41 Minutes

 
Time for an update of my post about the butcher shop from summer 2014. Here is what the same butcher shop is like in early 2016.

I went, as I too frequently do, on a Saturday morning. This is colossally dumb, as everyone does their shopping on this day in Saulieu: it's the weekend, there is a market, everything is open. Everything except the hotels and restaurants, which are in the midst of their fermeture annuelles, when they shut down from December 24 through mid-February. The pre-holidays must have been particularly exhausting this year. (On a side note, we are heading into school vacation starting this afternoon, and the café, two of the three bakeries, a hair salon, and the wine shop will all be closed in our town for at least a week. As Trump might tweet, "Sad!") I got to the shop slightly after 11. The inside was pretty packed and I had a few seconds of self-doubt...did I really want to wait in this line? 

Apparently, I did.

Gifts à la française

NDLR: Pour mes lecteurs français, rendez-vous mercredi pour la vie politique américaine part 2.

Although there are days when I pine for city life (no take-out Chinese in two years!), there are many wonderful surprises and treats when living in the country. Recently, I have been taking my boys on a lot of walks where we identify as many animals as we can along our path. (If they would ever be quiet, they would surely hear about a dozen more than we actually note.) Naturally, horse poop (full of hay!), cat feces, cow dung, dog logs, deer droppings, and white and gray splotches of avian refuse are the biggest and most obvious hits. But we also spot empty snail shells, white herons, magpies, Charolais cattle, hawks, earthworms, spiders, flies, and ladybugs. Thanks to a library book about wild boar, we learned to look at the barbed wire fence for signs of their long, thick black hairs caught in the barbs. Foxes and cats use the same trails, leaving little bunches of their fur behind as well. It is, simply, a lot of free fun, without any worries about traffic.

Breakfast

Americans's knees buckle when they rip into their first croissant, fresh from the local bakery in France. Though cliché, it is the definitive French treat in the morning. Surely a warm croissant with butter and jam and a cup of hot coffee belongs in the Hall of Fame of Great Gourmet Combinations, joining peanut butter and jelly, ham and cheese, the BLT, mint and chocolate, raw fish and rice, pasta and tomato sauce, Rice Krispies and marshmallows, and red beans and rice. (Any I missed?)

But it is not a staple of the French diet in the way you may imagine. From time to time, people might venture out for croissants or pains au chocolat in the morning, but, for the most part, in the rural countryside when the nearest boulangerie is 5-20 minutes away by car, there is simply no time in the morning. 

Tartiflette

Welcome to the fine folks of Virginia who saw my piece about ham in the Pilot, the largest daily newspaper in the Commonwealth. Thank you for reading. There are entries here about jambon persillé, wild boar, why French people will probably have cancer, or ping pong, among others.

Since all things porcine are on the brain today, let's talk cookery. On a recent cold, rainy winter day, I stared at the contents of the refrigerator and realized I had all the fixings for a classic rib-sticker lunch for my family of four. 

Feasting

I neglected to express my New Year's best wishes to everyone in my previous post.

My brain and body might be a little cloudy from the holidays. Look, I know what people are capable of eating around the holidays. I have seen heaping tablespoonfuls of mayonnaise stirred into dips and hoovered in minutes. Whole baked bries don't stand a chance against a crowd of holiday revelers. Entire hams, turkeys, and roasts get destroyed around an American holiday table.

Wine Tasting

At work, old school style

Near the end of 2015, it was, as is so often the case here, time to visit some winemakers and taste some wine. Though I know a lot of different winemakers and their products, when it comes time to discover new ones, I basically rely on the good ol' internets to help me through.

I don't know any winemakers based in Chassagne-Montrachet, a village famous for some of the world's finest white wines. At the entrance to the village, there is a sign eliminating any and all doubt about the quality of the town's Chardonnays. It reads, "Les meilleurs vins blancs du monde," or, modestly, "the best white wines in the world." I figured that if I was seeking a new discovery, I could do worse than here.

Daube of Wild Boar

Two views of the whole shoulder

While I know everyone wants to know my thoughts on the second round of elections...patience is required. Should have something by the end of the weekend. You can read my reaction after the first-round here. And then judge the wisdom and accuracy of my observations.

When you get a phone call asking if you want a shoulder of wild boar, do you really have a choice? The answer pretty much has to be "yes," right? Even when your friend says it is the shoulder that took the bullet. Even when he says it weighs about seven pounds. Even when you've never butchered something that big before. Even when you've never cooked wild boar (though you have eaten it). It just has to be yes.

Soulagée, la France?

Les Champs Elysées vus de la grande roue place de la Concorde

Ce weekend, à Paris, la une de Marianne figurait dans tous les kiosks de presse de la capitale. Il paraît que la belle photo de Mme Le Pen dans les vêtements présidentielles a fait suffisamment peur aux français qu'ils ont voté pour "pas ça" lors du deuxième tour régional. 

Walking

When it comes to weather, Burgundy is in that tricky time of year. The sun has been rising bright and cheerful each morning, and lingers in the evening sky, covering the landscape in pinks and oranges. From inside the house, it is easy to think it is shorts and t-shirt weather. But it is still winter, and there is frost on the windshield most mornings before eventually heating up. Yesterday, we experienced a 68 degree temperature swing in under 10 hours. Regardless, after the cold we had in January and February, it is most definitively hiking season. In the past few days I have climbed up logging roads, down narrow woods trails, scaled rock faces, and, of course, walked trough some of the most famous vines in the world.

As noted in a previous post, French people like to brag about the diversity of their geography. As un-noted elsewhere, it can be extraordinarily annoying for an American to concede that the French are right. The problem isn't with the substance, it is just that they are always so blasé when you tell them they are right. "Beh, oui," they say, shrugging off any compliment you pay to them about their food, history, traditions, landscapes, wines, or architecture. It is as if you have just told them that the Sahara can be hot and dry.

Time and Again

In the 1600s, a man invented the pendulum clock and permanently eradicated confusion when one human being asked another, "What time shall we meet?" Henceforth, there are so many fun ways to respond: 10:10, quarter 'til 7, midnight, half past 4, at the top of the hour, in 20 minutes, high noon, eighteen hundred hours soldier! When a little less precision is necessary, our good friend Pope Gregory XIII hooked us up with an awesome calendar, so that two parties can easily agree on the date they will meet (August 12th). Over time, people and their governments have found other nifty ways to let us say a specific date without using any months or numbers: New Year's, Veterans, Bastille, Independence, Labor, Memorial, Boxing, Thanksgiving, Christmas Days, for example. There really is no reason nor excuse for obfuscation. The witches' answer to "When shall we three meet again?" is actually easy: Tuesday, February 10, 2015 at 6:45pm. Just about everyone on planet earth could understand that.

Except, of course, the French. Even though I have tried to eliminate it from my vocabulary, I still ask, "What time?" or "When?" with regularity. And my Burgundy friends calmly, coolly, and consistently foil my efforts to get a precise answer.

Let's list some of the possible answers (not necessarily in increasing levels of difficulty):

• "Come over at the fin de la matinée." I generally get end of the morning: before noon, after 11:00. But is 11:15 too early? 11:45 too late? When this order is coupled with an expectation of alcohol, mass confusion can result. See: "Come over for apéritif."
• Recently, I dropped my son off for a play date at a friend's house at 2:00pm. I asked the mother what time my wife should come back to pick him up. "Fin de l'après-midi." Ok, end of the afternoon. I started to walk away and then wheeled around on one heel saying, "Actually, to my American ears, I have no idea what that means. 3:30? 4:30?" She laughed and said, "How about 5:30? That way we can have a coffee together." For once, bizarro French time constructs were working in our favor. You want our four year old until 5:30? Take him.
• "Come over for apéritif." As a college graduate, I have some experience with cocktails, and am generally game for coming over for them. But my USA-ness is hard to shake. Nobody invites anyone over for cocktails before 5pm in the Land of the Free (brunch bloodies potentially excluded). So when I hear "come over en fin de la matinée pour prendre l'apéritif," I confess to being boggled. If I am going to be offered booze -- including whiskey, wine, or homemade moonshine -- in the morning, I would prefer to push it to 11:59am. However, everyone here eats at midi, or noon, so if you show up one minute before twelve, you risk disrupting them as they shuffle to the table for lunch. However, of course, midi is a term that could very well designate 12:30, 1:00pm, or even 2:15pm. It's a hazardous guessing game. In the evening, this invitation means, generally, between 6:30 and 7:00pm and it can last anywhere from 1 to 7 hours.
• Today a got a double-dip in a voicemail: "We should get together un de ces quatre" and "let's try to see each other en fin de semaine." It's Tuesday, and my correspondent thinks we should see each other "one of these four days" and/or "at the week's end." How do I schedule "one of these days/end of the week"? Thursday morning is too soon...but what about Thursday afternoon? And if we are talking about "one of these four days" literally, well, we're into the weekend. That cannot be right.
• "Oh, my son and his family are coming to spend huit jours with me." So they will be spending one full seven-day week, plus one additional day? Wrong. "Not sure. They will figure it out when they get here. Could be three days or three weeks."
• On Saturday, February 7, a man said to me, "See you in quinze jours." 15 days. In fact, we were scheduled to meet on Sunday, February 15, precisely huit jours away. As usual, in the face of incontrovertible evidence, France was right and I was wrong. 
• Both huit and quinze jours are in the laborer's Hall of Fame. Plumbers, tilers, electricians, mechanics, farmers, and, mostly, public servants employ these terms with great regularity as a defense mechanism. It allows them to not work for an unspecified period of time, yet also gets the hopes up of the foreigner in front of them. "We'll look at that again in quinze jours," they will say, and, despite myself, I circle the date 15 days away. When will I learn?
• "Snail season lasts from July 1 until Easter." What a great juxtaposition of specific and vague! Easter changes every year; that cannot be the law of the land. Just don't tell my friend that.

Nowadays, I am starting to get the hang of it. Éventuellement rolls of my tongue pretty easily. Soon, I'll invite someone over without uttering a number. When do I expect to be a master? Before too long. 

Warmth for Lunch

Sometimes, lunch is just food. It gives your body fuel for the rest of the day, each bite forgotten as soon as it swallowed. Sometimes, lunch is an eating marathon, the principle activity of one's day. Sometimes, lunch causes personal injury. And sometimes, lunch is a time to warm up.

It has been cold. Not cold like in my US hometown, where it was recently -22 in the sun, but cold for Burgundy nonetheless. A wind was whipping through the streets of Beaune at noon, and it was time to seek shelter and food. I stood in front of an Italian place I had been eyeing for some months and decided today was the day to take the plunge. 

The windows tipped the scales for me on this visit. As I stood on the frozen cobblestones, the glass panes of the restaurant were fogged by the breath of patrons, the steam of cooking, and, no doubt, the hot air of conversation. I went inside and told the hostess I was alone. "Mais pas dans la vie," I was quick to assure her. Not alone in life.

She said she had a table for me, but I would be next to other people. Would that be ok? Naturally. 

I sat and perused the menu, deciding that a thin-crust 4 Seasons pizza would be just right (artichokes, olives, prosciutto cotto, and mushrooms). After ordering, I looked around at the other customers. There were men in business attire, finishing their meal with an espresso. Young couples corralled their children the best they could. A table of lunching ladies worked their way through beautiful salads.

The hostess noticed my table was wobbling and brought over a shim. When I asked if I could have some of the breadsticks that were on neighboring tables, the couple next to me quickly offered their own, one of those little restaurant moments where they weren't eavesdropping, but couldn't help but overhear and just wanted to be helpful. The breadsticks were Italian and divine, dotted with salt and brimming with rosemary. The chill was gone, the red Santenay in my glass was opening up nicely, and everywhere around me was a symphony of French. (There are not many tourists in Beaune on a Wednesday afternoon in early February.) 

Luncheoning alone in crowded restaurants is under-appreciated. This day was a wonderful chance to observe: no book, no phone, no distractions, just looking and listening to the world around me while I waited for my food.

Saint Vincent Take Two

As the police officer walked away from me I said, "I'll see you later, Monsieur le Gendarme." 

He gave a hearty laugh and I told him not to worry, I had taken the train to the 71st Saint Vincent Tournante festival. This year's version of the celebration of the patron saint of winemakers was held in Vougeout and Gilly-les-Citeaux, the former known for, well, one of the most famous wines in Burgundy, and the latter for being next to the former. 

We had been to the 70th version of the event last year in Saint Aubin and 365 days in Burgundy had taught us an important lesson: LEAVE THE KIDS AT HOME WHEN YOU GO TO A WINE FESTIVAL. We hired a babysitter, put on eight layers of clothing, drove to Beaune, ditched the car, and got on the 11:33 train to Vougeout. As the mass of humanity boarded, one girl already in the train said, "What's going on? I take this train every Saturday and I've never seen so many people." Burgundy wine festivals will do that.

Upon arriving, we purchased our pack de dégustation, which included a commemorative glass and its carrier, a map, and seven tickets for different tastings. Our first stop was for a grand cru red, made exclusively from Pinot noir grapes. The local winemakers had pooled their supply for this unique event, creating an assemblage of different grand cru wines that would only be available for this weekend. On Monday, it would be impossible to find this particular wine ever again. The man pouring it gestured to the falling snow and said, "Try to warm it up with your hands."

The weather had made this the opposite of the ideal tasting conditions. Instead of a controlled environment, the wind was bitingly brisk, and all the wines were served al fresco, far from their optimal temperatures. The air was crowded with odors competing for the wine's aromas: roasting hams, cigarette smoke, melted cheese, French fries, and more than enough BO to go around. We cupped our glasses in our hands, trying to warm it, but the effort was wasted. It was like defrosting a snowy windshield with your breath. And yet, that first wine...well it was magic.

Lunch, Church, and Politics on Sunday

One of the rules we follow here is to spend time with French people every chance we get. If you think about it, that is a wild departure from our American lives. We never said, "Jeez, I really need to see some Americans today!" when we lived in the Land of the Free.

On Sunday, I found myself in a trifecta of French situations: hunting cabin for lunch, 15th Century church for a concert, small town meeting with the mayor for the annual galette des rois.

This was not my first time in a French hunting situation.

The cabin, where there is one rule: no guns, dogs, or women allowed inside

I had been invited for both the hunt and the lunch, primarily for the latter. As one of my friends here had described this type of deer and wild boar hunting, "You don't talk, you don't move, you don't smoke, you don't fart." As I would be armed with only a camera, this sounded like something I could pass on this time, so I just went for lunch to the cabin.

I had stopped by my friend's house at 11:30 to pick up the lunch. I know what you're thinking: Perhaps a basket of sandwiches and some chocolate chip cookies? Maybe a pot of chili and a few brownies? Surely a dozen men would appreciate a bowl of pasta salad and some snickerdoodles, right?

Wrong. 

Revenge of the Cows

In addition to being delicious, the Charolais cattle featured in Friday's post are apparently big fans of this site...and obviously, they weren't too happy with my conclusion. 

My wife and I took advantage of one of the few times when we are kid-free to enjoy a lunch out on the town together. After a nice meal of vegetable soup (her) and rutabaga, goat cheese, honey tart (me) followed by a main dish of Charolais beef in a vinegar wine sauce (maybe our dining choice determined what was to happen next...), I decided to show my wife a forest trail that I was eager to walk down with her and the boys. I drove to the spot and pulled off onto the grass on a mild slope so we could walk down the path a ways. This attempt to remove the car from the "main" road was the least necessary courtesy in the history of driving. For the next 40 minutes, not one car passed.

Our little walk concluded, we climbed back in the car. I eased 'er into first gear and...we slipped a little ways down the slope. I gunned it harder, tried reversing, and then turned off the engine.

Mud bath. 

My wife took over the driving and I began pushing, convinced that we would succeed. We were less than two feet from pavement! We rocked it back and forth, but it was stuck. I tried slipping some wet cardboard we had found on the road under the tires, but no go.

It Rains Here. A Lot.

When we arrived here a year ago, it rained part or all of every day for 60 days. We knew not a soul, both our kids were frequently sick with gastro, ear infections, conjunctivitis, or fever, and we had no knowledge of what to do with two kids under 4 when it rains. It was a trying two months. 

This winter is shaping up to be more of the same. Oftentimes, in a cruel tease, a pink sunrise and a fiery orange sunset will serve as brief parentheses for an otherwise wet day. Burgundians say that the typical winter here is cold but bright, usually with some snow. Now that we are in mid-January, however, I am becoming increasingly skeptical of these claims, especially because it was 60 degrees on Tuesday. 

Regardless, we've come a long way. We have memorized the hours at three different libraries and no longer curse when we arrive to find them exceptionnellement fermées. My wife discovered a ludothèque, a sort of toy-brary, where the children can run and romp among a sea of games, puzzles, and, thank heavens, trains. Grandparents have furnished us with buckets of Legos. While a rainy day is far from a welcome sight, it is no longer a surprise, and we manage our way through the day with relative ease.

Throughout, we have Charolais cattle, those who provide the region's beef, as our steady witnesses to the moisture. The photo above shows the view from the boys' bedroom. Each morning, I hold the baby in my arms and say, "It looks like some of your friends are there! Do you want to say hello?" And he will scream "Moooo!" at these hulking beasts. The cows tend not to return the greeting. The more it rains, the closer they huddle together, trying to get a snitch off an ever-dwindling bail of hay. During a stretch of dry, clear weather, these animals are beautiful white jewels on the Burgundy landscape, dotting green pastures like gigantic cotton balls. When it rains, they turn to mud. Slop covers their hindquarters, their faces, their underbellies, and, as you can see, their shins. 

If self-doubt and existential bewilderment are the emotions dominating my day, their melancholy lowing rattles the windows, a universal cry of misery and confusion. But if optimism and excitement have thwarted those negative thoughts, I confess that their sounds make me think just one thing:

Better you than me, guys.

Presents in Saulieu

When a store calls itself “Cadeau Gourmand,” it better have good gourmet presents. In the middle of the gastronomic town of Saulieu, this shop delivers the goods.

The proprietor, who runs the place by himself, offers tastes for every taste. From Burgundy, of course, there is pain d’épices, mustard, jams, snails, cassis, jellies, candies, and honey from the Morvan Park. From elsewhere in France, look for specialty chocolates, liqueurs, and colorful candy-coated nuts.

 

There is also a large wall of animals in jars and cans for every appetite: pheasant in white wine; capon in Jura wine; wild board, country, local mushroom, and paysan pâtés; terrines of deer, duck, and rabbit; quail on a bed of mushrooms; foie gras in every format; duck confit; snails; frogs legs; head cheese. This is the type of display that makes the local fauna sweat...and also a great place for presents for people back home.

Food Wall

The owner offers group wine tasting from his impressive stock of local, affordable wines. In addition, he prepares customized gift baskets, a sure hit with French and foreigner alike.

What: Gourmet food store

Where: 14, rue du Marché, Saulieu, Côte d’Or, Burgundy

When: Tuesday-Sunday

How Much: Up to you

Marsannay la Côte Food Festival

Just a little bit south of the city of Dijon is the wine village of Marsannay-la-Côte. For 31 years, in the heart of grand crus, the town has invited locals and tourists alike to their “Gourmet Days.” Over a March weekend, dozens of vendors congregate in the town gym to showcase food from here and from there. The mayor speaks, the local Confrérie plays host, and, of course, the wine flows.

Food and photos always bring the politicians

From the ceiling hang giant kite-like dragons, butterflies, and other colorful beasts. It is difficult to decipher if this is part of the food day or just happenstance. Regardless, on the ground, the objectives are clear as a mountain morning: Tables sag under the weight of caloric treasures. 

Two men from the Jura sell sausages as thick as a forearm and cheeses in wheels that could fit a tractor. The artisan charcutier is doling out samples of his jambon persillé three ways: original, with mustard, and with foie gras. The latter is a taste sensation, and results in more than one billfold shrinking. Back by the entry, a woman and her teenage daughter are offering slices of horsemeat sausages. 

Across the room, a team is peddling dozens of types of…lasagna? Yes, lasagna. With mushrooms, snails, scallops, sausage, vegetables, bacon, tuna, smoked ham, or salmon. You kind of shake your head, wondering how they stay in business selling nothing but lasagna, but also applaud their audacity and their passion.

Lasagna ten ways

Sweets are also front and center. Along with a chocolate fountain, there are homemade pâte de fruits (jellied fruits), macarons, colorful lollipops, and even some French attempts at classic American cookies. An artisan was dipping perfect little squares of crunchy wafers into a dark, melted pool of delicious, extracting them with tweezers before placing them on wire racks to cool. The transformation from rustic simplicity to classy elegance was breathtakingly quick.

The people were passionate about their products, dedicated to their work, and eager to share their quality with consumers. As this festival clearly has staying power, it is worth checking out if you are in the region.

What: Journées Gourmandes Food Festival

Where: Marsannay-la-Côte, Côte d’Or, Burgundy

When: March weekend

How Much: Entry is a couple/few euros

Goat Cheese

On a hilly farm in the tiny village of Blancey, Sébastien Roussel, a 30-ish guy, owns and operates a goat farm. With his herd of a couple dozen goats (plus the necessary bucks), he makes cheese, yogurt, fromage blanc, and other little tidbits from goat milk.

Fresh cheese in molds

He grew up an hour or so away from Blancey, but has no roots there, no family, no traditions. It is strikingly courageous in rural France to find anyone (much less a young bachelor) who has the desire to move away from the comforts of home into a new place and start something as audacious and back-breaking as milking goats. He admits he works all the time. It is a one-man show, with the exception of an intern. He sells at markets in the region as well as a couple of conveniently accessible supermarkets, and welcomes visitors/consumers to the farm every Wednesday evening.

Kids go for 3-4 euros each to other farmers

On a recent visit, he gave an extensive tour of the operation, including the milking parlor (which holds 12 goats at a time); the chicken coop, whose population was recently reduced by a dozen thanks to a local fox; the cheese making room, an immaculate white ode to cheese; the different aging rooms, whose temperature is controlled by old-school oscillating fans); and of course the goats, for whom he whistles. 

They come bounding down the hill towards the trough he has just filled. Sébastien points out that, unlike cows, goats are curious and will come right up for a nuzzle or a pat. Because there is not a lot of goat cheese production in the region, the locals have been more curious than threatened, a change from another region he has spent time in, where competition was fiercer and the welcome decidedly cooler.

And now you know where goat cheese comes from

Back in the store, he dips a mi-frais into a Tupperware of garlic and fine herbs, just one of the several options available. Coupled with some yogurts, the astonishingly beautiful countryside, and the kind of conversation one can only get from a young guy who works all day on a farm by himself milking goats, it is a great afternoon and a little treasure in Côte d'Or.

What: Goat cheese farm

Where: Blancey, Côte d’Or, Burgundy

When: Wednesdays from 6-8pm at the farm; at the Pouilly-en-Auxios market Friday evenings and the Saulieu market on Saturday mornings

How Much: Cheeses are 2 euros

Pig Farm

At the Ferme des Levées, about 15 minutes west of Beaune, you can get an up-close look at how to raise organic pigs. It is a great place to bring children as they can get right up close and personal with the pigs in an unthreatening, largely unsupervised environment. (As is frequently the case in France, you are on your own to survey your kids. Farm staff are happy to let you roam the "pig parks" without a guide.) 

The pigs roam around vast expanses, chewing all the while, looking for treats in the mud and grass under their feet. They look simultaneously cute, happy, and healthy. They eat organic cereals with no genetically modified ingredients. The run, cavort, and snort with great regularity. They stay on the farm for about a year before, well, before it ends.

When you have sated your curiosity about porcine life, you can go to the small store to check out the porcine “afterlife.” Fresh boudins noirs, rillettes (perfectly-spiced minced and shredded pork, wonderful on morning baguette or tartine), roasts, chops, terrines, pâtés, saucisson sec, pig feet, even little plastic tubs holding a single brain (about 2 euros each). 

The female employee says they ship 2 to 4 pigs a week to the Beaune facility, and then do all the butchering themselves on site. Very on site, as the man in the kitchen behind her saws through a bone. With genuine pride, she discusses the quality of the meat. It is tasty, with a luxurious texture, so different from industrial stuff. She goes on that many customers are now planning ahead, ordering a roast or some chops several days in advance and then coming to pick up the cuts later in the week. A wise strategy.

Buying or not, this is a fun producer to visit and a great way to get in touch with the roots of the food you eat.

What: Organic pig farm

Where: Lusigny-sur-Ouche, Côte d’Or, Burgundy

When: Open Tuesday and Wednesday from 3:00pm-7:00pm and Fridays and Saturdays from 10-12 and 3-7.

How Much: Up to you

Le Fournil d’Antigny-la-Ville

A lot of people have had a lot to say about bread over the years. Rightfully so. Bread is good, and, like beer and champagne, it kind of goes with everything.

In the tiny village of Antigny-la-Ville, about 20 minutes from Beaune, a young baker is doing his best to add his tale to bread folklore. In the middle of “town,” he built a little bread laboratory with a brick oven, and has been churning out organic loaves of brioche and sourdough for three years. 

Brioche (top) and other loaves ready to bake

In three more years, he confides, it will be even better because the oven will be paid off, giving him and his family a little more to live on. He confesses that it has been hard starting out, but he always believed in himself, and believed in his ability to make the project work. His friends from growing up thought him crazy; who was going to buy his organic bread? He explains that, initially, many clients bought almost out of kindness, one of his littlest loaves just so that the poor guy had some income. But now, as dedication and experience have improved his bread (“les clients ont vu que je m’améliore”), they are buying 1 or even 2 kilograms a week. He is quick to point out that, contrary to the local baguette, which is brick-hard within 24 hours, his bread can last a week.

When asked if his neighbors in the village purchase his products, he says no. Complex layers of tradition and loyalty prevent that radical of a move. He laughs a little, and says he never included local purchases in his revenue projections.  

Flour dust before baking

As the oven heats, he drinks Heineken (surely a sign of genius) and offers his thoughts on organic food, poverty, elevated local housing prices, why the Portuguese and Poles are the primary labor force in Swiss vineyards, and the magical powers of travel. If your mind’s eye conjures a baker in small-town France with utopian ideals, your mind’s eye is probably right on. But sometimes the smell of the bread overpowers whatever he is talking about, and you just enjoy it.

The bread is available at three area markets during the week (Saulieu on Saturday, Chagny on Sunday, and Bligny-sur-Ouche on Wednesday), but the freshest and most fun way to enjoy this bread is to place an order a day or two to  before he “attacks the bread” Thursday afternoon. You can pick from standards (sourdough, rye, whole wheat) or just let him make whatever he feels like, a not-too-risky dance with chance. You can then go to his workshop to pick up your loaf, still warm, ready for your love and affection. Spread it with good butter and you may be moved to add your voice to the world of bread literature.

A quick brush of the finished product

What: Bakery

Where: Antigny-la-Ville, Côte d’Or, Burgundy

When: Thursday afternoons

How Much: A small loaf is 3 euros