The Boulanger
I’ve been faithful to my local bakery on île St. Louis since day one in Paris, some three months ago. I’m in there without fail at least three times a week, my order always the same: “Une baguette, s’il vous plaît.”
After my first week and five baguettes later (shame), I realized that the little shop is entirely a one-man show. Monsieur B, as I call him in my head (Monsieur le boulanger), works there every day. As far as I can tell, he has no other employees and wears pretty much the same thing each day: a blue turtleneck and a newsboy cap.
As I got to know my neighborhood, and settle into my little Paris life, I assumed Mr. B would at some point begin recognizing me, and our interactions would go something like this:
Me: Bonjour!
Mr. B: Bonjour, mademoiselle!
Me: Alors, une ba—
Mr. B: Une baguette pour la mademoiselle!
He’d already have the bread in its paper sleeve by the time I reached the counter. How charming. Maybe some days he wouldn’t even say anything, but bag my purchase the second I walked in the door.
This has not happened yet, no matter how widely I smile, or how many times I frequent his store per week. You know what? That’s fine. No biggie. The New Yorkaise inside me is fine to stay anonymous.
Here’s the interesting part, which has started to intrigue and puzzle me. Mr. B offers two types of baguettes in his bakery. One is the tradition which is a bit wider and flatter, has a bit of a doughier texture and costs 1.10 euros. The other, which I don’t know the name of, is longer and skinnier, with a light and airy dough, costing .90 centimes. I’ve never wavered in my order—it’s always been “a baguette, please.” Mr. B would automatically choose the tradition, which honestly, I like better. A few weeks into things, I was surprised to find my baguette come back to me as the other variety, the cheaper one. I’ve never said anything, and each time now becomes a mental guessing game. Which will he pick? Does it mean something? Am I getting closer to being a local if he gives me the cheaper one?
One day, while picking up my baguette (a tradition, apparently, this time), a gentleman came into the shop just as I was reaching in my bag to find money. Mr. B asked him what he wanted.
“Vos deux meilleures croissants, s’il vous plaît,” the man asked.
And with an air of purpose and service, Mr. B went into the back and brought out two fresh croissants that looked incredible. He smiled at his customer and said something about how these would be good because it was a good day for croissants.
Humph! Maybe it’s because I’m a girl? Or an American? I don’t get it.
There’s so much in this little story. There’s the alienation we feel when we cannot quite understand the rules of others, something that is present everywhere but which we notice when we’re abroad. In a sense, foreignness is really a metaphor for human alienation.
This is made more complex when she realizes that her isolation, her outsider status, is far more profound than she knew. She was ignorant of the true depth of her isolation.
And, of course, there’s the “give us this day our daily bread” angle, so it’s really about our alienation from God.
