The Bread Baker’s Apprentice

At 3 o’clock in the morning, the church bell rang three times, even though the whole French village was fast asleep, shutters closed against the night air. A single street lamp flickered in front of the bakery. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked at the door. Having volunteered as the baker’s assistant, I hoped to uncover the secrets of French bread baking before returning to the United States. Well, I didn’t exactly volunteer; I begged. Monsieur le Boulanger reluctantly agreed, grumbling that it was impossible to learn how to bake good bread in just a few days.

“Be here at 3 o’clock in the morning,” he said, more as a challenge than a command. “We’ll see how you hold up.”

So here I white cap that some bakers wear—looked surprised to see me as he opened the door.