After a long sleepless week-end, full of walking, sweating, showering, sweating, walking, sweating, and people-watching, I started my first workday in the back of the bakery at 4:30 in the morning and ended it around 2 pm today. Working in a bakery is hard work. A French bakery, no less. I was sweating up a storm before noon, and it rained today: the first break from the heat in days. I am the only girl amongst men in the back, not to mention the only girl less than 25 at the entire bakery. I felt like a sheep among wolves when I tiptoed in this morning -- in the midst of their huffing and puffing and grunting and smoking. It was weird. But by the afternoon, I had probably made 120 baguettes and was sitting at a table outside (their breakroom), getting secondhand smoke and drinking Sangria with them. It seems that in France, you're allowed to drink in front of your boss, who was there with us, laughing about whatever the heck they were going on about. That's another thing. My French was nonexistent today. They make fun of me for not understanding 100% of what they're saying, but they speak at the speed of Cheetah. That's damn fast. Plus, I guess there's an art to French mumbling, because I hear them mumble at each other in complete comprehension, but when I mumble, they look at me with pursed lips and a sour expression saying, "quoi?" But anyway, I guess I'll just have to deal with the language barrier and for now, proceed with pushing myself to learn more. I decided to make some drawings of my fellow male coworkers in order to better describe them to you, as each of them are quite different from one another - despite sharing that French blood. I don't mean to brag about my obvious skills in my major, but I think they're pretty darn accurate -- especially Béranger. Well, he's black. But. . . I felt it kind of inappropriate to, you know, color it in... because . . . you know.

Adrien

Adrien hails from the north of France. He's a bit of a culinary vagabond, so he claims. He travels around France, working at different places, never really settling down, and commutes from an apartment near Versailles. He cusses like it were a verbal tick, and talks like an announcer at the end of a commercial for NovaRing. He's a name dropper, moreso, he's a bit of a know-it-all, but he's nice, and likes to jokes with me, even if half of them are wasted on my blank expressions.

Pascal

Pascal is a quiet, older man, but he has a good heart. He has seven children, and lives about 5 minutes from the bakery. His primary job at the bakery is handling the oven, and baking the breads. He was the first to take me under his wing, so to speak, and let me handle the dough, and eventually work side by side with him. He wasn't territorial at all, and would watch over my shoulder as I messed up his precious baguettes, but would smile and say, "très bien, tu deviendra mieux!" He smokes. A lot. I counted at least 7 cigarettes, and I'm sure he smoked more after his shift was finished. I wish he would stop. I would like him to live so he can teach me more. . .plus his seven children would miss him.

Fréderich

Fréderich is the main pâtissier at the bakery. Unfortunately for me, he's not a very good one. I tried his macarons. And his presentations aren't the prettiest I've seen -- but I'm not the only one who thinks so, so I'm not just being a b*tch when I say that. Also, to further my argument, he doesn't use fresh fruits for his tarts or other pastries. He uses frozen raspberries and canned pears. I don't care if the syrup is more dense, I would never do that. You can make your syrup just as dense if you add like 3940 pounds of sugar. People don't do that because they don't want to see the crap they're eating. Fréderich is not as friendly as the other three. In fact, he's pretty condescending, or should I say, the classic idea of a French man? He talks like a bear. Literally, if you put a bear suit on him, you would never know the difference. I can't ever the hell understand what he's saying, yet he makes fun of me for it and then speaks to me in his muddled English, thinking that I'll understand that better. But, that sounds exponentially worse. I think one day I'll stay in the afternoon and school him in macarons. Sucker.

Béranger

You've met Béranger already. He's dearest to my heart, because he's like a big brother to me. He asks me quadruple times a day if I am hungry or thirsty. And 4/4 times he shoves something in my face -- a croissant, a coque-en-bouche, a bottle of water, coffee, ratatouille, half a baguette, and veggies. He's got patience like a saint, but will tell you when you're doing something wrong -- won't stop critiquing you until it's right. I don't mind that. He works in the afternoons, alone, while all the other bakers stop around 1 or 2 pm.


There you have it, my colleagues. What company, eh?