Way back last Autumn, when I was in the middle of the traumatic mystery tour that is ‘finding a permanent place to live in Paris’ I had a pause, a moment of quiet stillness, I could say an epiphany, which became a defining moment for me. Remember, I was spending too many hours a day on the internet scouring web sites for possible accommodation; had traipsed to too many oblivious estate agents’ offices; and had fantasized for too long about Amélie Poulain moving out of her apartment and giving it to me.
It was a sunny, warm, September day and I had walked and re-walked the streets around Place de la République. I had crossed and re-crossed Canal St. Martin and I was starting to feel hollow. I quickly found a corner bakery (of course) and went inside. The French talk about ‘le coup de foudre’. When it occurs your pulse goes up and you get a little flutter, a surge of soft excitement and your fingers itch at the same time that you salivate. The minute I entered the bakery I experienced this uncontrollable response. Trays of pastry catherine wheels, traced with green and yellow and pink were placed like a child’s drawing of a bakery on large pottery dishes. Huge hunks of dark crusted bread were cut and piled like fallen rocks on a beach. The ceiling was an ancien, hand painted sky of blue glass.
Les vendeuses were smiling and responsive, coaxing and gentle with their customers, like lovely nurses, who realise that big decisions need to be made and this is not going to be easy for anyone. As I moved with the queue towards the cash till which was, believe me, a little like waiting to go up to the high alter to take communion, I spotted the sweetest and coyest of little bread babies. These mini pavés were arranged in neat lines of cobblestones of warm dough, each one wrapped around a different filling like a bready blanket. Amongst others were poitrine fumée with Reblochon cheese and prune, or pear and chocolate or goats’ cheese, fig and honey. I chose these three at random and bought a boulder of the bread from the beach, le pain des amis.
Walking in the warm sunshine towards the canal I first ate the Reblochon, smoked bacon and prune. I stopped, closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sun. This was food which brought the bliss of a first kiss. This was food which brought pure joy into a hapless day. I think a tear came into my eye. Yes. And in that moment I decided that, however mardy and dour the estate agents could make themselves, and however impossible a task it may seem for an Englishwoman to get a French landlord to accept her, this would be done, and what is more, it would be done within walking distance of this bakery.
Of course since that day I have done my research and realise that a really good thing just gads about. A bakery called Du Pain et Des Idées, with a baker like Christophe Vasseur, who states on his website “this profession is one of the most beautiful in the world as it allows the one who masters it to give a simple but intense happiness out of a piece of bread.” (I rest my case) just can’t help but be everyone’s darling. Yes, he’s the subject of a post on David Lebovitz’ blog and ranked 3rd in the pick of Paris’ best 5 baguettes on Paris by Mouth. He was voted Best Baker in Paris by Gault et Millau, his bread is served by Alain Ducasse in his restaurant, he has a Japanese version of his web site and is listed in Jamie Cahill’s book, The Pâtisseries of Paris.
Of course since that day I have done my research and realise that a really good thing just gads about. A bakery called Du Pain et Des Idées, with a baker like Christophe Vasseur, who states on his website “this profession is one of the most beautiful in the world as it allows the one who masters it to give a simple but intense happiness out of a piece of bread.” (I rest my case) just can’t help but be everyone’s darling. Yes, he’s the subject of a post on David Lebovitz’ blog and ranked 3rd in the pick of Paris’ best 5 baguettes on Paris by Mouth. He was voted Best Baker in Paris by Gault et Millau, his bread is served by Alain Ducasse in his restaurant, he has a Japanese version of his web site and is listed in Jamie Cahill’s book, The Pâtisseries of Paris.
Living up to high expectations, at Christmas Christophe produced sweet, spicy, sultry breads, but in the ‘treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen’ school of thinking, shut his doors from Christmas Eve until January 6th and is sorrily closed at weekends. Alright, he’s open weekdays, from an eye popping 6.45 in the morning until 8 o’clock at night, so I suppose he deserves his beauty sleep.
Now I feel there really should be a list of the 10 sexiest bakers in Paris (note to self). Who knows, there may be more out there, but a long, slow proving is one of Christophe’s own special moves. When he began he says, “I did not want to be just a baker. I wanted to be THE BAKER.” Well now he’s not just the baker: he’s my baker. I can trot across any day before or after work and pick up an intense piece of happiness. Christophe – j’adore!
