La baguette magique

Baguettes: the bagels of Paris. A simple bread (it’s literally flour, water, and yeast). A tasty bread. And yet it has kind of a bad rep stateside. In my Real American Life, I am very conscious of these things. My bread is dark brown, sprouted, and crammed with more whole grains than my body has room for. As I am living la vie française and trying to do all of the cultural things that that entails, I still can’t escape the refrain of “high glycemic index! no fiber! loads of gluten!”

Meuh non, meuh non. I am training myself not to care. Because, honestly, LOOK AT IT.

Do you see those air pockets? That crispy crust (okay, yes, I got a baguette sésame, so sue me, it’s not traditional)? How can anything evil be contained therein?

Also, not to get all “French Women Don’t Get Fat” on you, but 1. they don’t and 2. they eat a lot of bread. It’s actually amazing how many French girls I’ve seen on the streets, iPods in, scarves on, and just tearing into sandwiches with abandon. Like actually just eating a ham and butter sandwich like it’s no big deal. Just eating food like that! Can you believe it?!

I’m starting to. Because hey, baguettes are damn tasty.

Bakeries are everywhere, too. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent most of my life in a very particular kind of sheltered environment, but I had no idea that you could have 15 similar operations in one city block that don’t outcompete each other to death. You can just stop on your way home from wherever, plunk down 90 centimes, and bread is yours. Dinner is rounded out perfectly. As much as it sounds like Amélie-Poulain-esque bullshit, it is the truth.

And oh god, THOSE BUBBLES. I can see why the peasants revolted when Marie Antoinette took this shit away. Now excuse me while I track down some smoked salmon and spready cheese.