I never wanted to go into the family business–then again, when your math skills are sub-par and the “family business” is an economic career you barely understand, it’s not a difficult decision to make. Add to that the fact that, especially in the States, we’re told we can “be whatever we want to be,” I was far more likely to go into a career as a ballet dancer than as a day trader… sorry, Dad.
It’s funny how much of who you become and what you do with your life depends on where you were born: had I been born in France, and especially into a family whose trade was less Wall Street and more Avenue du Roussillon, I probably would have ended up following in my father’s footsteps. Take, for example, the people who work at Bertrand Bergé, our local winery we’ve gotten to know so well for their Méconnu rosé and their friendly smiles every time we pass. Jérome and Sabine inherited this business from Jérome’s parents, who still work with them. Sabine’s parents take care of the children, doing their own part to make sure the business survives.
I don’t know what the two little ones will do when they grow up–I know that our “you can be anything” mentality hasn’t quite infiltrated the French system, even if it is catching on with every new generation. Suffice to say, Gabby and Mathilde have an open spot in the wine industry if they want it… and seeing as it’s a business that surrounded them as they grew up, the technical terms for winemaking as much a part of their vocabulary as any other simple words we hear at our parents’ knees, I don’t see why they would want to do anything else.
That is… unless they want to go into the bakery and pastry industry: the other family business, as we learned a few days ago, when Jacques, Sabine’s uncle, invited the lot of us to come learn to bake bread.
Last year, we did something similar at the Moulin de Cucugnan, learning not only to bake bread but to mill flour. But the kids didn’t accroche, as we say here: there was something about the demonstration and discussion that left their eyes wandering, and we weren’t sure, when we left, if they understood why we brought them there at all.
The experience with Jacques, however, was nothing like this: a teacher as well as a boulanger, Jacques had prepared several projects for little hands to dig into, and as the dough from our sprouted wheat bread rose, there were fougasses to form and fill, pistachio and hazelnut breads to make and bake, aniseed rings to cover with eggwash and pearled sugar and watch rise.
And dough to poke… I promised one of the girls that someday I would find a way to fill a swimming pool with Jacques’ bread dough so that we could surround ourselves with it.
There was never a dull moment the entire afternoon: Sabine and Gabby had come along for the ride, and Gabby was one of the most fun to watch as the girls tried their hands at what, for Jacques, was second nature.
Sometimes the dough didn’t obey–c’est pas évident, faire du pain, but Jacques made it look so easy that the girls looked up in horror and confusion when the rolling pin stuck or the dough wouldn’t come off the table.
Even the Country Boy tried his hand at, what I learned, was a family business for him too: his grandfather was a baker. Even left-handed, he managed to load the baguettes and other treats in and out of the stiflingly hot oven.
I had a moment to talk to Jacques, and he explained his search for an exchange program with the States: his school is already sending and receiving students in exchange with Italy and Spain, and I racked my brain for names of culinary schools in New York, though my brain blocked when I considered the differences between the prim and pressed institutes (like the Cordon Bleu here in France) and this small school in the bled, the middle of nowhere in France. Somehow, though, I don’t think that New York students exported to the southern French wine country would mind all that much.
At the end, when everything had come out of the oven, Jacques reached for some crates to begin packing everything up, including an elephant he made in two seconds and a few deft movements with his hands and a sharp razor–bread is, after all, art, as he so perfectly and simply explained.
Jacques saw me snapping pictures, and he stepped in to rearrange all of the delicacies we had made, explaining how important it was to make everything look pretty. I couldn’t agree more.
When we returned to Paziols, we made one more stop: it was back to the other family business for us, where we picked up a few bottles of Méconnu rosé, which, with our fresh bread and some local goat’s cheese, made the perfect apéro and the perfect end to the day.
Boulangerie Prats Frères
91, avenue Jean Jaurès
Bages, Languedoc-Roussillon