Our daily pain: French life and the quotidian visit to the neighborhood boulangerie
Like the one the editor (who rarely left his/her newsroom desk) tossed me one day that involved a gaggle of adolescent French students on a two-week exchange with a local middle school. Since I was the only person in the department who spoke French, the editor thought I’d do just fine figuring out what these Frenchie kids thought of being in America and what they missed about France.
So I asked them.
To my surprise, none of them mentioned family, friends, or their “collège”(French middle school).
Every one of them had the same response: “le bon pain français” and to make sure I understood why, one student pulled out the lunch her host family packed for her that day, a peanut butter and jelly on Wonder Bread sandwich. The young girl proffered it with the sort of look I imagine I had when my ear nose and throat doctor said he wanted to inject a steroid solution into my middle ear. Fear and loathing.
French history and bread are inextricably fused. It was a bread shortage that prompted thousands of French women to march from Paris to Versailles in the late 18th century and drag the overfed, overcoiffed, over bejeweled King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette back to Paris and, ultimately to “La Veuve,” (the widow), Le Rasoir National (the National Razor) or “Louisette,” all nicknames for the guillotine.
The women had reason to be miffed. The government had been hoarding grain which drove up the price of bread, the mainstay of the national diet. That along with a bad harvest caused a famine that made the population, especially the female population, rather annoyed by the profligate nobility and bougie types. Revolutionaries cut off a few heads to make their point and get bread prices down.
If there was ever a reason to start a revolution, French bread is top of the list.
After seven years of living in Paris, I can safely say that very little makes a day better than visiting your local boulangerie and coming away with a warm-from-the-oven baguette. There’s a reason French folk break off the pointed end (le quignon or le croûton) as soon as they hit the sidewalk outside the bakery. This tasty morsel is the gift the family member gets for fetching the daily baguette. And it’s irresistible.
During the Covid pandemic, the boulangeries stayed open and our daily bread run was included in the one hour we got to spend outside our apartment. Both my husband and I had different favorite boulangeries we could visit that were within our one-kilometer permitted radius that was controlled by filling out a daily permit.
One of the reasons I chose my apartment here in the Marais three years ago, after living nearby for the preceding four, was its proximity to not one but four exceptional artisanal boulangeries within a two-block range. Their schedules are burned into my brain. Not just their hours, but their days off. Because this is France, there are of course lots of days off.

But never are they all closed at the same time. Even in the holy month of August, when all of Paris goes on vacation, there are the martyrs who ensure that the quartier has fresh bread every day.
It’s the law. And… the bread police make sure no one breaks it, just like they make sure that the rules about ingredients (only flour, water, yeast, and salt are permitted in a baguette tradition) and the dough must be made and baked on-site. It cannot be frozen.
My favorite boulangerie is half a block away and it wraps around a corner so the large windows frame the white-clad bakers who are shaping, transferring, and shoveling raw dough into the oven. They also use their peels, wide wooden paddles, to scoop freshly baked loaves out of these hot holes in the wall and transfer them to mobile racks. These are then wheeled to the front of the shop for the counter staff to dole out to the waiting line of customers who spend their time in line salivating over the pastries, tartes, beignets, sandwiches, and flans in the long shiny cases.
Because I’m a regular customer, the counter ladies (and occasionally a sweet, ginger-bearded young man) recite my order before I give it and if I have changes, I make them or I just say “D’accord. Merci.” They know I’m particularly fond of the boulangerie’s mini beignets, little pillows of dough dusted with sugar, much like donut holes, and they often sneak in a free extra or two. If my favorite baker has seen me pass the window of the oven room, he’ll grab a fresh “trad” from the oven and send it out for me.
The staff also knows I like my baguette “bien cuite,” well done with a dark crust. Folks who are guarding their dentures and want something lighter and softer will say “pas trop cuite.”
For variety, there are nearly a dozen other breads to try. Most of them are either in round or oval-shaped loaves that you can order by the gram and ask to have sliced (en tranche).
You order these using the phrase:
“Je prends…” and adding the number of grams and “s’il vous plaît” to your request.
Among the other breads you’ll find:
- pain de campagne (pan duh cam-PAN-yuh) – a thick-crusted loaf made with both wheat and white flour, usually oval shaped
- pain de mie (pan duh mee) – small rectangular loaf of wheat bread
- pain au levain (pan oh luh-van) – sourdough bread
- pain aux céréales (pan oh sair-ay-all) – small rustic loaf with seeds and whole grains
Next to all this, you’ll find the vennoiserie, the amazing array of pastries, much of it made with puff pastry, butter-rich dough.
Croissants, pain au chocolat, pain au raisins are all technically breakfast treats but most French folk don’t eat them daily. They’re expensive, fattening, and rich – much too heavy for the average French breakfast.
The usual French breakfast is fruit, yogurt, coffee or tea, and maybe a tartine (toasted baguette with a small amount of butter and jam). Nobody I’ve ever met here eats bacon, eggs or hash browns in the morning. They just don’t.
If you’re a croissant connoisseur you likely already know that this peculiarly shaped horn of dozens of layers of paper-thin pastry actually comes in two shapes: curved horns and straight.
- The curved ones — croissant ordinaires — are made using margarine or oil (ugh!);
- the straight — croissant au beurre — are made exclusively of flour and butter.
And yes, ‘lest you need to ask, there’s a French law about what you call your croissants.
- Folks who want to kick their croissant habit up a notch will opt for a croissant d’amandes, puff pastry shaped somewhat like a traditional croissant and filled with almond cream then finished with slivered almonds on the surface that is dusted with sugar.
Boulangerie etiquette is rather rigid.
Good places always have a line and while the counter staff is efficient, they are more interested in being correct than in customer service. They give each customer undivided attention, they bag or wrap items, ask questions about preferences and sometimes tell you to come back later.
Often, they have trouble understanding the way English speakers pronounce French words and it’s best to point and hold up your fingers to indicate quantity. But remember:
- The French count fingers differently from the English – you start with the thumb rather than the index finger
- To indicate two, you hold up your thumb and index finger;
- three is the thumb, index finger, and middle finger.
- Four, everything but your pinky.
- And five is the universal language. (Also remember this when you go to a restaurant and ask for a table for multiples.)
It’s also important to know what you want before it’s your turn in front of the cash register. Holding everyone up is vexing to the staff and fellow customers. Also, have your money ready (exact change please) so the transaction runs smoothly. French clerks hate making change. They love tap-and-go debit/credit cars. Every vendor in France loves the technology.
For the carb-averse and the gluten-sensitive, the good news is that baguettes are seldom eaten in huge quantities. Most folk tear of a piece and leave the rest for others. French flour isn’t highly processed and doesn’t contain preservatives or stabilizers that seem to irritate those with gluten difficulty.
I know several American expats who can’t eat gluten in America but have no problems with it here.
I remember thinking how those French kids many years ago felt connected to their homes, their families, and their real-life by something as simple as their quotidian bread.
In France, the word for a friend that’s most often used isn’t “ami,” it is “copain,” a shortened version of “with bread”. A copain is someone with whom you break bread.
Even children can figure out that.