Light, Dancing on Water

We did not discover the bakery, behind the Boisières, until the weekend; we smelled something delicious, and investigated. It was not a large space, tucked into the back of the square behind the Rue des Bourdonnais, but fronted with glass, and polished marble floors. There were wide, tall counters, and shining, gold-coloured fittings; the cases held an array of cakes we had not seen before. What colours, what scents! What was a mille-feuille, and what was a Napoléon? We did not know; we could only guess. There were charming, round wheels of red, labelled "tartes aux fraises", which resembled nothing I had experienced on the farm, or in Chicago.
That was on the left; the bread, which enticed us further, was on the right. A myriad assortment of croissants, pain au raisin, au chocolat, drew us upon it, and we savoured it for long, precious moments before we chose.
I had selected, I think, a plain croissant, au jambon et fromage, for my luncheon; I thought it a good treat for the day.
There was a hush, a pause in the conversation; Michael turned to me and said, "Something is coming out of the oven."
We both looked to the black opening, behind the counter, where Madame was holding the door.
There was a fine, hot scent of flour and heat and air, and the colour of the sky that is the French countryside, lavender, and poppies...and then the bread came forth, wrapped in white, solid paper and piping hot.
"Oh!" I cried out, "Oh! It is fresh, from the oven!"
It was so, and we each ordered a full baguette; we burned our fingers and laughed, it smelled so good. I had never smelled bread like this; where did such things come from? I was seventeen, shy and ignorant of the world, and the sensations it offered.
I was a young man, alone in a foreign country, for the first time, and I was buying bread.
We trotted happily out to the street, walking rapidly; I bit off a piece of the baguette.
The taste, in my mouth, was incomparable; I have not found its equal again. The crust was hard, but chewy; the bread was piping hot, and filled my mouth with its clean, fresh flavour. There was a scent of some seed or the other, and the lack of butter did not stop me.
"You're eating it without butter," Michael laughed, as we walked along the Rue Royale, "Don't you want some butter on that?"
"Oh, god no," I said, between mouthfuls. "It's wonderful!"
It was wonderful; it was good, and we enjoyed it every day, while we lived in Versailles, and even now, I remember.