Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (4 page)

The images that are redolent of France are
baguettes, bérets
and the Eiffel Tower. Even Parisians themselves say that they discover a new piece of enchantment every day in their magical city. Since the
baguette
forms the centerpiece of their daily culinary ritual, I am sure they flock immediately to the
boulangerie
each year that is awarded ‘Paris' Best
Baguette
' award. Participating bakers drop off
deux baguette
each. If their
baguettes
don't conform to the strict guidelines, they are discarded. It is once again a demonstration of the artform that is French
cuisine
. A traditional
baguette
must be crunchy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. They are evaluated on a specific measurement, appearance, texture, smell and taste. A tell-tale sign that a
baguette
is commercially baked in a factory, rather than being an
artisan
creation, is the rows of dots underneath that are similar to Braille
.
The words ‘
Artisan Boulangerie
', proudly displayed outside a
boulangerie
, is all you need to know in your quest for the perfect
baguette
anywhere in France.

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
béret
s tipped at a jaunty angle, a freshly baked
baguette
tucked under their arm.

Café
scene, Paris

Lunch in Martel

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 I am attempting to learn to fit into my French life. I hasten to add it has now been a matter of weeks to and from work that I have been conducting my secret French lessons. What an ambitious dream it now seems. To step off the plane in Paris and engage in scintillating repartee. Perhaps this is a ploy that I can cunningly incorporate into my ever-stumbling French attempts. To fully assimilate into the French way of life, apparently all you have to do is toss in a lot of ‘
euh
's
.
This seems to be the clinching key to faking French. I learn from the master of all knowledge, the internet, that it is the equivalent of inserting lots of ‘
umms
' or ‘
ahhs
' into conversation. Ostensibly, it fools people into believing that you are completely
au fait
with the language, and you are merely pausing and reflecting on what you will next say. I decide to abandon all my well-intentioned plans when I discover that you are supposed to end your pronunciation on a sound about halfway between, but not allow your accent to hint at, the ‘
oh
' sound.

So much for my French lessons. I aim to learn French when I retire, as surely then I will have time. How many more years we will then be able to undertake the exhausting, arduous flight is another matter altogether. Finally, I will be fluent when our French life becomes a fading memory. Possibly fluent, that is.

Parisian model