There once was a village nestled high in the mountains
where the snow
melted down through a stream
and the water was
sharp and clean and magnificently pure,
and it powered a
stone water mill on its way.
The village had
fields of wondrous, golden wheat
which made the most
exceptional flour
and nearby were
lavender and rhododendron abustle with bees
who feasted on the
nectar, and made delicate honey.
There were salt pans
nearby; a small farm in the hills;
a brewery, a winery,
an inn;
and a bakery, where
Papa Boulanger worked all night
turning that flour
and water and salt and honey into magical things.
If he’d once had
another name, it was long forgotten
and he was not one
to speak of the past
he was four foot
tall in his stockinged feet
and wore scars on
his face, deep, long-healed.
Some said he had
once been a soldier. Maybe true,
but Papa Boulanger
was the greatest baker in France.
His eyes had been
sightless since anyone remembered;
he was albino, with
tight curls under his cap.
But – oh, the
things he could make! Pure delights -
croissants buttery,
flaky, sublime,
and the bread crust
snapped like gunshot to reveal
the spongy,
forgiving, delectable inside.
He did it all by
aroma, and taste, and the most acute hearing.
He could listen to
the fire crackle and deduce how hot it was
from ten yards away.
And he could hear the dough rising
and proving, and
living. He smiled as he worked.
He was the happiest
man in the village, and the quietest too.
Papa had a special
table outside the inn, which was sheltered
from sun and rain by
an overhanging eave.
There he would sit,
and listen, and sip brandy
as the village went
about its day. He would raise a glass
as the oxen
thundered past, taking wares to the markets
in neighbouring
hamlets; and he smiled on their return,
with their cart
laden with new linen, fashionable no doubt.
He would smoke a
cheroot or two, sip on some soup
at his lunch; then a
snooze, still at his seat.
As people passed
him, he half-roused from his slumber
and greeted them not
with names but their order,
and the time they
picked it up: “Seven thirty, pan de mie
and a honey
croissant on Sundays.” Or, “Six o’clock,
before work, for a
croque monsieur.” And, with a twinkle
of delight: “Three
AM for a twist to share.” To this last one
the young lovers
would blush: nobody else knew.
By midnight, he
would retire briefly to his room
above the oven, and
wash, and get changed into
his night’s
uniform. All was dark to him; he preferred to work
in the quiet of the
night: but it was not silent
at that time, there
was simply a lack of human noise
save the distant
carousing from the inn. And he fired up the oven,
and set to his task,
and into whichever reverie of his own
he disappeared.
Where he went, nobody ever knew.
Now, one evening a
businessman came into the village
travelling between
his newly-bought factories.
He had fancy
clothes, and lots of money,
and a loud voice
which spoke of strange things
and strange
vehicles, powered by coal, on straight rails,
travelling at
incredible speeds. Why, you could be in Paris
within the day, he
told the innkeeper. The inkeeper
nodded, and kept his
counsel: he was wondering why anyone
would even want to
do that. The businessman ordered
some stew, and some
bread, and drank the wonderful
red wine as he
waited. It was chalky, and mineral,
and berried, and
fruity, and quite the greatest he had tasted.
“Thank you,”
said the innkeeper. “We are very happy about it.”
The businessman took
another sip. It really was superb.
And he started to
think that this could make his fortune.
He asked how much
was left. The innkeeper brought
the rest of the
bottle out. “Ah, no,” the businessman laughed.
“How much of the
batch is left? I should wish to make a deal
for this; we could
sell this at great price in the city.”
And the innkeeper
laughed and shrugged. He had a cellar full
but that was for the
village until the next season. “Sorry, sir,”
said the innkeeper.
“You are out of luck. Enjoy it whilst we have it.
That is how we have
always thought of it.” And there was nothing
to be done but to
chuckle and sip another glass.
The businessman sat
down, and took a spoon of the stew.
Meat - maybe venison? - and root
vegetables, and quite delicious too.
Well, perhaps he was
somewhat in holiday mood
and perhaps, he
reasoned, that is why it all tastes so good.
Perhaps, perhaps
not. For when he reached for the bread
and, distracted,
ripped off a piece, he was quite unprepared
for what happened to
him. Thinking of his factories
he unsuspectingly
placed a morsel of bread in his mouth.
Immediately he was
transported. No longer was he sitting
at a rough-hewn
wooden table in a smoky provincial inn,
but he was a child
once again, running through a field
by his parents’
house outside the city,
and his childhood
dog, the faithful Pierre, jumping
with joy all around
him; there was a copse
where they
adventured a million stories, now pirates,
or soldiers, or
simply splashing through puddles
left by the late
summer rain. For the taste of the bread
was that of the
sandwiches his mother had packed
for him to sustain
his long battle campaigns. And tears
came to his eyes as
he remembered her smile
that he’d never
see again as long as he lived;
he could feel the
fur of Pierre, wiry and alive;
he could hear the
dog’s panting and rambunctious energy.
All that came from
one bite of the bread.
The businessman
opened his eyes, and realised
where he was. This
was more, he knew, than simply
being free and
travelling between his factories.
This was no vacation
infatuation. This was real.
“Innkeeper,” he
cried. “Wherever did you get this bread?”
“It is more than
extrordinary.” The innkeeper nodded.
“Yes,” he
replied. “We are quite proud of that too.
It is the work of
Papa Boulanger.”
“Well I must find
this man immediately,” said the businessman.
“I intend to make
him an extremely rich man.” The inkeeper smiled.
“Why, sir, you
passed him on the way in.”
But the businessman
did not recall seeing anyone.
Papa Boulanger of
course had heard it all, from his place
under the eaves. He
stretched out, and sighed, and took a drink
of his cognac.
Presently, as he expected, he was joined
by a stranger –
the businessman – mouth still full of bread.
“Sir,” said the
businessman. “This is the greatest baked good
I have ever tasted.
This is the work of a master. I should be honoured
if you would hear me
out. I feel we can change the world
one loaf at a time –
we can sell millions -
for the new railway
can carry these loaves across the country
and wherever people
are, they always need bread;
and this is more
than mere sustenance.” In truth
the businessman was
babbling somewhat.
He burbled about
riches and palaces and kings;
but like the brook,
he eventually came to a pool
where he stopped
talking. Papa Boulanger smiled and said,
“Thank you, but I
am already happy.”
And he stood up, and
bade the businessman goodbye
for it was time to
return to his room
to change his
clothes, and to briefly doze,
and to rise to set
the fire for the oven’s night’s work.
“Let me change
your mind,” the businessman called.
“You do not know
the world as I do.” But Papa had already gone
and was out of
earshot, by other people’s standards at least.
So he heard when the
businessman muttered to himself:
“If this bumpkin
fool will not go into business,
it is my duty to
myself to get his secrets. What an idiot
he must be to turn
down this once in a lifetime offer.”
The businessman went
back into the inn, and up to his own room.
There he schemed and
planned across a restless night.
He became angrier
every time he thought about how
with a soft voice,
his offer had been turned down.
Nobody did that to
him. He was the owner of many factories!
He moved in the
highest circles in town. He knew mayors
and majors and was
nobody’s marionette. These country folk
were stupid and
dangerous. How ridiculous of them
to keep their wine
and bread to themselves.
Who did they think
they were? And with such thoughts
he fell eventually
into intermittent sleep.
Papa Boulanger
worked on his pastries all night,
and his customers
came to collect at their appointed slot.
The businessman
awoke in malevolent mood.
This required
cunning beyond belief. He had landed in the village
on a whim; nobody knew he'd diverted his course, so he had time
to think of a way to come out on top.
But first –
breakfast – and despite himself
he devoured two rhododendron honey croissants. Freshly-made,
picked up as a special order by the
innkeeper’s wife not an hour before;
and each bite made
the traveller’s soul sing
of fields, golden,
of mountain dew, of delicate lavender days.
And his mood lifted;
he no longer wished anyone harm.
It was simplicity,
love, and a heart full of contentment:
oh, such pastries.
Such magic. That man was an artist.
And, so, after
eating, he sat outside, with his paperwork,
the morning sun
beginning to warm the graceful day,
to rounden the edges
of the sharp-edged mountain air.
He would ask the
baker once more. Perhaps he would repent.
Presently, Papa
Boulanger came to the inn for his lunch.
A bowl of vegetable
soup; some of his own bread.
He never paid, of
course. It was part of the arrangement.
And everyone in the village was party to an arrangement.
And he sat, and the
innkeeper brought him a brandy,
and Papa raised his
glass to the businessman nearby:
“Good day, two
croissants,” he said rather quietly.
“Ah, hullo Papa,”
came the reply, “They were wonderful,
which is my
privilege and your gift. Sir, I understand
that you are not
interested in my business idea.
Now hear me out once
more: you need do nothing
but sit here and
live your life how you wish,
which first I failed
to understand, but now I do.
It is to your credit
that you are content, and I can see why.
This village is
beautiful; there are swallows on the wing;
a man need go
nowhere else, if he pleased,
though for me I fear
I am different and must move on.
Therefore, what I
propose is that you simply
name your price for
the recipes that you follow.
I am, needless to
say, extremely rich, and so can you be.”
There fell a silence
for quite a long while. The businessman
nearly broke it, but
bit on his tongue. Papa Boulanger took
a spoonful of soup,
and mopped at his bowl with a chunk of bread.
“Thank you for
your offer,” he eventually said.
The businessman
leaned in to hear better, for Papa spoke so softly.
“But I am, as you
say, content. What would I do with all that money?
I have everything I
need. You have said it yourself. I wish you good luck
but I respectfully
decline.” And he fell silent again.
The businessman’s
heart sank. The bile began to rise.
His face reddened,
and, shaking, he tried not to speak
lest he shout
expletives and blasphemies beyond reason;
and he trembled, and
turned purple, and from his mouth
came blood and
guttural sounds of no known language,
and he fell, quite
dead, right there.
That night, the everlasting stew was replenished with meat.
And on the farm the pigs
crunched through sinew and bone again,
just like last time
and the time before that,
and so on and so on.
And the baker went about his work
with a smile, for
all he needed was right here in the village.
