I’m writing this on Bastille Day, the national holiday celebrating France’s famous revolution, which according to tradition had it’s beginnings when Marie Antoinette said to impoverished peasants who couldn’t afford bread, “Let them eat cake.” Historians now tell us there’s no evidence she ever made such an arrogant statement, but regardless it does certainly highlight how important bread is to the French people, their culture, and indeed their way of life.
And of course when it comes to bread, we’re talking here first and foremost about the baguette, that long, thin, crusty loaf that is a symbol, for both the French and everyone else, of what makes this country so unique. I had always assumed that it was baguettes, or actually their lack, that was the centre of that Antoinette/Revolution myth, but it turns out baguettes really didn’t come into being in their current form in France until the next century, and especially only once the unique baking process that gives the loaves their crunchy on the outside, soft in the middle quality was introduced from Vienna, along with a more highly refined flour.
The baking process uses both heat and steam injection to create that baked, almost glazed exterior before the soft, white interior sets. Or as a baguette bag we recently deciphered put it in somewhat floury (sorry, flowery) language, it creates “a subtle play between the crunch and crack of the crust, and the melting of the beautifully coloured centre.”
The world baguette itself, by the way, actually just means “stick” in French, which explains why I keep seeing it in places and on things not really associated with bread. My favourite was this phrase from an Asian restaurant here – baguette chinoises, literally “sticks Chinese”, or chopsticks.
When you spend time in France you realise that there’s also another, equally important feature to the need for bread, and that is the boulangerie. Baguettes by their nature only really have a shelf life of about 24 hours. After that, the interior dries and the exterior hardens, making it nothing short of unpalatable. So the French have to get their baguettes fresh every day, usually in the morning, and that need by so many people so often ensures that even today, with supermarkets and super fast lifestyles, there’s a boulangerie (or two or three or…) in most towns and villages. In fact, I’ve come to judge the health and viability of those villages (there’s something like 46,000 of them!), by whether there’s enough population to support a boulangerie (along with a cafe/bar).
You can certainly buy baguettes in their many varieties in French supermarkets, and sometimes they’re almost as industrialised and lacking in that crunchy/soft combination as what we tend to call “French loafs” overseas. But the desire of the French for quality and freshness keeps the boulangerie industry going, along with a certain standard that was promulgated in 1993 by the country’s parliament. That law stated that the baguette traditionnel (the one to always ask for in a boulangerie) has to be made to a strict standard.
Most importantly from a quality standpoint is that it must be made from dough “proofed” naturally, so that the yeast has a chance to change the gluten into glucose. It wasn’t until I read Michael Pollan’s great book Cooked that I realised most of the bread we buy today, while having had yeast added, is baked after just a couple of hours. The yeast is there just to put the bubbles in the finished product. The baguette traditionnel, on the other hand, is guaranteed to have been made the way we assume all bread is supposed to be.
Just as essential, as far as the continued existence of all those boulangeries is concerned, the government decree also stipulates that the baguette traditionnel has to be “fully kneaded, shaped and baked at their place of sale.” You can’t make them centrally and then distribute them, the way we do elsewhere in the West.
I’ve also been told that French government regulation ensures that these baguettes are the same, and at the same price, no matter where you are in the country. I’m not sure about that, although there is certainly a similarity in price, at least for the baguette traditionnel, at euro 1.20. As for the quality of the baking itself, I’m no connoisseur, but based on my extensive sampling (one/day x 6 visits of about 2 months each), not every baguette (and its baker) is the same.
I confess I love boulangerie, from the extravagant ones in the big towns, right down to the tiny, stuffy and rundown ones in small villages. And I especially love a country and a culture that continues to insist that the local bakery is an essential institution, and the baker (and almost always also his wife at the front) are hard-working and respected members of the community. The staff of life deserves to be made next door by someone you know, not in an automated factory in some distant town.
I think there is another important reason the boulangerie persists in France, though, that may have little to do with those principled virtues or government edicts. It’s that shelf-life. You’ve got to get up in the morning, or make sure you visit the boulangerie before it closes for the two hour French lunch beginning at 12.30, to get your daily loaf.
What happens when 12.30pm rolls around in a French holiday town
Thankfully for a sweet tooth like me, the baker/owners of boulangeries always also show off their skills by producing a range of what we non-French would call “pastries”, but which the French refer to as viennoiserie (literally “in the style of Vienna”, from the time such yeasted dough breakfast treats were introduced by the same Vienna-based baker who popularised the steam ovens used to make baguettes). These are things like croissants, their much more tasty relatives almond croissants, pain chocolat, and other lessor known (at least outside France) délectables such as pain aux raisins, torsades, chouquettes, and my wife’s favourite, chausson aux pommes (apple turnovers, or literally “slippers of apples”).
You will also sometimes find boulangeries that are also pâtissières, but what’s on offer there aren’t what we’d call “pastries”, they’re full-blown desserts of the most beautiful AND delicious types. And it turns out that is what the French buy them for, as something at the end of the meal (after the cheese). I won’t go into pâtissières here any further. I’m generally content to sample the viennoiserie, which as an uncultured foreigner I’m quite happy to eat both for breakfast and as a dinner dessert.
And that brings us around (finally!) to the title of this piece. You may have guessed by now that we are not going to sing the praises (or otherwise) of that famous order of soldier monks who have played such an important part in the history of Catholicism, and its spread around the world. No, we’re talking about a viennoiserie; but not just of the common garden variety. It’s an exceeding rare and delicious concoction, but as the name suggests, it does have at least a small link to the garb worn by the followers of Ignatius Loyola.
I had my first Jésuite on the Île de Ré, a famous (and famously chic) vacation island off the coast of La Rochelle; a place of beautiful, tiny cottages; cycleways everywhere; and a great small boat harbour just in front of an ice cream shop where it is said salt caramel ice cream originated.
The taste of that Jésuite was divine, sort of a cross between a puff pastry turnover and a meringue, with a frangipane cream centre. It was so delicious that it was hard to think of it as something to eat for breakfast; it was verging on a pâtissière. And the name, as explained to me by the madame boulanger, was obvious – the triangular shape was the same as a Jesuit’s hat.
After that first encounter, I started looking for Jésuites whenever I went into a boulangerie (at least twice a day, and always in the proper French manner, saying “bonjour” to all the customers and staff in the place). Strangely, though, I didn’t find any amongst the croissants and pain chocolat. I just assumed that Jésuites were a regional speciality, but then I discovered one over on the other side of the country, near the Alps.
Eventually, I decided to ask some of the French themselves about the pastry (sorry, the viennoiserie), including especially our friends from Toulouse, Christine and Maurice. Christine is an expert in all things French, and an amazing English speaker to boot. Neither of them had ever heard of Jésuites (at least the ones you eat). Even Google was little help, apart from describing the ingredients.
And then just two weeks ago, in a tiny village called Bassac (pop. 405), along the Charente River in southwest France, in a very run-down boulangerie with only a single chausson aux pomme, and a couple of pain chocolat on display, I saw this:
It had the right puff of pastry, properly toasted almonds, a lovely burnt caramel taste to the meringue, and the essential crème almond filling. It was literally a miracle, and I only pray that I will find one lurking in a boulangerie again in the time we have left here in France.
~originally composed in July, 2023~