One finds French Bakeries in the oddest of places, and Chungju is more than a little odd. These shops all have something in common that make any world traveler feel immediately chez soi- pigs in a blanket. Yes, they religiously supply those greasy sticks of meat-like pâte wrapped in a flaky croissant which seem, for these shop-keepers, to conjure up the essence of french cuisine. Despite the time I lived in France, I'm not sure I share this sentiment.
Earlier that morning I had frightened some young Korean man by slipping in the door to his apartment building as he was leaving. Finally united, my comrade and I meandered our way about town, determined to find a proper Korean breakfast. It must have been nine in the morning and the humid heat was already stifling the streets. Obscured by the ever present haze, the sun glowed like a little dob of honey in the sky.
We had approached some older Korean gentlemen who were gathered around a plastic table with an umbrella and asked where we could get breakfast, or so we believed. They deliberated amicably amongst themselves for some time, presumably arguing about which was the best restaurant to go to. The antics reminded me of groups of older men anywhere. They sent us off, we supposed, two blocks up and to the right.
We found a pizza delivery joint there and, considering our hunger, we decided to order despite it not being very Korean. We pointed to an item on the menu and seemingly got an acknowledgment from the man who was working there. I breathed a sigh of relief. Aside from the jeju barley cream bread neither of us had eaten anything substantial since the flight. As we put down the menu he started speaking quickly in Korean and gesticulating incomprehensibly. Before I could make sense of it he was pushing us out the door and away he went on his scooter.
Slightly disheartened and not really desiring pizza anyway we sauntered on and enjoyed yet another awkward encounter. I went in to a shop to ask for directions, again, and had come upon a Korean couple. I greeted them before I realized they were both sitting over a bowl of soup- I suppose it must have been their breakfast. The woman stood, flustered, and greeted me curtly. Had I known how to apologize I would have as she shooed me out the door.
Ten minutes later, we were forgoing the artfully presented hot dog in a croissant for an enormous bear claw. What a pastry! I don't believe I've ever tasted one quite so good, even in the land of Gaul, and to top it off it was only $1.50. The coffee was surprisingly good as well. All in all, for having such a ridiculous name as 'Paris Baguette' (bah-gette, hoh hoh hoh!), this little cafe was a blessed oasis in a breakfast desert.
I find myself indebted to those forlorn francophiles who open pastry shops in the far corners of the earth, longing for the days they spent in Paris. As long as they're still around, I'll be well fed wherever I may go.
No comments:
Post a Comment