Francisco sourdough, the texture and taste resembled play dough. This was…something uniquely different, and she knew in that moment, she was going to bring this recipe back to Dare Valley and bake it at Hot Cross Buns.
“This is incredible, Andre,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed sourdough more.”
He slapped his chest. “You stick with me, Margie. I will show you all my magic, and you will show me yours.”
Fabian and Ronan laughed and said something in French about the whole bakery being filled with magic, but that was all she caught of their interplay.
“I don’t think I have as much magic as you do, Andre,” she said, tearing off another piece of bread and savoring it. Bread like this made butter seem superfluous, and she knew most French people ate their bread plain.
“You have more magic inside you than you realize, ma petite,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I will help you remember this.”
Unable to look away, she only nodded, chewing slowly.
“Now, as you can see, we have five industrial mixers. Four are for a specific type of bread unless I’m making a special. I labeled them to help you while you’re here.” He pointed to the handwritten labels taped to the bottoms of the mixers. “Two are used for traditional baguette since we supply some of Paris’ finest restaurants. Then one is for baguette sourdough and our farm bread with the potato water. The last I use for treats like the punitions. Remember?”
“Yes,” she answered, recalling the buttery shortbread. “I’ve got it.”
He moved on to the stainless steel counters and picked up a baker’s blade—a wicked-looking curved razor blade, which looked to be glued to the end of a pen. Evan would get a kick out of the invention, she thought, and couldn’t wait to tell him about it.
“This is the baker’s weapon,” Andre said, making slashing motions with it like he was wielding a small dagger. “It is how you differentiate yourself as a baker and put your stamp on the bread you sell. In Paris, this is very important.”
“This has to do with the patented bread types, right?” she asked.
“In some cases,” he said, reaching behind him on another line of stacked trays and pulling off a beautiful ball of dough. “Feel this.”
“I haven’t washed my hands,” she said, looking around for a sink.
“Did you not put a hunk of bread in your mouth?” He rolled his eyes. “The ovens will burn off any germs, ma petite. Do not be so nervous. Touch it.”
He almost made it sound like an invitation to sin. She poked the dough with her finger. It gave to her touch unlike any other dough she’d ever felt. Bubbles formed where she’d made contact.
“Tell me you have not felt anything softer.”
“I haven’t. Truly.”
“My bread lives and breathes like a human being,” he said. From anyone else it would have sounded crazy, but he meant it. On some level, she felt the same way about her own baking, although she would have described it differently.
“This is love,” he said and kissed the dough. “Now, let me show you how I wield my weapon.” He abruptly laughed and looked toward the ceiling. “Belle would call me…how do you say? On the carpet? For talking like that to a lady. But we bakers are a pretty dirty lot. Our bread dough reminds us of breasts, and it is our life’s work to craft a recipe that makes the perfect breast so we can play with it in the dark hours of the night. No wonder the priests used to make the bakers go to confession once a week.”
“I hadn’t heard that before.” Confession for bread making? She tried and failed to disguise her chuckle. “I’ll have to find another…ah…goal to inspire me.”
“Yeah, it does not work the same for a woman,” he said, putting the dough in the center of the floured surface of a well-used pastry cloth. “It’s said the first great male bakers in France were monks. I always thought it was one of the few good outcomes of a vow
“This is incredible, Andre,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed sourdough more.”
He slapped his chest. “You stick with me, Margie. I will show you all my magic, and you will show me yours.”
Fabian and Ronan laughed and said something in French about the whole bakery being filled with magic, but that was all she caught of their interplay.
“I don’t think I have as much magic as you do, Andre,” she said, tearing off another piece of bread and savoring it. Bread like this made butter seem superfluous, and she knew most French people ate their bread plain.
“You have more magic inside you than you realize, ma petite,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I will help you remember this.”
Unable to look away, she only nodded, chewing slowly.
“Now, as you can see, we have five industrial mixers. Four are for a specific type of bread unless I’m making a special. I labeled them to help you while you’re here.” He pointed to the handwritten labels taped to the bottoms of the mixers. “Two are used for traditional baguette since we supply some of Paris’ finest restaurants. Then one is for baguette sourdough and our farm bread with the potato water. The last I use for treats like the punitions. Remember?”
“Yes,” she answered, recalling the buttery shortbread. “I’ve got it.”
He moved on to the stainless steel counters and picked up a baker’s blade—a wicked-looking curved razor blade, which looked to be glued to the end of a pen. Evan would get a kick out of the invention, she thought, and couldn’t wait to tell him about it.
“This is the baker’s weapon,” Andre said, making slashing motions with it like he was wielding a small dagger. “It is how you differentiate yourself as a baker and put your stamp on the bread you sell. In Paris, this is very important.”
“This has to do with the patented bread types, right?” she asked.
“In some cases,” he said, reaching behind him on another line of stacked trays and pulling off a beautiful ball of dough. “Feel this.”
“I haven’t washed my hands,” she said, looking around for a sink.
“Did you not put a hunk of bread in your mouth?” He rolled his eyes. “The ovens will burn off any germs, ma petite. Do not be so nervous. Touch it.”
He almost made it sound like an invitation to sin. She poked the dough with her finger. It gave to her touch unlike any other dough she’d ever felt. Bubbles formed where she’d made contact.
“Tell me you have not felt anything softer.”
“I haven’t. Truly.”
“My bread lives and breathes like a human being,” he said. From anyone else it would have sounded crazy, but he meant it. On some level, she felt the same way about her own baking, although she would have described it differently.
“This is love,” he said and kissed the dough. “Now, let me show you how I wield my weapon.” He abruptly laughed and looked toward the ceiling. “Belle would call me…how do you say? On the carpet? For talking like that to a lady. But we bakers are a pretty dirty lot. Our bread dough reminds us of breasts, and it is our life’s work to craft a recipe that makes the perfect breast so we can play with it in the dark hours of the night. No wonder the priests used to make the bakers go to confession once a week.”
“I hadn’t heard that before.” Confession for bread making? She tried and failed to disguise her chuckle. “I’ll have to find another…ah…goal to inspire me.”
“Yeah, it does not work the same for a woman,” he said, putting the dough in the center of the floured surface of a well-used pastry cloth. “It’s said the first great male bakers in France were monks. I always thought it was one of the few good outcomes of a vow
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