We'd awakened early, before the clamor of the city's weekend had begun in earnest. Rose and I had met in high school French class, and now, decades later, she lives the dream as an ex-pat in Paris. At her neighborhood bakery, we purchased crusty baguettes still warm from the oven. Back at her apartment, her husband, whose family is from Brittany, laid out the table with the butter that is the pride of his birthplace. Then, while French pigeons cooed outside and strong coffee brewed on the Moka pot, we sat down and ate. And I don't know if anything else I've consumed in recent memory was as perfect and beautiful as that simple breakfast of fresh bread and creamy, salty butter.
What is it about bread and butter that hits the spot like nothing else in the world? Why is that specific combination just so damn good? To the western palate, few things are so ordinary and yet so evocative.
