All language subtitles for anthony.bourdain.no.reservations.s01e01.paris.why.the.french.don_t.suck

See, this is the way I wanted the show
to look.

Black and white, reminiscent of those
great flutist French films like Pablo

Flambeau. You know, sort of unflappable,
sort of sad, but fatalistic French

hero.

You know, every bad turn in life, just
another throw of the dice.

A shrug and a c 'est normal.

But unfortunately, I've got a couple of
big problems getting in the way of that

show. First...

Damn. Some Americans are starting to
think the French suck.

But I think we may be looking at them in
the wrong way, and thus not allowing

ourselves to experience the world.

What's the second you asked?

Unfortunately, this is television.

I'm Anthony Bourdain. I write, I travel,
I eat, and I'm hungry

for more.

Get lost!

No reservations.

New York to Paris.

Seven hours.

Welcome aboard.

Welcome aboard the spacious cabin.

This is the atmosphere on a jet -clipper
flight.

Delicious food adds to the enjoyment.

Karen, right away you're in the swim of
things.

Because once more you've landed
refreshed and with extra hours to do

want to do in a leisurely way.

Bullshit. The food was shockingly bad,
even for an airplane.

The seats, forget about it. I feel like
I've been chained to a radiator all

night. And now this?

Listen, I don't see anybody waiting for
me, okay? I've been waiting here an

hour. I'm freezing my ass off.

I'm going to end up taking a cab.

All right? I'll talk to you when I get
in.

Where's the guy who was supposed to meet
me here?

Damn.

I'm here, an American in Paris, to find
supporting evidence for a deeply felt

conviction. To make a difficult argument
in these unpleasantly francophobic

times. I call my thesis, Why the French
Don't Suck.

France needs me, I'm thinking, now more
than ever.

Why me?

Because I'm a cook.

Now, don't get me wrong.

The last thing Paris needs is me
slinging steak.

But as a cook, I like to think that I
recognize the true visionary glory of

France.

Hell, cooks may be the only people in
America right now who can understand how

far astray we've gone.

Sure, the French are renowned for their
culinary technique and invention.

But even more crucial, more precious, is
the sensual point of view behind it

that drives not only their cuisine, but
their entire existence.

It may just save the world.

So here I am.

But where's this guy my French teacher
was supposed to set me up with?

I wonder if this has anything to do with
my performance in class back in New

York.

Things didn't exactly get off to a
smooth start.

Comment dit -on, I have a hangover,
please kill me?

J 'ai une gueule de bois, s 'il vous
plaît, tuez -moi. Tuez -moi.

S 'il vous plaît, tuez -moi.

S 'il vous plaît, tuez -moi.

My French was a little rusty.

Okay, a lot rusty. So I signed myself up
for a refresher course.

Pardon me, but your baguette is poking
me in the genitals.

You go to Paris, you're at the top of
the Eiffel Tower, you eat, all the

tourists go. It's a very good
restaurant.

It's a French restaurant for tourists.

Listen, you're here to learn French, not
to discuss the quality of restaurants,

anyway.

Okay, so how was I supposed to know this
guy had a brother who works there?

I'm not sure I impressed him with my
command of the language.

I mean, I did my best to apologize.

After all I explained, I wanted to
explore the Paris of locals.

You know, show my countrymen why the
French don't fuck.

But I'm beginning to think that my guide
is going to be a no -show.

No problem. I'll do this on my own.

Page 54 in the guidebook.

Paris, France's 2 ,000 -year -old
capital.

The Eiffel Tower, Champs -Élysées, the
Louvre, Notre -Dame. Check in your

but get in line for the tower early
after making dinner reservations in

Wrong. Let's try that again.

Ah, Paris.

City of light.

City of love.

City of breakfast?

Yes, please.

The most important thing to do the
instant you arrive in Paris is stop.

Find someplace inviting and flip
comfortably into the Parisian pace of

The Royale, a typical neighborhood café
in the 7th district, isn't going to

attract a rush of tourists.

But it's the kind of local place that's
a mandatory staple in the daily routine

of the Parisians.

I mean, how come they're still in
possession by a larger neck than

short supply in my country?

I mean, they eat so well.

Duck fat.

Cream. Butter.

How do you explain this?

These are typically French healthy
breakfasts.

All the essential components of a
healthy breakfast.

Orange juice.

Coffee.

Quite small, and of course... Buttery,
flaky, offset with tarry, nicotine -y

goodness. Remember, kids, cigarettes can
kill.

Let's face it, do you really need a
Denny's grand final breakfast? A big

pancakes, bacon, two fried eggs, home
fries. And let's face it, home fries

aren't that good anyway. Especially when
you're looking forward to a monster

-sized lunch.

French dinners stretch out breakfast,
too.

Put in an hour doing this, easy.

People watching, pet the dog, read the
paper.

Take those typical young French lads
over there, for example.

They have an appreciation for life in
the moment.

It's important to sit still, to take
time, to notice the simple things.

Damn, I think they made me.

Oh yeah, they noticed me. Probably want
my article.

I'm published here, you know.

I better leave before I get mobbed by
fans.

I'm big in France.

Well, okay, not exactly Jerry Lewis big.
Maybe Mickey Rourke big.

Hasselhoff big?

Now be careful.

Since you've slowed down, you'll start
to notice all sorts of things around

Once you allow your senses to guide you
and not your itinerary, you may begin to

find pleasure in many things you would
ordinarily overlook.

The many sights, smells, and tastes on
the streets of Paris.

You try not to get run over while
gawking at things.

It's a dead giveaway you're an American.

You are now ready to begin to graze
through the wondrous sensual feasts that

elude so many of us when we take trips
here.

But first, you'll need a base of
operations, like a cool hotel haunted by

ghost of the dead writer who drank too
much absinthe.

Allegedly, this illegal psychoactive
beverage can still be found in certain

quarters. I fully intend to investigate.

Let's say you're like me. You're in
Paris and you've undergone the necessary

attitude adjustments.

It helps to choose your accommodations
wisely.

Some place with character.

Some place with history. In a cool
neighborhood that looks good.

Me, I always stay at L 'Hôtel in the
Saint -Germain -des -Prés.

A very discreet joint known for being a
love shack to the tragically hip for

ages. Even more importantly, it has the
necessary distinction of having had

famous people die there.

In 1900, author Oscar Wilde kicked the
bucket in room 15.

The same room I'm staying in, in fact.

This was his last base of operations for
a legendary three -year bender that

ended badly.

Oh well, I fully intend to honor Oscar
Wilde's good example.

But first, a little shut -eye.

Okay,

first, leave your guidebook in your
hotel.

It's very unfresh.

Pleasure is found in unexpected places.

Just let it happen.

I feel, not unusually for me, a natural
compulsion to seek out the dark side,

the forbidden, which is to say, the good
stuff.

I need a drink.

This place looks strangely familiar. I
like my kind of place.

Follow your instincts. That's what I
always say. What could possibly go

A whiskey?

American?

My accent give me away?

Pretty easily.

It's an absence sound.

Really? Yeah. This is the beverage that
allegedly drove people insane into

dissipation, suicide, despair, and
murder?

Yeah, a fun drink.

Oh, cool.

Yeah, I always make good bars. What's
your name, man?

Peter. Tommy. Nice to meet you. I do the
Nouveau Orleans.

Absinthe.

This is the legendarily destructive
beverage tasting of licorice and exotic

aromatics.

Its bizarre, heroin -like ritual
involving sugar and water not only

flavor, but results in a strange
outcome.

With a change in color comes the release
of the so -called Green Fairy.

Then, reputedly, a seductive fog of
hallucinations caused by the

toxin in Wormwood.

It supposedly caused a whole generation
of writers and artists to succumb to

madness and death.

It's still illegal to this day in the U
.S.

When did the notion get to take hold
that this was dangerous and unusual

It was toward the end of the 19th
century.

Between 1880 and 1910, you have what
they called a collective binge.

Because it's just too damn easy to
drink.

And that's where the spoon comes in with
the sugar, because when you add sugar

to absinthe, you sense the alcohol in it
even less.

Because... Absinthe was so high in
alcohol, it was considered to be the bad

of all of them. So, what about the
hallucinations? The madness?

Was it just garden variety alcoholism?

It does have a chemical in it which can
cause epileptic fits.

But the amount that you have to take is
equivalent to somewhere around 200

glasses. I think we will fall well short
of that.

All right.

Oh, yeah, I see the problem. It's like
drinking lemonade, basically.

You're looking at about 20%, 25 %
alcohol.

Tomorrow, as I wake up in a pool of my
own vomit, the first words out of my

mouth will be, Mmm, licorice.

At least you'll have nice breath.

That's so important.

You can't say that with tequila in the
morning.

Yeah. Are there still original bottles
around?

It's very, very difficult to find, but I
happen to have a couple of them.

Oh, really?

I do.

As it turns out, this guy Peter is an
artisanal absinthe distiller.

He explains he can buy absinthe in
stores all over France.

Well, not all absinthe.

He takes me to a friend's shop to try a
bottle of the original old stuff, which

is still illegal even in France.

This is a bottle that dates from about
1910.

Now, is this technically legal? The
product that we have in the bottle there

technically not legal.

European laws only allow newly produced
absinthe. The old stuff keeps its bad

reputation. Cool.

Breaking the law. Breaking the law.
Okay, I'm psyched.

First of all, you're going to see that
the color is a nice kind of deep amber,

almost a whiskey color, but originally
that absence was green.

A fog is formed in the absence when the
water mixes with its essential oils.

It will start from the bottom of the
glass and then work its way up.

This is what gave rise to the idea of
the fairy leaving the drink.

I don't know why, I suddenly feel like I
have to go to the bathroom.

Nice and strong.

It's not bitter at all.

Light, herbal flavors are mixed with
more earthy ones like anise and fennel.

It's a happiness.

Eight or nine glasses of absinthe later,
who was really counting anyway, I

stumble out to find it raining. So I
catch a taxi, an easy way to get around

Paris.

As the city outside the windshield
becomes awash of color and light, I feel

good. I feel really good.

And I remember thinking something like,
I feel a bit lightheaded.

I wonder if it's the absinthe. Damn it,
did I just think that or say it?

Trouble sleeping back at the hotel.

Maybe I shouldn't have drank so much
absinthe.

It occurs to me that I'm here just after
the anniversary of Oscar Wilde's death.

As he lay here dying, he said, my
wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to

death. One of us has got to go.

Oscar was an absent thinker.

Oscar?

I'm starting to feel a little strange.

Maybe I shouldn't have drank so much.

Another

great

feature of Lotte, a basement pool,
perfect for clearing your head.

After bobbing around for 20 or 30
minutes and some quiet reflection, I

know what will set me right.

Tomorrow, a gargantuan meal at a hundred
-year -old bistro. A typical Parisian

lunch.

What the?

Hey, look out!

I definitely need something to take the
edge off.

To the French, the senses are
everything.

They're almost the sole reason for human
existence, and of particular importance

is the sense of taste.

Today, I hope to better explain the
origins of this enlightened philosophy.

That is, if my own senses aren't already
too numb.

Uh, isn't it supposed to be April when
you come to Paris?

See Tony, see Tony confused, standing
around, breezy.

You need a hot chocolate and a couple of
flat chicks.

I'm cold.

Being determined to carry on, I decide
to visit what I humbly consider to be

of the most historically significant
spots in all of Western civilization.

So here we are, all that's left of Lael.

once the thriving and rather incredible
central marketplace of Paris.

It was a groundbreaking, revolutionary
development of centralizing the market

into ales, or the closest word I can
think of are pavilions, these vast

iron and glass structures, each one
dedicated to a different type of food.

you'd have the meat pavilion, produce,
hooves, guts, and snouts pavilion. I

cannot describe to you how huge the
original ales was. I mean, endless

subcellars and underground vaults. Above
ground, avenues would radiate out for

horse -drawn carts.

It would stretch all the way out into
the countryside and beyond.

Sola referred to it as the belly of
Paris.

Prior to that, by the way, it was where
they lopped off the heads of the

aristocracy on the guillotine. This was
a big public square where hordes of

hooting proletariat would watch the
heads roll in the baskets.

Those were happier times.

You know, if Enron had existed back in
the mid -18th century, they'd lop

their... and heads off in public.

You know, if you close your eyes,
imagine you can almost hear the

roar of the crowd as yet another
royalist head falls off the guillotine

rolls into the basket.

Whether you've had a hard day chopping
off heads or just slicing up beef,

work up a mean appetite.

So small bistros sprang up all around
layout.

Bistros like the 100 -year -old Chez
Denise.

Necessity is the engine that has driven
all great cuisines throughout history.

While the dumbass aristocracy was
gorging itself on filet mignon lobsters,

masses had to learn how to cook, how to
take a chunk of neck or shank and turn

it into something magical. And over pots
of... Deeming economy cuts, they

planned a revolution.

Well, today at Chez Denise, they proudly
continue the tradition of serving these

historic blue -collar creations.

I love my job.

I'll drink a whole bottle and then we'll
go terrorize Johnny Depp. So, dude,

like, why'd you move to, like, France,
man?

I'm sure he'd appreciate that, don't
you?

Now look closely.

When you're eating in France, you'll
notice something different.

It's a far cry from what we so often
find ourselves doing, joylessly chawing

our food like unappreciative doomed
cattle.

To the French, a meal is not just a
meal. It means something.

There's a dialogue between the chef, the
dish, and the diner.

There's a look of excitement as the food
arrives, of anticipation.

Food is important.

It's part of their collective history.

Voilà, mon ami.

Look at this. This is lunch for work.
Okay, this is like ginormous. So this is

blanquette de veau, blanquette de veau
blanc, meaning white.

Look at those big hunks of veal, slowly,
slowly cooked in either stock.

or more often than not, water. The sauce
is enriched with cream, sometimes egg.

I'm guessing this recipe has basically
not changed in over 100 years.

Man, is that good.

See, for me, this was the true and
enduring glory of perhaps this kind of

You know, the hell with painfully
stacked towers of foie gras, food

tormented into metal rings so it stands
up stiff.

If it takes the waiter longer to
describe the dish than it takes me to

something's wrong here.

Oh, yeah,

that's a ticket.

12 .45.

I've already eaten, like, by volume.
It's like a small economy car.

Half a bottle of wine, a fairly good
portion of rum.

I'm guessing that late in the afternoon,
productivity levels declined slightly.

Certainly by the time everyone drinks
their digestif, because in France, they

believe quite correctly that spirits aid
digestion.

Not bad.

As I digest, my waiter, you know, mon
ami, suggests that I might like to see

their wine cellar. And the bartender
insists that I climb down below the

restaurant. Okay.

Okay.

There's a lot of folklore associated
with a spot like this because a lot of

underground walls.

It's very, very old. Very old.

We're talking like 1500s here, dude. In
case of war, we can drink.

Now that's French.

And at a perfect 52 degrees year -round,
all these rare bottles of wine will

last indefinitely.

But the ground below Paris has been used
for more than wine storage.

In the 1780s, it was overflowing with
corpses. It got so bad, they moved the

remains of millions of dead Parisians to
underground quarries known as

catacombs.

It's Joan Rivers.

Apparently, they missed a few. Lara
Flynn Boyle.

A garçon?

A waiter?

Denise?

Something smells like... I'm in the
sewers.

I wonder if this has anything to do with
me being American.

I wonder if they're still pissed about
the whole Freedom Fries thing.

There's actually a group of people
called the Cataphiles who wander around

here for fun.

There are over 1 ,300 miles of sewer
tunnels, 124 miles of subway tracks, 185

miles of catacombs filled with dead
bodies.

And they crisscross randomly.

They say the Nazis built secret bunkers
down here during the occupation.

So, Paris is where?

Ah, look, the entrance to the public
sewer museum.

Oh well, at least I'm up at the perfect
hour to explore Rungis Market. That's

the modern replacement for Layal.

And it's game season, and that means
fur, feathers, and fleece.

After a night spent wandering witlessly
through the ooze of the Parisian sewer

system, I've emerged into that tranquil
quiet between the retiring of the night

owls and the rising of the morning
workers, when all Paris sleeps.

Unless, that is, you work in the food
industry.

Oh yeah, 5 .30 in the morning. Here we
are, the romantic part of town.

Rungis Market.

The new belly of Paris, where the food
comes from.

This is the modern replacement for the
historic but overburdened Layal Market.

After hosing down, I get outfitted with
the latest in mandatory meat market

chic.

Hi, I'm Anthony Bourdain for Scott
Tissue.

Triple fly baby for comfort.

Don't have a square to spare?

No problem with the latest Parisian
fashion.

I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV.

Where's my rubber gloves? I really feel
like I should be going to nap.

Turn left and cough.

One of my constant complaints with my
countrymen is that on vacation we so

travel like sheep, blissfully allowing
ourselves to be herded from location to

location during prescribed hours.

Never having meal fun.

or seeing the real thing.

But if you really want to understand the
soul of a people, sometimes you just

have to get up early and get away from
the tour bun.

The best place to do that is almost
always the market.

So when Lael closed, this became the new
belly of Paris. This is the more modern

version, essentially.

Exactly. Pretty much set up the same
way. You've got a lot of the same

lot of the same families who've been
there forever, and they just moved over

here now.

Louisa is a fellow cook currently
working at a bunch of three -star joints

in Paris and someone uniquely suited to
show me around Rungy.

The amazing thing is that they said that
they pretty much closely all moved

everything in one night. One night?
We're talking 15 ,000 employees with

millions of tons of food, occupying 1 .2
square miles.

In France, food distribution is a
calling. It better be fresh, it better

good, and it better be furry. Wild boar.

I'm shocked that it can come in still in
the fur.

Yeah? They look mean.

Yeah. These guys will charge you, I'm
told.

You do not want one of these things
gnawing on your calf or any other part

your body.

The fur means freshness.

Has four legs, slower and stupider than
you, and tastes reasonably good.

It has the salt.

I love how they package it for the
holidays, you know. Let's put it this

kids. If your presents are a little late
this year, now you know why.

Santa cut Rudolph's head off.

Bad Santa.

Okay, before I get 6 ,000 letters from
animal rights activists, I humbly

the French are much more respectful than
we are.

They don't waste here. They respect the
ingredients. This is not factory farm

food.

I like the plumage. I know.

Oh, yeah.

Those are beautiful.

Here, food is not something meant to be
shrink -wrapped into anonymous parcels.

identifiable only by pre -printed
labels.

It's something to be respected and
celebrated for what it is.

Really just here at the good time
because it's really like... Right in the

of game season. Exactly, exactly.

We don't really have this kind of
seasonality in American meat markets.

You know, it's game season. Time to eat
game. A lot of game.

That's very French.

You know, ye what's good when it's good.

Pigeon. Little known fact, pigeons you
see in New York, in your local park,

originally imported to America as food.
And they're quite delicious.

I'm a little hungry.

And I'm guessing that breakfast around
here, I'm guessing meat is involved.

I'm up for the roast beef sandwich.

Okay, me too.

Welcome to Butcherland, Paris' only all
-meat worker bar in the fashionable

Rungy's Market District.

Open late till 9 a .m. Don't forget your
bloody apron.

Another prime example of eating what's
good where it's good.

We're in a gigantic warehouse full of
premium meat.

So, what do you think's on the breakfast
menu?

Oh yeah, that is the breakfast of
champions.

Cheers. Cheers.

That's a healthy breakfast.

You're fucking curious.

See, this really is a mood improver,
I've got to tell you. And I can use my

jacket as a napkin.

What's French about this room?

Literally from the ground up, you know,
the floor is like covered with cigarette

butts. I mean, the fact that there is
just such conviviality, you know.

There's not much of a sense of urgency
out there.

But in here, they're freaking out.
Where's my wine?

Give me my sandwich.

Drinking wine at...

7 o 'clock in the morning. It is after
work for most of these guys. Well, no,

this is during work. I'm like, if I was
a guy running one of the stalls out

there, I'd be like, what are you doing
in there drinking wine? But they're all

totally cool about it, and they're
probably in here with their bosses, and

bosses probably realize that it's a good
thing for them to have a glass of wine

or two.

Oh, yeah.

The day stretches out before me in a
much more favorable light now.

Parisians understandably tend to get
sentimental when thinking back on the

original layout marketplace.

But it did have a darker side.

A nasty little problem that contributed
to its demise.

In a word, rats.

Lots of rats.

Hi, I'm Rocco Dispirito. I'd like to
invite you to my new theme restaurant.

Rat Kebab, Rat Zeroni, Rat Tattooie, and
it's all here.

Braised, broiled.

Grilled. Be sure to drop by our all -you
-can -eat mouse bar. You'll get your

choice of dressing.

And by the way, those aren't currants.
Those are mouse droppings.

Rocco's. Rats -a -rific restaurant.

It's rat -a -licious.

10 p .m. The Parisian dinner hour.

And you're hungry.

So, how do you begin to dine like they
do?

Stop playing by your own rules.

It's a common traveler's dilemma.

You hear about a local joint that you've
just got to check out, and well, you

hesitate. You don't have the thunk. It's
not easy pushing your way through the

front door of some new place.

You don't know what waits for you.

Is it going to be one of those cowboy
moments where you walk in and everybody

turns around and looks at you? You can't
turn on your heels then and say, oop,

wrong place and leave.

You're in.

But once in, especially in a place like
Chez Robert and Louise, you're rewarded

with a truly local experience.

Sadly, Robert has passed away, but
Madame Louise still quietly carries on

many -year legacy of cooking home -style
country food.

I'm joined by my Parisian friend, Alex,
just back from a trip abroad and hungry

for a taste of home. Alex, is this an
unusual arrangement? Is this type of

place? Is this old school?

It's old school. It's the bastion of
French culinary tradition.

I mean, it would be impossible to have a
business like this in the States. A

wood -burning fire.

Illegal. The meat? Illegal. The dog?

Illegal. The jeans sitting out
uncovered?

Illegal. Basically, everything that
makes this place good.

would be illegal in this state.

It's always been the same, and it's just
their simplicity and the traditional

cuisine that they cook is the key to
their success.

Chefs play this game where they ask each
other, what would be your last meal on

death row?

Almost always, the answer is something
simple and hearty that mom made.

Well... Here they serve what little
French boys wanted for dinner. That is

really sexy looking.

This is boudin noir. It's basically a
blood sausage made from pig's blood and

onions.

Crispy on the outside. And it's almost
creamy in the center.

Frightening to the uninitiated, but man,
once you eat it, you're hooked. And

this is fromage de tête, which is, well,
head cheese.

You basically cook your pig's head and
you strip off all the meat, the tongue,

everything. And you pack it into a
tureen.

with some aspic. There you go.

Aspic is a clear meat jelly or
gelatinized broth.

This is seriously old school.

You're not going to find this next to
the jalapeno poppers at TGI McFunster's.

Oh, good.

It's basically a massive rib steak for
two.

And a little celery here, a little gray
sea salt.

I guess the potatoes are cooked with
wheat grease.

And that's the best.

This is my idea of the perfect plate. In
a wooden cutting board with a little

gutter in it for the blood to run into.

The whole plate should be like this.

I love this whole notion of, you know,
the dark street, no big sign, you know,

curtains drawn out front, step inside
your room, you're in another world. I

mean, this is the way to eat. It's about
food.

Lucky to be born a Frenchman.

Welcome to the booth.

Sometimes you see the uninviting door
and just have to go through it.

3 a .m.

What to do?

What to do?

Not quite ready to go back to the hotel
and tangle with Oscar Wilde again.

Let's see, who's up at this hour?

I smell fresh bread bacon.

Bacon.

Is there anything more emblematic, more
sinful to France's greatness than the

appreciation of long, thin, crusty
loaves of brilliantly made bread?

The baguette.

There's only two things wrong with
bakers. One, I can't do what they do.

two, they get up too damn early in the
morning.

The things to do, a good cup of coffee.

My coffee is very bottom.

Boulangers, that's bakers to you, live
life in the shadows, toiling away in the

pre -dawn hours.

They're a passionate breed.

Pascal Pinot is a prime example.

Excuse me, I didn't take my medicine
this morning.

He has not taken his Valium.

Pascal worked as a chef instructor at
the world -renowned Cordon Bleu.

left to open up a bakery with his
brother, Jean -Marc. Jean -Marc is a

businessman. A little bit he's the
brain, and I am the hand.

This is a man with a calling to make
great pastries and great bread.

Look where the dough starts right there.

Notice that bakers always have big upper
body strength, big arms and shoulders

and forearms.

While drunk and belligerent, never mess
with a baker.

Once they get their thumbs around your
neck, you're toast.

Getting hungry, dude.

The big shop at school, everybody gained
like eight pounds.

Because you're starving first thing in
the morning, you haven't had anything.

It starts being really cold.

In France, the most popular is...

It's the baguette. This kind of baguette
is a traditional baguette.

We're following the whole process.

Last night, dough was made.

The whole batch of dough.

Scaled today.

Formed.

Approved. The individual lows allowed to
rise.

How many baguettes do you sell every
day?

About 200.

Profit margin on bread is...

Finally, it goes me up.

I have to believe that money isn't
Pascal's prime motivation.

It's probably the craze hell -bent focus
on quality, on baking really good

bread. That must be what gets him out of
bed at this obscene hour.

Cooking time is about 20 minutes.

That's got to be one of the best smells
on earth.

This is a mystery about the French that
I'm always curious about.

They always know when the bread is
coming out.

I never know the schedule, but the
French always know.

It's like crackhead for the Parisian out
there. It's like, where is it?

Where is it?

It takes a special person to make the
very simple thing correctly.

That's worth waiting for. That's good.

So beautiful.

Bread is existential for the French.

I eat bread, therefore I am.

Not just a piece of bread.

It's a piece of bread.

It's no accident that the institution,
the café, is so closely associated with

the French.

What do we have here? We have a cup of
coffee and a ham sandwich.

Basically, a row of chairs all pointing
in one direction.

A little table staring out into the
street.

What a simple thing. Sit in a chair and
observe the simplest of life's

pleasures.

And yet, for most Parisians, or many
Parisians, this can be an afternoon's

entertainment. And I think this gets
right to the kernel of what

the french what are the french famous
for perfume that smells good sense of

smell food that tastes good sense of
taste art architecture visual

sense okay there's really no explanation
for their crap pop music but you know

three out of four is not bad these are
all matters of defensive just their

attitude towards pleasure and sensuality
and food in general being the best

example

In the English -speaking world, there's
always been a certain ambivalence about

taking pleasure at the table.

There's been this notion, this
puritanical notion, that if you take too

pleasure in your food, that it might
somehow lead to bad character, might

to harder stuff, like sex, for instance.

I think the French have always
understood that, yeah, hell yeah, it

sex, and it should.

That residual sense of food being good,
food being important, food being worth

waiting for, and food being worth
spending time with, eating,

is and should be a joyous occasion.

As should the use of all your senses.

So America, perhaps you should try it.

Maybe duck out of the office when the
boss isn't looking, or call in sick for

that boring meeting.

Pull up a chair at a local joint, grab a
tasty beverage, and eat a ham sandwich.

Really eat a ham sandwich.

You just may find you not only love the
French again, but you may also love

life, and ultimately the world.