rather handsome young man who seemed to love his job) Thank you for your patronage, Monsieur and Madame. But of course, Madame, what may I answer for you this afternoon?
Robin: We understand the chalkboard above our table except for the descriptions regarding Saturday and Sunday. If you please, what does it mean, 'Yap le boom?'
Waiter: (Thrown into great confusion, much blushing, while the bar customer bows his head in a newspaper and starts laughing.) Oh, ah, Zut!, ah, I ah, well, uh...
Robin: (Watches quietly, wondering if she should blush or go get Richard and let this translate mano-y-mano.)
Customer: (Playing with a coin) Five Euros ... indecipherable ... the lady.
Waiter: (More blushing and ignoring the customer) Well, ah, no, yes, ah...
Robin: (Inspired) A possible understanding of "Le Bons Temps..."
Customer: (Much laughter and nodding of the head)
Waiter: Yes, very true Madame, the very good times!
I walked out to Richard, who had been following the exchange via semaphore through the glass windows. "Did he tell you what it means?" he asked, amused.
"Not really, lots of blushing and stammering, finally an agreement of le bons temps..."
"Do you know you're blushing, too?"
"I'm sure I am! Look, when a Frenchman blushes, you know something's up!"
We still don't know what it means, but I have suspicions.
