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A Village on a Hill - Morning

John Harbour

08 Feb 2023 — 6 min read

“The French don't snack. They will tear off the end of a fresh baguette (which, if it's warm, it's practically impossible to resist) and eat it as they leave the boulangerie.” — Peter Mayle

I am awakened by the morning breeze that carries the slightest hint of pine and I open my eyes to the early light rising just behind the mountain. Above me is a fresco from the 12th century and I feel that maybe this should be a museum and not part of the apartment my wife and I have rented for the week. The blue of the ceiling adds a sky like quality to the room which used to be the Arch Bishop’s private chapel when he was in residence. Below me on the floor is a ring for a very heavy chain and I begin to wonder about its purpose until I realize that some riddles are better left unexplored.

I get up and go to the window, looking out between the bars and two foot thick walls to the street below. The apartment is within the ramparts of the village and the structure and coolness of the stone provide the warmth of safety. There are, properly, no screens to obstruct my view, and as I gaze upon the oaks and redwoods across the way I take a deep breath. I have finally made it to Provence. And everything is how I had imagined.

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Breakfast! My mind silently screams. My wife stirs as I get dressed, but settles after I tell her where I’m going.

I exit our apartment into the chamber and stairs that lead to the street, paying careful attention to not spook Vincent, the bat who has taken up residence just outside the apartment door. Smart bat. It’s cool and dark in the day and just off of his nighttime feeding grounds. My wife and I have struck a bargain with Vincent — he is to take care of the bugs in or near the apartment, and we will do our best to not ungracefully disturb him as he slumbers during the day. He awakes and does some lovely indoor aerobatics as he goes to his lower level area, but it’s not because we are chasing him with a broom as others have done. I imagine he appreciates that.

Outside, the air is cool as the sun has not yet risen too far above the mountain. One thing I have learned in Provence is that shade is your ally. Different from home, the temperature is in direct correlation to the amount of sun touching your skin. But it is morning and the even the sun feels soft and friendly.

The village is still quiet as I walk the street to the lower portion to make my way to one of the two boulangeries to purchase the morning’s baguette. As I practice the french phrases I will need to successfully navigate the transaction I make note that there is not one, but two boulangeries in a village with a population of 1400. My block in Chelsea has a population of just under a thousand and the only thing we can support is a Starbucks.

At the bottom of the hill I pass by the fountain and follow the street as it curves to the right. One of the town’s cats is ahead of me making its morning patrol. It stops to give me the once over and then turns quickly, continuing on with the business of the day. I’m not worth the time.

The first of the two stores is just up the street on my left. This presents a problem. Who to patronize? Who to be loyal to for the week? Who has the better bread? It’s obvious what I must do; try one today and then the other tomorrow. A horrible task, I know, but I’m up for it.

“The bread was so powerfully aromatic that, had I been alone, I would have been tempted to push my face into it.” ― @michaelpollan Michael Pollan, Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation

I enter the first shop and the smell is intoxicating. It’s only 7:00AM and the baker is turning out baguettes in a rhythm and efficiency that betrays the number of years he has done this exact same thing. The oven is a multi-shelved version that allows a continuous flow of dough going in and crisp golden bread coming out. This is the way it is every morning except Monday — the one day off. Dough goes in, bread comes out. Dough goes in, bread comes out.

I make my way to the counter. “Bonjour Madame. Je voudrais une baguette s’il vous plaît,” I say as I also look with some thought towards the chocolate croissants in the pastry case.

“Bonjour Messier. Quatre vingt cinq cents,” she replies grabbing a baguette from the basket behind her and with one quick motion wrapping it diagonally in some wax paper, twisting two of the corners so that the bread is now swaddled in the bakery’s white paper.

I’m amazed at the price. Eighty-five cents! That’s what a baguette costs. The best bread I have ever had in my life, a loaf that I would gladly pay triple for in New York, is only eighty-five cents, Euro. A couple of years ago, due to higher flour costs, the bakers raised the price to ninety cents and a riot almost ensued. You DO NOT mess with a Frenchman’s bread. The croissants will cost you quite more as they are a luxury, but the bread… do not deny me my daily bread. To the French, a good baguette is not only a daily necessity, it is a birthright. And that is why there are two bakeries in town. That, and the fact that one sells coffee and provides a place to enjoy a quick respite, and one just offers the baked goods.

I grab my still warm parcel. “Merci, au revoir.”

“Bonne journée,” the shop keeper says behind me as I exit.

Once in the street and on the way home, I can’t help but tear the end off of the baguette and bite into the crisp crust, crumbs tumbling down my shirt. In a bit I will have it with local butter and strawberry jam, but here, in the street, it is perfect as is. My wife won’t mind that our breakfast already has a bite out of it; in fact, if she were here I think that she would insist.

This week I made a quick dish to assist with the armchair traveling, a relative of ratatouille, it is a bit easier to make and heartier. Here, my friends, is a taste of Provence. Enjoy! It’s great cold on crusty bread!

Bohemienne Gratin (Eggplant and Tomato Stew)
INGREDIENTS

1/4 cup olive oil
2 onions
2 pounds ripe tomatoes (chopped but not skinned or seeded)
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1/4 cup chopped parsley
3 pounds eggplant, peeled and cut into cubes
1/4 cup grated Gruyere cheese
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

INSTRUCTIONS

Heat the olive oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat.
Sauté the onions until golden, but not caramelized. About 8 to 10 minutes.
Add the tomatoes, garlic, and parsley.
Salt and pepper to taste (don’t over do it, but don’t skimp the salt).
Reduce heat to medium and cook, stirring occasionally, until most of the liquid from the tomatoes has evaporated. About twenty minutes.
Add the eggplant and cook, stirring occasionally, until the eggplant and tomatoes have blended together into almost a paste with texture. About 45–60 minutes. Add water occasionally to keep from scorching.
Just before serving, remove from heat and stir in the grated cheese.