A Tale of Two Baguettes – Part III: Down On Her Luck, True To Her Self.

I've had just enough time to...  lament the passing of lost arts.

Taken in a in-store bakery in a hypermarket in Hanoi.

I was to learn why Paris’s sister chose to live in poverty in the outskirts rather than in the city. In her own way, she chose to be true to herself. She was down on her luck but tolerated no pity. “Judge me if you will but I’m no prostitute” she challenged me with her incisive eyes. I squirmed under her strong gaze. It was not what I meant but I did sound condescending.

We made up and parted on good terms. As I was leaving, she gave me a peck on the cheek and said “be careful of the city girls”. Before I could turn around, she has disappeared into the building. She is not one for long goodbyes.

In Hanoi, I was shocked by what I saw. The baguettes I have come to love so much reduced to mass produced buyers’ trap. The hypermarket called them “lost leader” using them as a hook to draw in the shopper. Paris’s sister may have lost much of the fine qualities of Paris but at least she retained her soul. Now, I understand what she meant by the word she spat out the word with such vehemence.

I took one bite and choked on it. This is just white bread disguised as a baguette. They are tasteless and soulless but people are queuing up to buy literally by the dozens attracted by the price. Would you believe a long baguette going for only USD 20 cents? After the shock, sadness set in as I looked at the happy shoppers. Have the world been degraded to such an extent that the only Art people recognized these days are the sign on the buck? The only music the jingles of the cash register?

Then I recall the journey of Paris to Saigon and Hanoi and know there is hope yet. That among us, there are still those who can see the romance in life and who can discern the taste of passion. I left Vietnam remembering Paris and her fine bread that taste like love.

A Tale of Two Baguettes – Part II: I Found Paris in Saigon.

I've had just enough time to...   meet her again in Saigon.

Taken in a bakery where I spent a lot of time

Years later, I found Paris in Saigon, the land of conical hats and floating “Ao Dai” (Vietnamese national costume). I could not believe how far she has fallen. She has put on weight and appeared shorter if that is possible. She plied her trade by the road side. My heart bled. What has Life done to my love to lay her so low?

She was almost weightless in my hand. But when I put her to my lips, a rush of nostalgic feelings overwhelmed me. The familiar taste I thought long lost brought me close to tears. It is the same yet different. The aroma is just as rich. No, more so; almost to the point of over-powering for there is the strong lingering scent of melancholy years mixed with regret. I embraced her tightly and caught this shout before it escaped my throat “this heart still beats!”

Taken in a bakery in Hanoi

In South Vietnam she now flourished. She still retained most of Paris in her but has adopted local Asian flare. The climate agreed with her and she bloomed. I left her in good health and a sad farewell. And I went to Hanoi where I met her sister.

At first I did not recognized her for she was in the company of several young men in leather jackets. They seemed to enjoy her company but I thought she was nothing like her sister or Paris. On first look there are some similarities but that is where it ends. She has none of her finesse or even smells the same. They even put sugar on her to sweeten her up like some cheap perfume.

What is sadder still is the poverty of the land she chose to stay. A runaway inflation has made her too expensive to be enjoyed. So she is found in the company of those few who can afford her and they treated her with disrespect. I would like to help but she does not want it out of pride or something else.  It was shaping to be a tragic tale but it is not the end…

A Tale of Two Baguettes – Part I: Remembering Paris for her Bread.

I've had just enough time to...   recall that morning in Paris.

Taken in a place where they made good bread.

I assure you I have the romance in me though it may not appear so, remembering Paris for her bread rather than the love she bestowed. It is not that I love her any less but I love her French bread more. I stood before Mona Lisa and thought of the bread I had the night before.

The crackle as I broke off a piece. The rush of freshly baked aroma intoxicated me. The crunch as I broke through the crust registered on my expectant teeth. My mouth water as I recall the sensual mastication between my lips. Did I say sensual? It was like the slipping of a soft hand into mine under the dim streetlight beneath the Paris moon. And my love affair started the night before in beautiful Lucerne.

I took the night train from there to reach Paris past midnight. A Vietnamese friend whom I had met only once stole me into a bakery at four in the morning to see how French bread was made. I speak no French but beauty needs no interpretation. I saw how strong hands tenderly coached the dough to shape. How the assured flick of the wrist made the perfect cut. How the fiery oven bathed the bakery with an aroma made in heaven. I saw it all and I learned.

Many a year later, older now but no wiser. Many a love won and lost through countless waning and vexing of the flicker moon. After I left Paris and Paris left me. I still remembered that early morning when I fell in love in the bakery where they produced the perfect loaf. And though many praised the bread I made, I know in my heart that the perfect French Loaf can only be made in France for that is where its true heart is. Little was I to know that that is not where the story ends, so it continued…