Under the spell of the baguette

I don’t know how it started, but I’m in a bread phase right now. The thought of a warm, crusty baguette immediately puts me in a good mood. And I’ve never been a bread person. My choice of carbs has always revolved around rice or noodles - food that you eat on a plate. I never saw the appeal of eating a sandwich for lunch. How does one do that? 

It’s neither formal, nor casual. It’s weird when it’s plated, it’s messy when it’s wrapped. It feels like an on-the-go type of food that requires skill to eat, unless you have the jaws of an alligator. 

But somehow, I’ve found myself hooked on this humble piece of carb. I work down the road from a bakery, and as part of my commute to and from the office, I pass by this store. It’s become almost second nature to walk into this bakery after a day’s work and pick up a baguette. If I’m feeling fancy, it’s a batard, or a pain de campagne. Some days even naan. They have absolutely everything. Most days I go in without a plan and grab the first loaf that catches my eye. 

All the way home, I’m fixated on what to do with this bread. It’s become my art form and my creative outlet - to work out a meal with whatever I can rummage from the fridge. I don’t remember the first time I did it, but I knew how much I enjoyed the process of creating a sandwich. Maybe that’s the thing with bread - it’s not so much the final outcome of it, it’s the art of layering, of toasting, of playing with textures and colours. It’s finding that sweet spot where every ingredient needs to harmonise in that one bite. 

A few weeks ago, I made a sandwich with the leftovers I had. It was slathered with a beetroot yoghurt that had seen better days, butter beans I had used as a main elsewhere, mushrooms that were long forgotten, a sad, lone cucumber begging to be used, and capers that were just there. Honestly, I was skeptical about how it was all going to come together, but hopeful because I couldn’t picture using them up any other way. 

In that first bite, I felt like I was transported to sandwich heaven. I understood what every ingredient was doing. Nothing felt out of place. In between the crusty layers of bread, every ingredient sang its own notes, some louder, some softer, but the song was perfect. It was the sandwich I was most proud of, because it was completely my own, completely crafted from forgotten rejects into a powerhouse band. 

My hands were a mess by the time I had devoured the sandwich. But I didn’t care. It was worth it. In all my sandwich-eating years, I missed out on the point of a sandwich. I forced a sandwich into its wrapper when it needed to spill out, I used cutlery for a sandwich that called to be eaten with hands. I saw it as a hassle when its fillings fell out. 

But a sandwich is a sandwich. And can only be appreciated by those who see it for its full potential. Those who embrace the messiness because they know a good song is just around the corner.