At a party, I met a baker. He said he did it all: bread, pastries, cookies, mini quiches. At Christmas, he made Yule logs. When some customers inquired about rugelach, he started making that.

How did he learn to make something he'd never made before? I asked. Did he use a cookbook?

Sometimes, he said, as a first step. But to get it right, he talked to other bakers, pros and amateurs. Grandmas. Grandpas. Asked them their tricks, their secrets.

Do they always tell you? I asked. Pretty much, he said. It's like the magician's code: other magicians will teach you illusions they'd never show to a layperson.

But once, he said, he was stymied. By a chocolate croissant from a patisserie in Nantes. The baker wasn't talking. Maybe it was a France/America thing, or maybe he was a secretive person.

So he watched their deliveries, found out what kind of chocolate they used, what kind of sugar. But the flour came in unmarked bags, and the baker brought it himself, in his little Renault van.

So he cased the baker's home, followed him whenever he went for a drive. Then one morning, in his work clothes, the baker headed out of town, taking a winding country road through farmland.

This is it, he thought. The pick-up. The special flour. But the baker must've spotted him, because he took evasive maneuvers, speeding through the curves in his little Renault van.

He considered giving up, thought this is going too far, but before he could let up on the pedal, a tractor snailed onto the road ahead, the Renault swerved unsteadily, then plonked onto its side and slid that way for what felt like half a mile, shedding debris.

The Nantes baker lived, but lost an arm, the one he'd been resting on the open window of his van. He took on an apprentice and was soon back at work, and my baker was too ashamed to pester him anymore.

But the apprentice, him he followed, and he did finally discover the source of the flour. He bought the apprentice some drinks at a nearby bar and, with the help of a 100-euro bribe, got the secret out of him. 

It was a one-of-a-kind flour, milled on-site, available only in limited quantities. He hounded the farmer until he gave him a small quantity to leave him in peace, and he snuck the small sack back into the States and made a batch of chocolate croissants with it. 

They were amazing, he said, and he gave them to bakers and chefs he knew to enjoy.

What about your customers? I asked.

I love my customers, he said. They're nice people. But they don't know a fucking thing about food.


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