The Shape of My Bread

Bread.  Rice doesn't hold up quite the same way.  Tortillas don't quite cut it for me.  And no, Wonder bread doesn't come to mind, either.  There's bread, and there's Bread.  The bread that birthed my staple peanut butter and jelly is what the French call "pain de mie", "mie" meaning the fleshy part of any bread.  No, we don't have a name for that.  It can be pasty white, whole wheat, whole grain, or seven seed...that's not my Bread.  It's that baguette in all its shapes and sizes that can make me disregard the rest of my plate.  A great bread can be a meal in itself:  a crackling crust with a hint of fire and smoke on the ends, holey, yeasty mie inside.  Don't kid yourself, that supermarket baguette isn't what I'm talking about either!

A baguette isn't so very good for you:  flour, yeast, salt, and water.  Bleached, white flour.  Okay, you can change the flour, make it levain or pugeleise to add taste and texture.  You can throw in nuts, dried fruit, spices--those breads are jewels on my counter, and I try to do them justice with the right stuff inside:  cranberry-walnut with turkey and melted provolone--this sandwich will take you straight to November;  dried fig and anise seed with a chalky chevre.  Throw on some arugula and my eyes roll back...mmmm;  a chewy square of ciabatta with dijon and salami.  Tuck in some French cornichons. Oh, yeah!

I love these breads.  They're the rock stars in my repetoire, but I'm not so very jet set.  I love my simple life, and so I turn again to that simple baguette.  That baguette is chameleon-like, a master of disguise.  Make it fatter, wider, and it's not a baguette anymore, it's a batard.  Turn that baguette into a round and the French, with their unexpected sense of humor, call it a "miche" because it looks like a great butt.  Stretch that baguette like it's on a torture rack, and it turns into a French model.  She's called a "ficelle" or string:  long, tall, skinny.  Lots of crust, not much flesh. 

This one keeps me honest.  When I want a truly great sandwich, I skip the rock stars, I bypass the Oroweat, and reach for a ficelle:  the perfect sandwich bread, it's as long as your arm and as skinny as Mick Jagger.  I slice my ficelle lengthwise:  crunching, crackling, crumbs bouncing.  I spread softened butter on one side, and layer thin slices of ham or proscuitto, one slice barely overlapping another. And....suddenly, I don't have room for anything else.  This is not a subway.  This is no concoction.  This is life at its simplest:  bread, butter, ham.  I feel like Heidi having lunch with Grandfather in the mountains!

If I take my lunch public, if I walk around with my sandwich, people will look, maybe twice.  Someone will ask, "Where did you GET that?"  I will start to walk differently with that  ficelle in my hand:  I slow down.  I saunter.  A whistle might pop out of my mouth.  I look around nonchalantly for grass, a bench, a patch of sun.  My hand may absently go to my head, and I think 'Dang!  I've forgotten my beret!'

I sit.  I bite.  I chew.  I taste.  And that's it.  That's the perfection of this ficelle:  you can't stuff or layer it.  There's no way to squish 10 non-essential condiments and garnishes onto this bread.  You don't lose taste of what you're eating.  There's just one, and I can taste it.  I can't wolf down my ficelle while trying to do something else.  I can't eat this in my car.  It feels wrong to try this one at my desk.  I can't rush my lunch:  my ficelle won't let me, and I don't want to...