Dead to me.
I wish it wasn’t so, but there it is. This is one of the breakfasts my Dad made one dark, winter’s morning in Paris. The photo still brings back feelings of the warm, cosy apartment and the cold, crisp streets of Paris.
We have camembert, bread, eggs, mushrooms and ham in Australia, but it just isn’t the same. In Paris, eating camembert with breakfast seemed logical, not over indulgent. Where else does the bread and camembert taste that amazing? It would almost be a crime not to eat it as often as you can.
One caveat: The bread basket in restaurants (sometimes for free, often it’s not – surprise) is generally a bit stale, so don’t judge French bread on that. It’s not a trip to Paris without gorging in every boulangerie and viennoiserie you set sight on anywyay.
Luckily the loaves are tiny, so you can eat three times as many small yet delicious slices and not feel bad at all! Quality rather than quantity seems to be a recurring theme with the French. We went to London after Paris and immediately I was struck about the jump in the size of bread but the sheer drop in the taste and quality.
So yes, French bread leaves Brisbane’s for dead. France is the home of the baguette, the brioche and the pain de campagne. Their croissants aux amandes were so good they bumped good ol’ chocolate croissants out of the top spot. What sort of baking wizardry can make the humble nut taste better than its chocolate rival? Who can compete with that?
What brings me home is bacon. No one in Europe seems to know how to do good bacon and so here I am, back at home (and err, because I missed everyone so much).