Once upon a time, in a semester far, far away and across the seas, I was a bread snob with a capital S. I was constantly on the prowl for another tasty-looking baguette, another opportunity to literally sink my teeth into the crux of French
culinary culture. I actually carried around a reusable bag in my purse that served as a baguette-holding device in times of dire need.
Walking out of a boulangerie with a warm baguette nestled under my arm, I could think of nothing better than sitting down and dipping the bread into olive oil or sandwiching some cheese into the insides, or even just tearing off a portion with my teeth. Sunday brunch was always accompanied by at least four baguettes which were consumed faster than you could say bon appétit. Fresh, handmade, and coated very softly with flour, baguettes acted as my third utensil at every meal, standing by until the moment came when the last bit of sauce or soup called out “Mop me up!” and the baguette made its appearance acting as the handy plate cleaner.