Petit Déjeuner

Early morning in Caromb in September, the sun gives permission for villagers to stir,

for bread to be baked, croissants curled and one last sheet fettling rummage with

mademoiselle before breakfast, should one be so inclined.

The second floor of the ‘Old Hospital’ is tiled with square red ceramic ‘parquets’, but

these sit upon wooden beams underneath. We have a kitchen, bathroom, two bedrooms, a

chill out room and the sun terrace. The floors provide the early morning soundtrack of

creaking as bare feet pad across into the kitchen to put a kettle on. The kitchen windows are

opened to the quiet of a new morning, the night-time yapping dogs are silent. Possibly shot,

or have had their testicles fed to the wild boars that roam the nearby hills. Our hosts live on

the first floor but we do not hear them. No radio, no TV. No shouting neighbours, no roaring

traffic. A martin darts past the window cheeping as it does so. A few buzzing insects

investigate the interior but on the whole, this morning, they leave us alone. A slight breeze

rustles the fig leaves outside.

There are three boulangeries in Caromb. One is closed, perhaps for the owners to be

‘en vacances’. The other two are quite close to each other and are attempting to vie for trade

with the cyclists, who will turn up later in the morning, by installing small bistro sets on the

pavement and offering a breakfast of coffee, croissant and orange juice for just over two euros.

There is always a queue at the boulangerie, a steady stream of be-shorted, tanned

leathery skinned old men, and few women and a child with a lust for the assorted patisseries

on sumptuous display. The classic french moustache is often on display with its fancy waxed

ends twisting skyward. Despite the queue, no one seems in any particular rush which is just as

well as there is only one person serving. They enter the shop, issue their “bonjour

m’sieudames” and wait patiently in line to peruse the line of baguettes, pain au chocolate,

gateaux, pretty little glacé decorated tartlettes and croissants. Just as in England, there is a

queue; etiquette and discombobulation can be caused if one should step out of place to

peruse the offerings further down the shop.

All over France, from Morlaix in Brittany to Marseille in the South, from La Rochelle

on the Atlantic coast to Lille in the north East, in every town, village and city this little ritual is

played out daily. There must be three baguettes to every French citizen in the country. It is no

ironic mistake of history that Marie Antoinette uttered her ill-advised famous phrase about

peasants eating cake because the bread has run out.

Bread is the very core of life in every French household, bought daily and baked so as

to remain fresh for only a few hours. There is no hoarding of old baguette for the next day.

Take away a Frenchman’s bread and you take away his ‘raison d’etre’, it would be like asking

the Cornish to swap a pasty for fresh air and a promise of a Devon cream tea. Napoleon

recognised that his army marched on its baguette filled stomach or marched not at all. Bread

is the foundation, the starting point, the ground zero of all french cuisine and indeed of all of

french life. Without bread there would be no France. It is nourishment, it is symbol. It is the

stuff of Revolutions. Liberté, Fraternité and Egalité could not be established in a bread free

France. The libertines of the Parisian Pigalle, the truffle hunters of the Luberon hills, the

farmers of the Ardèche and the pastis swigging hairy handed sons of labour in every factory

town in France could not function with any hint of joie de vivre without it. God himself and

his angels and demons would be called to account should, heaven forfend, a boulangerie run

out of the stuff of life.

So, the morning starts with the trip to get fresh bread and croissants. The temptations

of patisseries, roules de saucisses, and quiche that sit in silent supplications to one’s more

gluttonous foibles, are foregone. Meanwhile hot water is required for the almost mandatory

coffee. The French often take it ‘espresso’ with a sugar cube so that the quick hit of bitterness

is equally experienced with a hit of sweet. Delightful. If you wish anything like an English

coffee then you have to ask for allongué, cafe creme, café au lait or americano. The default is

the small black tar like espresso.

At around 8am, people are beginning to appear. The street is already dusty hot for

many English tastes but the locals probably do not notice. Monsieur Farnaud, the Butcher, is

up and about sharpening knives, cutting joints and singing to himself about the joys of lamb

shoulder marinated in Herbes de Provence, sizzling in a pan. He should have a waxed

moustache and a bloodstained apron upon which he wipes his hands after finishing jointing a

pig. Sadly, he does not. He resembles an amiable small-town accountant in his black rimmed

glasses and polo shirt. he waves to passers-by as they walk home with breakfast baguettes

under an arm. He knows most of them by sight as he has dispensed culinary tips along with

his cuts of meat. His eyes light up when he is asked about a particular piece and how one

should properly cook it. No ordinary butcher, but one who has written the cookbook and

knows his onions from his garlic. He freely gives out little morceaux of information about

cooking time, what herbs, whether to grill or roast, as if they are precious gems that

nonetheless should be owned by all.

By the time the baguette and croissants have arrived back home, the breakfast table

has been laid. Le Vieil Hôpital has a mezzanine breakfast floor made of old creaky planks of

wood which allow dust motes to slip down to the floor below as one walks across it. Three

sides of it are of the dusty stone of the house while the fourth looks over yet another fig tree

courtyard below. Only an old iron railing stops one from falling into it. The roof is that of

new beams holding up the tiles above. On one wall hangs a wooden birdcage of nineteenth

century design, which at one point probably was home to a canary but is now mere

decoration and is home now to peeling paint and dust. A niche in one wall houses a raffia

basket and a garland of old lavender. This room has witnessed countless ‘petit dejeuners’ and

could no doubt tell some secrets about lovers’ trysts and plans for lunch or cycling routes. The

pointing in many a Provençal wall is either dust, new mortar or holes for families of spiders or

bats. This breakfast room is no different. Company of a wild nature be it avian, arachnoid or

altogether a more sinister mozzie kind is always a possibility.

The circular table and its four wooden chairs are decorated with glasses of orange

juice, a steaming cafetière of coffee and a confiture of apricots. In England we would call this

latter item ‘jam’. But no. Oh no. This is a source of mellow sweetness fit for the most

discerning of palettes. It delivers delight with every little dip of the tongue onto a croissant

daubed with its essence. Croissants themselves are little flakey parcels of buttery delight, hand

crafted into shape by myriad experienced hands whose owners know the fate of the nation

rests in their skilful twists. Flakes and the softness of the baked dough combine in fluffy

lightness to awaken the taste buds.

The markets supply fresh peaches and plums to be combined with cold natural

yoghurt for a fruity freshness. The orange and the red colours, signal deliverance of juicy

sweetness, which may dribble onto an unguarded chin.

Other platters will include cold charcuterie or cheeses or saucisson and eggs. All will

be delivered with a variety of somesuch of baguette. And coffee.

It is an eternal delight to be able to sit at table, laid with tablecloth, proper plates and

sunsoaked minutes, to eat a leisurely breakfast. This simple start to the day is often denied to

the tube train chasing or motorway driving commuting cog in the bigger machine called

work. Many will merely grab a coffee as they stank along a city street to the office as the clock

ticks down to their allotted start time, a period which marks their slow descent into wage

slavery and death. They will note the weather only in passing to decide if they need

protecting from it rather than revelling in it. In many a town or city in the United Kingdom,

the weather’s capriciousness results in quickly shared denunciations involving God, the sexual

act or the questioning of one’s patrilineal heritage, and the pulling on of heavy mood

dampening coats. The clear warm mornings in Provence deliver, as if by right, blue skies and

coat denying warmth, which I have read is seen and felt as a personal affront if they do not.

Time passes at breakfast like it does anywhere in the world but noting its relative nature, the

minutes and seconds lose their meaning. Time is marked by the ringing of church bells, the

sun’s position in the sky and how long it takes to empty the plates of croissants.

There is no clock on the breakfast room wall.