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The surprising ‘sourdoughification’ of the Parisian boulangerie
A Paris-based baker reports on her competition: tradition-flouting ‘micro-boulangeries’
I have lived in Paris for more than a decade, working as a baker in a traditional boulangerie. I spend my days (and often my nights) in neon-lit, underground kitchens baking croissants and baguettes. Last year, when an intern at the boulangerie told me he hoped that his next job would allow him to work in natural light, I laughed. Above ground or during the daytime? Both, he replied. He went on to name several bakeries where this would be possible.
While I have been living the life of an industrious mole, a new trend has apparently mushroomed around Paris: micro-boulangeries. They look more San Francisco than Paris. No baguettes, no croissants and no breakfast at all, given they are closed in the morning. The ones our intern lusted after are only open from 4pm to 8pm because the baker, who is also the salesperson, bakes in the daytime.
Where I work, the word “boulangerie” is written six-foot-high on the side of the building. Inside, paintings of women cradling wheat sheaves. The micro-boulangeries are more subtle. They blend into residential neighbourhoods and back streets. Their flour is organic, made from ancient grains and probably by a “paysan”, grammatically a peasant, but in this case a farmer, as in farmers’ market.
In the micro-boulangerie, the shop counters double as work surfaces and the stainless steel cooling racks serve for presentation. The decor is spartan wood and white tile. Twenty-five-kilo sacks of flour sandbag one wall with handwritten labels: Barbu de Roussillon, Étoile de Choisy . . . names that evoke a fairytale past, in which the paysan has not discovered the printing press.
France is synonymous with its bread, but its history is complicated. Post-world war two, stronger wheat, adulterated flours and mechanisation leached out any flavour from the very white baguette. There have been improvements since then, but traditional boulangerie bread remains a fairly refined product. The micro-bakery is a minority second wave in defence of the individual farmer and baker, of good flour over convenience.
I went on a field trip. At one micro-boulangerie, I asked for a slice from a slab of bread as big as a pillow with a solid, golden crust. The crumb wasn’t pillowy, but springy, like a good mattress. Around Paris, I tasted a Khorasan loaf that was as tender and sweet as a scone. A brick of rye that was as solid as it should be. And a hearty square of focaccia with a tessellated onion topping. By 6.30pm, most of the stock was sold out.
I asked the pastry chef at my work how these bakeries made money with such small quantities. Short opening hours and no extra sales staff must be a huge saving. And while prices on labour-intensive baguettes and croissants remain low in most local bakeries (€1.25 and €1.30 respectively where I work), a Parisian will apparently pay more than €10 per kilo for sourdough and a story.
For a foreigner, I feel irrationally protective of France’s culinary heritage. I am wary of the coffeeshopification of the bakery, a flat, global aesthetic that is not very French. I would miss the superficial flakiness of the croissant, the ephemeral crackle of the baguette. But then I thought about waking up at 7am instead of 4am, about sunlight.
The pâtissier laughed at me. “You hate talking to people. Chacun son métier! Play to your strengths. Stick to your flour and water.”
Frances Leech is a baker and writer living in Paris
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