Papa Boulanger

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.