Nutty for Nutella: The French Breakfast

I have a sweet tooth, a fact one quickly discovers when I suggest Yogurtland or Dairy Queen as a meeting spot to study or have lunch. Like a smoker to his Marlboro, I crave the sugary rush of a hot fudge sundae or a stack of Thin Mints after every meal, my mouth watering at the very mention of the word 'Scoop.' Yet the other voices in my head, reminding me of those jeans that no longer fit, or that diabetes runs in the family, limit my dessert intake to just once (or twice) a day.

In France, however, the people understand the importance of sweets to one's self-being. They do not judge one's chocoholism or the whipped cream on their crepes. Rather, they embrace sugar, celebrating it as the main ingredient for the most important meal of the day: breakfast.

We wish you a Merry Breakfast

Oh, how I LOVE French breakfast. All that pish-posh our American cereal boxes tell us about starting the day off well-balanced, rich in whole grains and fruits and other heart-healthy things.... France wants none of that. Here in baguette land, bread reigns supreme. Crispy croissants (au chocolat or plain... as you like), crunchy toast biscuits, moist galette cookie cake thingies, and fluffy brioche. Or for the more daring, go straight for the gâteau au chocolat and vanilla cookies... no one's telling! Select from any of these delicacies for your petit dejeuner, which even the word's translation, "little lunch," will have you giggling with delight. 

I forgot to mention the best part... NUTELLA. The greatest invention on earth, this conglomerate of hazelnut, chocolate and artery-clogging palm tree oil is lathered (in large quantities I might add) atop one of the choices above to start the morning off ever so sweetly. If born with a nut-allergy or some rare impairment that makes you somehow NOT like it, there's this other dream called Speculoos, a spread literally made of crushed gingerbread cookies and butter, to prove that God really did put things on this earth worth dying for. Though typically for the morning, these heavenly spreads by no means limit themselves to a.m. appearances: try hazelnut chocolate bars for le goûter, snack time, or Speculoos cookies to accompany coffee breaks (remind me later, once I actually figure out the answer, how the French stay so darn twiggy).

Though a big fan of their breakfast choices, it does strike me as odd how the French go about serving it. In contrast to a previous post detailing the exhaustive list of silverware necessary for a proper evening meal, in the morning it seems that anything goes. By anything goes, I mean everything goes away, including the plates and mugs. I remember arriving to the kitchen of my boyfriend's grandmother one morning to find a lone cereal bowl at my seat. A loaf of brioche with jars of jam and nutella lay arranged at the table's center but no flakes or muesli in sight. Assuming the glass bowl was left there by mistake, I put it away and searched the cupboard for a plate to use instead. No sooner had I done so when his grandmother entered, quickly pulling the plate from in front of me and replacing it with the bowl I had just returned to the shelf.

"Pour cereal?" I asked, picking up the bowl and demonstrating the motion with a spoon. Instead of answering, his grandmother dropped a tea bag inside it.

"Est-ce que tu veux du thé?" she asked, and as I nodded she grabbed the kettle and began pouring steaming water inside.

She smiled and watched as I strugged to hold the brim of the burning bowl between my fingertips, spilling nearly half of it onto the table (and of course, my lap) while attempting to bring it to my lips.

"C'est pas grave!" she chirped, dabbing the spill with a wash cloth then proceeding to toss a piece of bread on the bare, now damp table.

"Ça, le confiture de figue, et l'autre..." she went about explaining the various jams as I stared in confusion at the naked slice exposed to the table without the comforting barrier of a plate, not even a napkin. Heck a paper towel would have sufficed, but directly on the table?

Beginning to think his grandmother may suffer from slight dementia, I smiled and nodded, allowing her to scoop some orangy goo onto the bread before me. My hopes that she would disappear soon so I could at least grab a mug with a handle didn't last when my boyfriend walked in with his cheerful Bonjour.

Drats, I thought, now we'll both burn our fingerprints off.  But like clockwork, he poured himself a bowl of steaming hot tea, simultaneously grabbing the brioche and slicing it directly on the table. Crumbs everywhere, he grabbed his piece and began to layer it with butter and jam, again directly on the table before him. Then dipping a corner into the bowl and taking a bite, he and his grandmother commenced a conversation about the orange tree out back. They did not acknowledge the stunned look on my face, how I intently observed his every move to figure out the whole drinking-out-of-a-boiling-glass-bowl puzzle (apparently, you just wait until the drink cools down a bit before actually drinking it. Who would have thought?).

After the meal, the bowls and knives go in the sink, the spreads and bread in the cupbroad, and an ultimate wipedown of the crumbs takes place (sometimes onto the floor if time allows for a sweeping of the kitchen floor). Volunteering to wash what little dishes the meal produced, a part of me began to appreciate this plate-less practice, especially having spent four years of college without a dishwasher. Yet to this day I still feel a bit, unsettled one could say, when reaching for my tea and finding no handle there. 

Belgium made, sold in France, though Speculoos spotings in California exist

There will always be customs in other cultures that you come to appreciate, and others you never fully understand. While I wouldn't dare attempt to eat bread off a table in my own mother's kitchen, I will certainly risk paying overweight charges for my luggage on my way home next spring by stuffing it full with jars of Nutella and Speculoos.