Some time during my first week in Paris I woke up unnecessarily early. After laying in my bed for several hours, I gave up and followed my restless feet outside. This is what happened.
The sun was glaringly bright for the morning. In my half sleep-walking state the amount of people, cars, and bikes around was astonishing. I stood in the street for a moment before taking off down the cracked sidewalk. As I took a deep breath of fresh air, I noticed something different. Maybe Paris was so far away from my own small town home that even the air was differ. Perhaps there was a certain je ne sais quoi about the city of lights. Suddenly, it hit me. The mystery, the magic, the bread! The entire French passage that I was strolling through smelled like fresh-baked bread. I could taste the golden butter, hear the crunch of delicately designed pastry layers. My mouth watered as I peeked at the baguettes every body carried like a fashion accessory. Rummaging in my pockets for some change, I rushed into the nearest bakery and struck up a friendly conversation with an employee while I surveyed rows of glistening chocolate ganache, buttery rolls and perfectly baked bread.
That event was my introduction to a very important French food group: bread. It sits near the top of the pyramid along with wine, cheese, and chocolate.
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