Speaking of Boulangeries - Le Pain Quotidien

I avoid ‘chains.’  Not talking about the medieval versions that make your soul quiver when you play Lord and Serf.  I’m talking about restaurant chains.  Yes, I include Gimmeyerbucks and McBurgers.

Ok.  I do sin occasionally.  And, I swear I’m sorry. Sometimes a man’s gotta have a smack of caffeine anyway he can get it.  But, in the main, when it comes to the big names in fast food, as they say in French, “I defecate upon thy hands with the full force of my churning bowels.

Recently, a close friend introduced me to Le Pain Quotidien, a bakery and coffee shop in the heart of Mons, Belgium.  But, wait a sec…it’s not just in Mons, but in damn near every country that has running water.  Gotta be a mistake.  Can’t be a …dare I mention the word again…CHAIN!  Yes, it is.

Alain Coumont opened his first one in 1990 on 16 Rue Darsaert in Brussels.

What’s so special about Le Pain Quotidien?  How come this chain doesn’t deserve the same retching disgust we reserve for microwave burgers and vending machine coffee?

By the way, in English, Le Pain Quotidien means The Daily Bread.  Daily bread means what it says.  Fresh is the key word.  More than that, everything in this bakery is organic.  Preservatives, flavor enhancers, artificiality, all be damned!

LPQ has the kind of charm that makes you step inside, even if you’ve just finished breakfast.  Authentically, rustic décor.  An irresistible waft of fresh bread. The almost erotic allure of freshly ground coffee. 

You can read all about the history of Le Pain Quotidien on their web page, and also learn where to find the nearest outlet.  http://www.lepainquotidien.com/our-story-history/#.U5WIZhYajwI

But, as always, I’ll give you a thumbnail sketch.  Alain trained as a chef and earned his toque in the same hotel restaurant where his father trained.  But he came by his passion for fresh bread in the best way possible, at his aunt’s knee, baking loaves and tarts on Sunday mornings.  There’s no substitute for the glowing passions you acquire in childhood.

As a chef, he searched all over Brussels for the taste he remembered.  No luck.  Only one thing to do.  Start your own bakery.  His idea was simple:  “Having a place where I can feel at home away from home.”

To me, chains are too often a glitzy failure of artificial atmosphere: an English pub with plastic, pseudo-wood, or a grand old steakhouse, remembered with glass, steel, and recessed lighting.  Doesn’t fool you anymore than replacing a leather basketball with a balloon. Dishonesty comes to mind, followed quickly by stupidity.

Le Pain Quotidien didn’t cut the corners, or introduce a substitute for real charm. It just feels right and inviting.  Lots of old wood, including the counters.  Faded walls look as though they carry the patina of decades.  Chairs creak a bit.  But, the most important part of this bakery is the bread.  Loaves on shelves where you can see them. Fresh. Fresh. Fresh. Crusty and wholesome.

The coffee is dark and rich, without being bitter, or ragged on the edges.  Comes in a bowl, just the way Alain’s hot chocolate did when he was a boy.  Your choice of a large bowl or small.

It was early morning.  I ordered a coffee and a croissant.  Golden. Light. Flaky. Delicious.  Just as a croissant should be.  If you’re thinking crescent roll, get your mind out of the school lunchroom and into somewhere more Gallic.  At LPQ, the croissants are light as air.  Try a smear of orange marmalade, or one of LPQ’s delectable sweet nut spreads. They’re on every table.

You won’t be sorry.  And you’ll find time to linger.  This isn’t just breakfast, this is the start of a beautiful day.

I know I’ve got time.  Who hasn’t got time for another glimpse of childhood on a sunny morning. “Mademoiselle, un autre café, s'il vous plaît.”

Cinnamon Waffles: Zimt Wafflen - Christmas Joys

Winter's time has come.

But, in the bakery, it's busy as usual.

Cookies and the Santa in the window give you a clue.

Zimt Wafflen!  Cinnamon Waffles!

Note the special waffle irons on the table.

Thin and crisp!

Often you get a complimentary cookie with your coffee.

Ah, mornings are a pleasure when you live near a German bakery!

The first snow has crested the memories of summer.  A chill on the roads makes your car’s rear end shimmy like a break-dancer with chicken pox.  Yes, winter is here and Christmas is plodding forward.  Already the earliest Kris Kringle markets have come and gone.  I have to toss aside my keenness for bravery in the face of numbing cold and drive to my favorite coffee shop.  I also keep my scarf on while I rest, read, and slurp.

Happy cooks and their eating companions will also note it’s the season for Christmas cookies.  Germany has a plethora of them, and almost all are made in small batches, even in the bakeries.

A case in point is one of my favorites, Zimt Wafflen, or cinnamon waffles.  They’re not waffles as we usually think of them in the wastelands of North America.  These are thin, small, and crisp, almost like the cinnamon equivalent of gingersnaps, except ginger snaps are round and thicker.  The nut brown Zimt Wafflen are as thin as a dime, and square.

The other day, as I crept into the coffee shop, heralded by a hearty call of “Guten Morgan!,” I immediately caught the soothing air of fresh bakery goods, as I usually do, but this time the fragrant aroma held the spicy surprise of cinnamon.  A young woman had two special waffle irons going and a huge box in the process of being filled with these square wonders only found at this time of year.

As I’ve said many times before, some of the things I love about Germany are the seasonal tastes.  New potatoes are advertised in the fall, strawberries fill the fruit stands in late summer, new wine and onion cake are served only in the early autumn.  And, if you want to try some Zimt Wafflen, you better grab a handful now.  Their time has come.

Sit back, pull up a plateful and sip some Milch Caffee with me.

Changes

I sat in my favorite coffee shop, sipping a Milch-Kaffee, nibbling a pumpkin-seed-encrusted croissant, and reading a mystery novel on my Kindle.

The shop is actually a thriving bakery, with only three tables for sipping and nibbling.  It was a nicely chilled autumn morning, so I’d walked, listening to a German lesson or two on my iPod.  See the logic there?  Walking, but using my time wisely to prep myself for German, which would be spoken shortly.  Wouldn’t it be nice if language lessons and reality matched up like that?

Takes me back to my high school French class and “La plume de ma tante est sur la table.”  In the decades since I committed that useful phrase to memory, I have never once been asked where my aunt’s pen is.  However, I was once asked in a French cheese shop if I spoke French.  I was immediately able to adjust the phrase to “La fromage de my tante est sur la table,” both impressing my friends and confusing the woman behind the counter, who didn’t know my aunt and couldn’t have cared less where she kept her cheese.

German lessons work the same way.  On this particular morning, unlike the thrilling voice on the iPod, I had not gotten off an airplane, nor taken a train, nor did I need to know where I could locate the American Embassy to schedule a haircut appointment for my aunt.  I was going to a bakery, where I would be devoid of useful words and phrases and subject to the distain shown a Neanderthal whose native language consisted of pointing and grunting, and causing innocent children to cling to their moms’ skirts.

Fortunately, coffee is pretty much the same word in any language and Milch is close enough to milk.  Croissant the same.  Spoken with a tone of desperation, it’ll get you what you want.  So, I sat down, sipped, put away the iPod and started on the Kindle.

As the coffee and croissant disappeared, I paused to look around me.   Nothing in particular.  The world in general.  Oh how the world has changed since I took French.

Right in front of me were an iPod, and a Kindle.  I was enjoying a cup of coffee from a magic coffee machine that hadn’t been invented, in a bakery shop that hadn’t existed.  On my wrist was a battery-powered watch.  I had a cell phone in my pocket.  I’d pay my bill in Euros, not Deutschmarks. If I wanted, I could drive to France with no one checking my passport, because there is no protected border, and even in France I’d still pay in Euros.

Not only that, but there had been no Super Bowl to look forward to and the NFL only had about half the number of teams.  On the sad side, there had been no Vietnam War, and JFK, MLK, and RFK were still kicking.

Heading to the slopes, I’d have found no snowboards, but I’d have seen skis longer than a grammar lesson. 

The world keeps on changing, and except for the events that eventually wind up in a history book, we barely notice.

Even so, some things remain the same.  I still enjoy coffee and croissants.  The sun still rises and sets, fall follows summer, and I still wear Levis.  Oh, yeah, my aunt’s pen is still right where she left it, right there on the table.