Georgetown Independent

Issue date: 9/4/09 Section: Arts and Entertainment

Media Credit: mootee.typepad.com Le Pain Quotidien

Media Credit: thehaysay.files.wordpress.com Atwater's Bakery at Dupont Circle farmers' market

It would not be fair for me to sit here and describe the bread I ate in Paris. If I were a good enough writer, it would leave you drooling with desire for something that is not easy to find. I was talking to my roommate about my gastronomical experiences in Paris, and I think that what she said about bread, if interpreted loosely, is reasonably accurate. "Bread over there is like sex, right?" she said. Well, not literally, but it can almost be that good.

When I went out in search of great bread near Georgetown, I was conscious of the fact that making a comparison between American and French bread would be a mistake. The Platonic form of baguette can be found on a shelf in a Parisian bakery, lightly powdered with soft flour, still warm at its core from the heat of the oven, and caressed by a musical babble of the French language of love. Almost anything else is an imperfect replication of that form. I knew this from the start, but I could not stop myself from hoping, so I bought a baguette from Le Pain Quotidien on M St.

When I picked up the bread in its paper sheath I instantly knew I was bound for disappointment. First of all, it was cold. Supermarket bread, baked who knows how long ago, jammed with preservatives, in its sterile plastic packaging, is supposed to be cold. Bakery bread should be warm. Secondly, it was too hard.

With some effort, I tore off a tapered end and crunched into it. The thick crust was tough, and it overwhelmed the dry fluffy meat on the inside. A faint taste of burnt bread unpleasantly mingled with the weak flavor. I toasted some slices when I got home, hoping to salvage some gustatory pleasure from my $3.15, but to no avail. I tossed the sorry bread in the trash.

The next day, I wandered over to the farmers' market on 34th and Wisconsin Avenue to try my luck again. I asked the guy at the bakery stand, who seemed about my age, which loaf of bread was his favorite and he replied that he never bothered to try any. He had lived in Paris all his life and had probably decided that the baked loaves composed of flour, water, salt and yeast on the table in front of him were unworthy of the name. In spite of his ambivalence, I bought a loaf of Norman bread for $4.50. "What's in it?" I asked. He shrugged. "I don't know, fruit?" he replied.

After slicing myself a piece, it was immediately clear he did not give the bread enough credit. The crust was thick and chewy and slightly crunchy on the outside. The meat was dense and moist and sparsely populated with raisins, walnuts and possibly small apple chunks. It tasted nutty and fruity and smelled fresh. It certainly could have used more raisins and nuts and might have been a bit moister, but it made a delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The sweet loaf also paired well with my tangy herby goat cheese from Trader Joe's.

At the Dupont Circle farmers' market, there was a considerable line in front of the Atwater's Bakery stand. The cart was loaded with a bounty of rolls, boules, baguettes and loaves of every shape, size and flour type. I bought a sourdough round, a distinctly American bread, for $5.00. I marveled at the delicate pattern of flaky bubbles in the caramel colored crust and put my nose in the paper bag and smelled the familiar sour aroma wafting from the crusty loaf. The crust was flaky and chewy, and the interior dense and moist with a richly tangy flavor.

Feeling emboldened by some success, I picked up a baguette from Patisserie Poupon on Wisconsin Ave. on the way home. It had a pleasant flavor, a crispy crust and a fluffy inside. While I was not particularly impressed, it was certainly a respectable piece of bread, and reasonably priced at $2.75.

Not one of the loaves I tried was perfect, but the two from the farmers' markets were not disappointing. And while the best baguettes reside across the Atlantic, the best loaves of bread I have had come from bakeries in the United States. I go weak at the knees for sourdough and that can only be done correctly here. I crave the seemingly impossible, but absolutely heavenly synergy of flakiness and chewiness in the crust. I want the loaf to be heavy, betraying the dense, moist bread meat on the inside. I want it to be warm, and I want to hear it crackle under my fingers. Whatever the flavor-nutty, sour, fruity, spicy, herby, oily, oaty-I want the aroma to waft out of the bag. I want to eat it with my eyes closed.

Maybe I'm asking too much, but I don't think so. This is what bread ought to be. Just try not to think about it when you reach for the pre-sliced sandwich bread at the supermarket.


Cheimets is Associate Editor and a Physics senior.

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