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.

CAKE!!!!

So.... cakes.

 

Yes cakes, not just because it’s my birthday, which gives me the right to be eating it at 8:30am while compiling a ‘meaningful’ blog post to make up for the last 3 dry months on this page. But truthfully, cake is an essential part of cultures around the world, celebrating all occasions in ranging flavors to satisfyingly comfort every sweet tooth and emotion. Plus, who could say no to a slice of butter and sugar in sponge-form, garbed in orange zest cream cheese frosting?

Good, now I have the attention of your clammy tongues salivating for glucosic goodies. Let’s examine the cake traditions of France, where boulangeries and patisseries equate the American Walgreens by claiming every street corner. If each morning is a chocolate croissant for a ‘mmm-mmm’ buttery breakfast, one can’t even begin to fathom how heavenly an actual ‘dessert’ would be. And for the most part, I’ll admit, they do not disappoint. Staying on topic, here’s a mini bibliography of some of the cakes I’ve had the palatable pleasure of tasting this past month:

1.     Bûche de Noël

What it means: Christmas log  

What it looks like: Basically a log cake that looks very much like a log, the cheaper ones a turd, sprinkled with powdered sugar and random plastic evergreens.  Cut it open to find creamy custard and sponge cake in swirls of psychedelic love. 
What it tastes like: AWESOME.

Tradition: You eat it on Christmas. Duh.
Thoughts: Don’t be disappointed by the puniness of these sticks… with all that cream and butter, one slice’ll get your heart pumpin’.
2.     Galette des Rois

What it means: Cake of Kings

What it looks like: Kind of like a big ass flaky omelette. With crusty white almond paste inside.
What it taste like: Wayyy better than that description. 
Tradition: To celebrate King’s Day, January 6^th. Somewhere inside this bad boy is a little feve, or figurine, and who ever is lucky enough to break their teeth biting it gets to wear a BK crown for the day.
Thoughts: I got the crown this year. Well worth the toothache.
3.      Couronne Briochée 
What it means: Crown bread thingy
What it looks like: A donut on steroids, decorated with fruit-cake tackiness.
What it tastes like: A donut on steroids.
Tradition: Also for Kings Day. Basically, the inventor of the cake above copyrighted the cooler name, so to compete, the dude from this bakery decided to make his look like a crown.
Thoughts: where’s the cream filling?

French cakes are, in essence, three things: 1. Decorative elements of religious or traditional celebrations; 2. Rich, but not overly sweet, with more or less natural flavors and simplistic decorations; 3. Filled with butter.

So enough with the Gordon Ramsay commentary… what’s the point of all this cake talk? Well, as satiating as these francophone delicacies might be, there still comes a day in every person’s living abroad experience where one reaches a deep revelation: where the hell is my red velvet cake?!

If you think sincerely about it, (which I do), my American favorite goes against everything French: 1) It’s anything but natural, obnoxiously fire-engine red with the main ingredients being shortening and buttermilk; 2) It’s excessive, a minimum of 3 layers glued together by thick cream cheese frosting to further glaze the already sugar infused-monster; and 3) It’s 100% American, featured on every food network show, in every trendy cupcake salon, and in many of my family photos from college, where one simple slice brought to my dorm room could magically disintegrate all the stress from midterm exams. I guess in a way, what makes a cake so great is not just the taste, but rather the occasion to share it with others. If I were to be sentimental about it (which I am), cake is about the celebratory experience as a whole, instead of the sum of its parts (which, if added up, equals too many hours at the gym).  

So, in respect to both new favorites and old time classics, and in honor of my 23^rd anniversary of birth, I’ve decided to indulge in both: a briochée for breakfast, homemade velvet for tonight, and maybe, upon my afternoon stroll past the corner patisserie, another sugary surprise. Just because it’s my birthday.