If I need to explain, you wouldn't understand

  There’s one more thing about the French that you need to know and I was reminded about it when we stopped for our last breakfast. There’s a proper boulangerie near me in London where the yummies are unmistakably authentic ie, French. Ages ago I had ended up asking the boss if I could do a stage with him. The deal was I could work there and learn how it all works and he got an extra pair of hands.  One day a week I’d arrive about midnight and work till about seven. It was an amazing experience.

  One of the things that made his pastries so authentic was the flour. He told me that English flour is rubbish and a lot of it is imported anyway. The French don’t export any of theirs, (there just isn’t enough to go around), so every couple of weeks he would take his van over to France to buy all the different flours he needed, about fifteen varieties. This info was interesting but useless so I filed in the right place and forgot about it. Until today.

  In a very quiet, early morning Coutance, (about fifty miles from Cherbourg), I found a sensible looking boulangerie for a breakfast selection and stepped inside. While choosing goodies, I noticed a sign near the till, (that's it above) and something made me look closer. In a nutshell, it's a list of all the flour varieties they use along with the region of origin and millers. I was assured that if I wanted details of the growers, they would be happy to let me know that too.

  If this is not an indication of how seriously they take their baked goods then I don't know what is. Part of the conversation I had with the boss was to explain that in the culture I come from, the only difference most of us pay attention to in relation to flour is whether its plain, self-raising or wholemeal. I could feel my life taking another step closer to the day when I take a one way trip to France.

  As you'll have worked out, I'm now back in England. The breakfast I just mentioned was the last thing I ate before I got home and fired up my BBQ for dinner almost twelve hours later. My fellow passengers on the ferry were quite happy to lunge at the snack bar and fill up on the standard shit but that felt as sacrilegious as going to a night at the opera then listening to Cliff Richard on the journey home. Philistines!

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Kirk out

Chefsebastian.com