In the early days of January, I had a little French adventure in Amsterdam. I am not French, but I do feel related to them, probably because of my family from the area around Maastricht, a very French city, including their cuisine.
Like the French, I love sourdough and I love rye bread, though I grew up to eat it without butter, but instead spread with apple syrup and either cured ham or cheese on top. For a special treat, we would have a local washed-rind cheese (called “Limburger” in English). It is a small cube-shaped soft cheese and so smelly that even Henry Miller wrote about it.
My grandfather often had it with a slice of headcheese, which is a terrine made of the parts of the head of the pig. Before my grandparents retired, my grandmother used to make her own from the pigs they had on their farm. I love how they really used all parts of the animal and made such delicious things with them.
I had seen on the internet that a bakery in Amsterdam sold my favourite rye bread. Fully rye (no wheat), sourdough, a moist crumb and a crisp crust. It is different from the German bread, that is a bit softer, denser with finer air bubbles and more sour, a different fermentation process. Both styles are absolutely lovely and very sustaining.
But I believe what really convinced me to visit, was that the bakery seemed to be run by young passionate bakers and that they had decorated the shop beautifully. It reminded me of alike bakeries in Paris and I loved the idea of fancying myself in Paris for a little bit.
On my first visit, December last year, I had had a plain brioche that I had savoured, dipping it into a café au lait. It had been one of those moments where I felt nourished body and soul, enjoying it with all my senses. I also took home the rye bread and it was pas mal, not bad at all in fact.
I wanted to return for the chestnut brioche. I love chestnuts. They represent everything beautiful about autumn: wet forests, rusty colours of red, brown and yellow, earthy smells of rotting leaves and crackling fires. In Athens, I like buying the chestnuts from small stalls that you find at every street corner. The vendors roast them over a charcoal fire, next to maize ears, then serve them to you in a Spongebob Squarepants paper bag.
Back in Amsterdam, I returned to the bakery on a cold, rainy morning during the first days of January. With Epiphany yet to come, the Christmas atmosphere was still going on and the bakery was now showcasing the French Kings’ cake, galette des rois. I sat down for a coffee with milk, a chestnut brioche to eat, and a brioche nature to take as a souvenir for later.
This time I paid more attention to the decoration, it was so enchantingly beautiful. The bar front was covered with terracotta tiles set to a fish grate pattern, a pattern, funnily enough, repeated in the ventilation holes of the fridge on the side. The colour terracotta was used throughout the interior and combined with turquoise for the windowpanes of the exterior facade as well as for the second base colour of their website. It seemed a common colour combination with the French, natural, warm and refreshing.
Inside, they had left some red bricks of the old house exposed, their horizontal masonry a variation to the diagonal fish grate pattern. The feel of the old stones added to the rustic activity of traditionally baked bread. For lamps, there were transparent crystal-like spheres hanging from the ceiling in a black metal frame. More glass was used for the display for the pastries on top of the bar. To sit down, there were black bistro chairs around small round tables, plywood benches against the walls with moss green rectangular pillows.
They were warm, classical, earthy colours, coming from a mix of rustic and modern materials, set in clean lines, clear, uncluttered, but not minimalistic. A lot of light entered the shop from the big window in front, facing a very typical busy street in the old centre of Amsterdam. Blending in with the busyness from the bakery, guests arriving in happy expectation, the personnel welcoming them warmly, the place felt comforting, open and modern.
It all looked picture perfect, including the tray of deliciousness in front of me, just like Instagram. I realised how hungry the long travel through the cold had made me. I took a sip from my coffee and bit into my chestnut brioche. Luscious, indulging and chestnutty. I loved it, and yet I did not like it at all. It was too creamy, too heavy, too much, not combining well with the milk in my coffee. And for a moment, I felt like I had failed Instagram perfection. Was something wrong with me?
I decided to simply save the chestnut filling for another moment and swap for the plain brioche. Dipping it into my coffee, I watched people coming in, personnel and customers wishing each other a happy New Year and so nice to see you again. Some were discussing what to have, others had come with a clear plan in mind.
A lovely couple sat down in front of me, enjoying their teas and pastries. I was taken by their enjoyment, their peace, their style. They made me smile for meeting my image of the French stereotype so perfectly, dressed like the French guests I had met while working in a hotel for a couple of months: simple and sophisticated, clear and elegant cut, beautiful materials.
After finishing my treats, I asked whether I could take some pictures. Not a very experienced photographer yet, I was trying to get the right angle, the right composition, an acceptable lighting. I didn’t really know what I was doing, but the personnel was very generous, obligingly going out of my way, where I had actually loved them in my photographs. The baker in the back happened to be carving the galettes des rois with beautiful patterns that very moment and was happy to show me his work. He made a beautiful model.
Two days later, I took out the chestnut brioche I had taken with me from the fridge, a happy souvenir from my visit to France. I wanted to learn from this piece of refined artisanry. The brioche dough was not as moist and light anymore but still good. I studied the filling. It reminded me of a crème pâtissière, a thickened vanilla custard, rich with cream and, in this case, chestnuts. I was wondering how they had filled it, how they had made the space inside the brioche. The bread looked as if it was baked with a hole in, but my plain brioche had not had any. How did they do it?
Allowing it to come to room temperature a bit, I tried it again. It was as rich as I remembered, incredibly indulging. And I was reminded of Pippi Longstocking, the young free-spirited girl from Astrid Lindgren’s children’s books. She was daring, disarming, sweet, naughty. She had orange hair and horizontal braids, a pirate for a father and a little monkey for a pet.
I used to love the television series made after the books. During an episode featuring her birthday, she had had her breakfast with a whole cake, appetisingly decorated with whipped cream and cherries and what not. Without hesitation, she took a chunk right from the centre of the cake, with a fork, with her hand, I don’t remember. I do remember that she whole-heartedly devoured it, covering herself in whipped cream, licking her fingers, completely taken with the enjoyment of it. There and then, I decided that one day, I would have myself a birthday breakfast exactly like that, enjoying it exactly like she did. Maybe this was my day.
An hour later, still dark, I opened the curtains, to sit down behind my desk and write this story. I still had some Christmas decorations and the lamp on my desk gave a warm atmospheric glow in the midst of the dark around. I finally looked outside and was completely surprised by the white landscape outside the window. The roofs, the windows, the gardens were all covered in twinkling snow. As if they had had a dusting of powdered sugar, or as if someone, while singing a soothing lullaby, had put the world to bed under a warm blanket made of ice. Now this silent peaceful world was waking me up, wishing me a happy morning.
I was overcome by its magic so powerfully that I forgot about everything going on in the world and myself. For a couple of seconds, it was Christmas all over again, as perfect as it could be and my only reality was the perfectly happy fairy tale laid out in front of me.
I wish you all a very happy New Year, filled with all the adventures and comings home you dream of. May it have light and love, safety and good health. That you may share peace and celebrations with loved ones and that you may have faith in yourself to do the things you want to do. Have a beautiful 2025.
Thank you so much for reading with me. I hope to see you all again very soon.
A special thanks to Brioche in Amsterdam for their kind hospitality and their generosity to let me make photos of their bakery and their people.
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