PBP 2019: Scary-good bike food

Enjoying my magic pastry from Boulangerie Lemaire Sizun on the return

Conversations quoted below were originally conducted in French; they're retold from memory here, and written in English.🗣🇫🇷

When you take a look back, French as the common language of France is a fairly recent turn of events, having been established just a couple of hundred years ago -- think letting them eat cake, democracy, and all that as the motivator to promote a common...er, lingua franca.

This movement to establish a nationwide common language came at the expense of regional tongues like Breton.

During the first mid-century runnings of PBP as an ACP event, some one million inhabitants of the course's region spoke the Breton language.

The Breton language has been well on the decline during most of the history of PBP, although in our day it is on the increase again, with some 200,000 contemporary speakers. You may not know it, but you're sure to encounter some people along the course who speak Breton. I did!

Now...we need a quick language + pastry detour as background for a conversation I had in Brittany on the return. Hang on tight; we'll be back on course in a sec.

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You see, there's this pastry that some of you may be familiar with, found in fancy bakeshops in the U.S. (and elsewhere), sold under a peculiar-looking name: kouign-amann. These words are from the Breton language, and they mean butter cake.

Here's a skillfully-made example from a local (to my U.S. home) bakery:

As delicious as they can be, this version usually seen in U.S. shops is like...I dunno, some kind of twisted weird pastry backronym or something. Don't get me wrong -- they're delicious! -- but they're not the real deal.

You see, the real deal -- the original -- is a full-sized cake, and is made very differently. It was invented by M. Yves René SCORDIA in 1860 in Douarnenez, Brittany, France. It was invented out of necessity, as M. SCORDIA was trying to rapidly get some additional product out the door on a day when they were selling out of regular pastries. The traditional kouign-amann is slapped together quickly; and although it's deceptively complicated to get right, it is not a delicate pastry compared to, say, the croissant.

I am a (virtual) student of patissiers bretons, and have worked hard -- through countless hours of watching & re-watching YouTube videos, and preparing some 50+ cakes over the past several years -- to be able to prepare a pretty good example. Here's what the original-style full cake looks like:

Now, this cake is considered the pastry of Brittany, and is a foundational component of the Breton regional identity. There is even an association whose mission is to protect the appellation kouign-amann, just as the name champagne is only allowed to be applied when narrow requirements are satisfied.

People in Brittany also do an individual version in the tradition of the original cake. This is often presented in a dense spiral form -- not the airy, four-fold-symmetry fancy version that is well-known in the U.S. (People do the fancy version in France, too, but it may be called a kouign-amann exotique -- and purists will vehemently decry the use of the words kouign-amann for this derivative delicacy.)

Examples of single-serving-sized kouign amann cakes, done in the traditional style.

Guess what? I enjoyed a kouign-amann during my 2019 PBP; let's get back to it.

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At a bakery in Sizun on the return (between Brest and Carhaix-Plouguer) I picked up a delicious veggie sandwich, a huge meringue, and an individual kouign-amann; see photo of the kouign-amann & link to this Sizun bakery at the top of this piece.

This kouign-amann was everything it was supposed to be: sweet and salty, crunchy and soft, and very dense; flavored of butter and caramel. A piece of heaven in Brittany.

Late Tuesday afternoon I parked my bike at the Saint-Nicolas-du-Pélem control. A French rider, adjacent, was tending to his bike, too. He was chatting with a couple of non-riders who were speaking Breton -- at him: they were teasing the rider (clearly a friend or acquaintance) because he could not speak Breton!

GPS trace of my visit to the control at Saint-Nicolas-du-Pélem on the return.

Because I'm there at PBP to experience everything I can -- especially to meet people from around the world -- I joined the conversation:

"I only know how to say one thing in Breton: kouign-amann."

These folks lit up with joy -- physically lifted, in body and expression -- as if they had felt seen, their Breton-ness recognized and validated. They sang out confirming tones of "Ahhhh!" and "Oui!"

I let them know that I'd enjoyed a kouign-amann earlier in the day, and that it had been fabulously delicious. (More smiles and confirmations.) I added:

"A bit heavy for bike food, but very delicious."

The non-rider closest to me laughed at this. He immediately echoed my sentiment via gentle sarcasm by saying:

"It's a great cycling food!"

The way he said it clearly indicated that he meant that this heavy pastry was not great cycling food. However, his mood instantly turned to one of intense self-reflection as he considered what he'd just said.

He then repeated the same words, as if hearing the words again would facilitate his re-examination of the phrase. This time, however, he did not laugh as he spoke; he put the words into the air as a plain statement to test the validity of the assertion originally made in jest:

"It's a great cycling food."

Upon considering the words this second time, his countenance changed again, indicating quite clearly that he had resolved this issue internally. He became gravely serious; he fixed his gaze deeply into my eyes, as if to glimpse my true soul as he began to speak once again, this time much more slowly and deliberately than the first two times:

"It's... a... great... cycling... food."

This was no longer a joke, no longer a reflection: it was now a challenge, and everything that would follow hinged upon my response to this challenge.

Clearly, to disagree would have had nothing to do with the nutritional suitability of butter, sugar, flour, butter-sugar-butter-butter-sugar & butter. To disagree would be to challenge the very Breton identity, his identity, his family, his family history, his pride for the history of the very land upon which we stood together at that very moment.

Our eyes still locked, I responded:

"Yes! It's a great cycling food."

He nodded to close the social loop -- to add terminating punctuation to my recognition and reflection of his proposition of the one true reality -- and to mark his challenge as resolved.

The palpable tension that had been created in the air between all participants in this conversation dissolved immediately, with everything now comfortably set right between us.

Have you tried a real kouign-amann in Brittany? It's a great cycling food.