I reach out, take the handle and pull.
Steam spirals out, enveloping us as I try to wave it away with the oven glove. The smell is fantastic. I feel as if I’ve entered a whole new world that fills every part of me with happiness.
As the steam dissipates, we peer forward. I take hold of the tray and slowly slide it towards us, aware that dropping the hot sheet of metal would be a very bad thing. I am holding someone’s dreams and memories in my hands.
She steps back as I pull the tray fully out and turn to the table behind us, gently lowering the tray onto it. Madame B has her manicured fingers over her eyes.
‘They’re fine,’ I say, then, louder, ‘more than fine. They look amazing!’ I take her hands and lower them from her face.
She stares at the loaves. ‘They’re perfect!’ she says quietly, and tears spring to her eyes. ‘Just as they should be. As I remember.’
And it’s like all the memories, the good ones, are rushing back in to greet her.
She reaches out to the baguettes, touching them gently with the tips of her fingers. She looks at me. A tear slides down her cheek. ‘They remind me of him.’
And not knowing whether it’s the right thing to do or not, I throw etiquette out of the window and hug her. After a few sobs, and a sniff, she straightens. I’m expecting a telling-off for not respecting tradition and manners, but instead she says quietly, ‘Merci,’ pulls a tissue from her sleeve and blows her nose.
‘Now, let’s taste them,’ I say. I’m about to rip the end off one of the baguettes but she is back to her chastising self. ‘No, Juliet. We must be respectful. This loaf has taken many hours to produce. It deserves to be given respect. Let’s put the next batchin and make some more coffee, lay the table.’ She points to the little table in the shop window and I do as I’m told. I put the coffee on, so the air starts to fill with the intoxicating scents of baking bread and hot coffee. Could there be a better marriage? She finds a clean white apron and drapes it over the table, then puts out plates and a dish of butter. Finally, she disappears to her apartment and returns with a jar of homemade rhubarb jam.
‘The baker’s table,’ she announces, and we pull up a chair each. I set out the cafetière with cups and a sugar bowl. We sit at either side of the table in the bakery window, just as daylight is creeping into the sky. The outline of the trees can be seen in the muted light.
I pour the coffee into two cups and pass one to Madame B. She accepts it, then offers me the loaf. I wonder what the etiquette is here. I lift my knife.
‘Non.’ She tuts and waves a finger at me. She takes the loaf back, tears off a piece and places it on her plate, then hands the loaf back to me. I follow her example, ripping off a chunk of bread. She lifts a piece to her nose and breathes in its aroma. I do the same. It smells amazing – of wheat and warmth. There is a shine on the crust, and inside, the pillowy crumb is white, soft and springy – like a deep, thick duvet I want to dive into. I can already feel the comfort I know it will bring.
‘Bon appétit,’ she says, with a nod.
‘Bon appétit,’ I reply, and watch as she tears off a bit of the crust and slowly puts it into her mouth. She lets it sit on her tongue before thoughtfully chewing, her eyes slowly closing. I watch in fascination: I can practically see the memories playing out in her mind.
Slowly she opens her eyes. ‘Well, have you tasted it?’
I shake my head and follow her lead, tearing off a piece, enjoying the crack of the shiny crust, the softness of the crumband the saltiness that follows, filling my mouth with flavour. Finally, I swallow. ‘It’s the best I’ve ever had,’ I say.
A smile creeps onto her lips. ‘Merci.’
‘Really, Madame B, it is so different. And with just four ingredients?’
Her smile widens. ‘It’s all about the aroma, the texture and the flavour. The thick crust keeps the inside fresher for longer. A slower cook for a thick crust is how I like it. And, of course, no preservatives in the yeast. It is all in thesavoir faire. And now I am going to teach you to do the same. But, first, we will enjoy ourcafé, and this piece of bread with good butter and homemadeconfiture.’ She points to the pot of jam. ‘I have many jars of it!’ And we laugh.
We sit and spread light yellow butter on the bread and a thin layer of jam. I bite through the not-too-sweet rhubarb, sinking my teeth through the cold butter and the pillowy dough to the crispy crunch of the crust. The mix of textures and flavours, sweet and salty, cold butter on warm bread, sweet jam on savoury butter and the salt in the bread to amplify all the flavours, is … heaven.
I sip my coffee and hear the beeper go for the next batch of bread. I stand up, looking out over the white netting that covers the lower half of the window.
Outside, I see one of the village women walking towards the bread-vending machine. She turns to look at the shop with interest. I raise a hand in greeting, but she doesn’t wave back, or stop to show that she’s at all interested, despite her snatched glances.
‘It’ll take time,’ says Madame B, with a shrug. ‘You have to earn their trust. The bread is at the heart of the dinner table. They will not turn their backs on their usual supplier.’
‘Well, we’d better start by opening the doors. Let people know we’re here and we’ve got bread to sell.’
‘And in the meantime, I suggest you put that bell back over the door to tell us when the customers arrive,’ she says, making us both smile.
We clear the table and pull the fresh baguettes from the oven, as warm and welcoming as the last batch.
I put them into baskets on the counter and then, as dawn turns to daylight and starlings sing in a nearby oleander bush, the sun pushes over the church spire and spills into the square. I open the bakery door and wait for the customers to come. They may not trust me, a British woman opening a bakery, but they will trust this flour and this bread.
Chapter 32
Iwait and wait, rearranging the loaves periodically, wondering whether to put them on the table in the window. I place some there, then realise they’ll go stale in the sun and move them back to the counter. I photograph them and send the snaps to the family WhatsApp group and Annie.
