A (brief) Moment of Delight, Paris 2022

Paris—May 2022

It was on a sunny day in May, when the chill of early spring moves aside to make way for summer. Sitting in my tiny Parisian studio, I had a hankering for a salad from my local bakery. I visualized lush butter lettuce surrounded by neatly organized sections of bright shredded carrot, small pink radishes scored at their white tips and a patch of finely sliced turnips — all tucked neatly into a bowl with tuna on top. With dessert to follow, bien sûr.

I grabbed my purse and left the apartment. My eyes ached briefly in the natural light as I stepped out onto Rue Mouffetard. I turned left and walked up the slight hill against the flow of men, women, and children heading in the opposite direction.

Rue Mouffetard is a busy street, one of the oldest in Paris. If you look up into the windows of the buildings at night, you can see dark wooden beams on the ceilings, a signature feature of many historic apartments there.

The road is paved with cobblestones flanked by narrow, dog-piss-streaked sidewalks. (I’m just being honest.) I waded through the crowds, my linguistic antenna picking up French, Italian, Russian, and English with British and Australian accents. One man passed me with his face buried into a crunchy bakery paper sleeve as he walked. I wondered what he was eating: a croissant? pain au chocolat? pain aux raisins? A toddler in a stroller gripped a wedge of fresh baguette between his small fingers while baby teeth nibbled at it

The hill crested at Place de la Contrescarpe, a square surrounded by mostly restaurants, all with outdoor seating areas known as terrasses. (Picture those old photos showing layers and layers of people sitting outside a busy restaurant facing the road.) A few people read newspapers and books or were locked in discussions with friends over a late-morning coffee.

I crossed the square and veered right onto Rue Cardinal Lemoine, where My Bakery With the Good Salads sits at an intersection with Rue Monge. Several minutes later, I reached the boulangerie. Its storefront is embedded in a street corner, strategically located just outside a metro exit. The cobalt-colored exterior provided a frame for painted vignettes of bakers in action.

Inside, it’s standing room only; five or six people can fit at one time. I took my place in line just outside the entrance behind two people.

As the queue diminished, I stepped up into the shop. Immediately inside and to my right was the display case with the savory offerings: fresh salads, flatbread sandwiches, quiches (Lorraine, spinach feta, roasted vegetable). Beside that and stretching across to the other end where the cashiers stand, were tasty displays of butter-, sugar- and flour-laden desserts. My view of them was obscured by customers, but I knew them by heart from previous visits: batons of éclairs, tarte citrons, rectangular millefeuilles lined in a perfect row. I breathed deeply, as though the smell were the oxygen I needed for survival.

When it was my turn to order, the lady behind the counter greeted me like a friend, a twinkle of recognition in her eye. She was short and had to peer over the top of the display case to see me.

“Bonjour, Madame! Ça va?” she said, smiling. I grinned back; it was like making contact with aliens for the first time.

She knows me!

My inner 12-year-old was over the moon.

“Bonjour! Oui, ça va, merci. Et vous?”

She shrugged and muttered a quick reply, something along the lines of “I’m here!”

I had a warm feeling in my chest. I wish I could bottle tiny moments of delight like this, but they always slip away as quickly as they come. I had enormous cravings for belonging long before I came to Paris, and even if it was just a glimmer of recognition at the boulangère, it gave me hope.

Then it hit home again:

I live here.

Her body language shifted slightly, but the warmth was still there.

“Je vous écoute.” I’m listening, she said.

I ordered a salad with tuna on top. She leaned over to pull one out of the case, asking the usual questions:

“Du pain avec?” Some bread with it?

“Oui, s’il vous plait.”

She wrapped three slices of white bread in a napkin and put it on top of the covered salad.

“Sauce?” Dressing ?

“Oui, s’il vous plaît.”

She plucked a small plastic container with dressing from a stack inside the case.

“Des couverts?” Utensils?

“Non, merci.”

She walked over to the case with the sweet things in it.

“Autre chose?” Anything else?

I also ordered a slice of plum tart, which she wrapped like a beautiful gift in crisp white bakery paper and placed on top of the bread that was on top of the salad. She handed everything over to the cashier (“Pour madame,” she instructed, nodding her head in my direction.) The cashier placed my items in a brown paper bag, and I paid for my lunch.

The 12-year-old inside me skipped all the way back home, while my 45-year-old self walked with a sense of calm victory.

Isn’t this what we always dreamed of?

Jenn

Introducing Contributor, Jenn Bragg

Immerse yourself in all of Jenn’s articles on her Contributor page.

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