I man handled nearly every bag. Desperately searching for some kind of clue, I smoothed out the plastic hoping that the name of the magic ingredient was folded in the crease. I resorted to sticking my nose intimately close to the moisture-release holes trying to capture a whiff of raisin, chocolate, walnut, olive, something! What kind of bread was this?!?
I thought my antics had gone unnoticed. However, there was a Franprix employee lurking in the background enjoying la folie. He walked up and said the equivalent of: Are you sure you touched all of them? I laughed embarrassedly and started pointing to the different brown chunks inquiring: Qu'est-ce que c’est? Et ça? Et ça? Et ça? But before he revealed the secret, he wanted to know what I was: Vous êtes anglaise? Nope, not English, American.
He then went into a very long explanation to a coworker who was passing by, and probably couldn’t have given a damn considering she was on a break and had an entire orange in her mouth, about how wonderful Americans are and how we are such friendly and open people. I jokingly said, maybe the people, but not the president. He said that the administration and the people are not one in the same. And went on to say that Americans are some of the nicest people he had ever met. Ahhhhhhhh. How sweet! Then I told him to shut the f^(% up and tell me what was in the bread!!! Just kidding.
I’m in love with France (and the French) encore!