I seize my prize, which at only €1 feels like a laughable bargain, and pause only to read the essay posted out front lovingly detailing their vital statistics (organic bread flour of the highest quality, the finest French butter and a sourdough starter fed daily with milk are credited for the dough’s aromatic bouquet and lingering flavour), before taking it back to Eddy, patiently waiting in his by-now familiar role as pastry stand.
It’s a good’un, a firm 9/10. I know it as soon as I break the ends off. Extremely crisp, but still moist inside, it has the pleasingly bulbous shape of every good croissant I’ve had – mostly middle, tapering to crunchy ends, with minimal puffy no man’s land in between. The layers may not be perfect (too much squidge), but that’s what makes it so delicious. Hard though it is to stop eating, I carefully tuck the second half in my handlebar bag, sensing that finishing even the second-best croissant in Paris (Blé Sucré still ahead by a nose) may be an error this morning, and set off for my next destination.
*AOP (Appellation d’origine protégée) is the fancy EU Protected Designation of Origin label signifying produce of exceptional quality from a specific region. AOC (Appellation d’origine contrôlée) is the older French equivalent.
PAUSE-CAFÉ – The Croissant, Une Petite Histoire
Like many national emblems, a cursory glance into the history of the croissant reveals it to be a symbol of cultural appropriation of the most outrageous kind – the French take on the Austrian kipferl, brought west not by Marie Antoinette, as is often claimed, but by an enterprising Viennese baker, Auguste Zang, in the middle of the 19th century.
The first references to croissants occur in France in about 1850, classed, like English muffins, as a ‘fancy bread’, yet until the start of the 20th century, the term seems to have been used for almost any crescent-shaped bread or cake, and it’s not until 1906 that a recipe for the modern flaky version appears in print. According to Jim Chevallier, author of a book on the history of the croissant, Zang is also responsible for starting a trend for the glitzy, mirror-lined French patisserie we know and love today – before this time, the boulangerie was a distinctly rustic affair. Why he isn’t honoured with, at the very least, a statue underneath the Eiffel Tower I don’t know.
Though margarine was invented in France in the 19th century, the nature croissant has fallen out of favour in recent years, and you’re more likely to find straight croissant au beurre in boulangeries, though many still sell both – the margarine version is cheaper after all. Croissants are best enjoyed warm, before their crispness turns stale; any unsold stock will be stuffed with ham and cheese or drenched in sugar syrup and rebaked.
Next stop is the Boulangerie Anthony Bosson in the 5th; en route, I catch a brief glimpse of the Panthéon, which is about all I have time for in the way of sightseeing. This place is definitely fancier, with flavoured coffees and an orange juicing machine, and the croissant is a thing of beauty, the layers on the outside curled like a seashell, but it’s bready, almost fluffy, rather than elastic, though the flavour, which has a subtle but complex, almost winey sweetness, is more pleasing. At an ambitious €1.10, however, it’s not getting any more than 8/10 from me, and two-thirds of it joins Isabelle’s scantier remains in the bag.
After this (very slight) disappointment, I don’t have high hopes for my next port of call, Des Gâteaux et du Pain in the swanky 15th, for the sole reason that it feels like a high-end jeweller rather than a bakery – even the canopy, in light-sucking thick black canvas, feels beyond my means. Inside, it’s all black paint and marble, with the cakes spot-lit on the deep, glass-covered counter, and black-clad staff presiding over it all like security guards at the Louvre. Having parted with an eye-watering €1.50 (a record, though frankly I’m relieved not to be relieved of much more in there), I sneak off with it to the scrubby gardens opposite, where a man sleeps on a bench and mangy-looking pigeons gather at my feet. This one is more elegantly slender than the last two, with handsome tiger stripes. It screams dryness, but in fact, beneath the shatteringly brittle shell, almost deep-fried in its buttery crunch, it’s perfectly flaky, with the all-important core of damp dough that unfurls like a spiral in my teeth. Another 9/10, drawing with Blé Sucré as my favourite croissant of the trip so far (Isabelle’s is ever so slightly too doughy in the middle to approach perfection).
La Maison Pichard and Cyril Lignac have already sold out, so after a slightly flabby but tasty croissant at Maison Landemaine (8/10), last up for this morning, to my regret, is Laurent Duchêne, also in the 15th, whose window also puzzlingly proclaims the first prize for the AOC butter croissant in the Paris Île de France region. Duchêne’s cakes are things of precise beauty, but his croissant is a let-down. Again, the flavour is excellent, but the ends are dry, almost stale rather than crisp, and the middle fluffy rather than soft and moist; in this tough crowd, it’s a 7.5/10, though I suspect it would have scored a little higher earlier in the trip. Into the coffin it goes with all the others, and I heave myself heavily back into the saddle.
Butter Croissants
This is not a project to be undertaken lightly – you’ll need both time and patience with a rolling pin – but the results are very good indeed, as crisp and light on the outside as the Des Gâteaux et du Pain croissant, and as deliciously squidgy as the Blé Sucré version. Consume warm, preferably on a wall in the sun after an early-morning bike ride along with a plastic cup of terrible coffee.
Makes about 15
500g strong white flour, plus extra to dust
10g fast-action yeast
1 tsp salt
50g caster sugar
100g unsalted butter, softened and cut into small pieces
330g unsalted butter, cold
1 egg, beaten with a little water
For the starter
100g strong white flour
A pinch of fast-action yeast
To make the starter, put the 100g of strong white flour into a medium bowl with the pinch of yeast, then stir in 100ml of tepid water until you have a smooth mixture. Cover with a tea towel and leave at room temperature overnight until very bubbly.
Tip the remaining 500g of flour into the bowl of a food mixer, along with the remaining yeast, salt and sugar. Whisk briefly to combine, then tip in the starter, and add the 100g of softened butter and 150ml of tepid water. Mix on low speed for about 20 minutes, scraping down the bowl as required in order to incorporate all the flour; it’s quite a firm dough, so depending on the strength of your food mixer you may need to take it out and do the last bit by hand to stop it overheating.
Tip the dough on to a clean work surface. Take the left side and bring it into the middle, then do the same with the right side, as if you’re folding a letter. Repeat with the bottom and the top. Grease a large bowl and put the dough in it, fold side down. Cover with a tea towel and leave for 1 hour.
Meanwhile, roll out the 330g of cold butter between two large pieces of baking parchment or strong clingfilm to a rectangle about 17 x 19cm. (Start by whacking it with a rolling pin to help flatten it.) Refrigerate this, and line a smallish baking tin (I use one 30 x 21cm) with baking paper. Ensure you have enough space in the freezer for this with a square of dough on top.
Lightly flour a work surface and tip the dough out on to it. Pat it out to a rectangle about 25 x 19cm (I find it easier to have it landscape, rather than portrait), then put it into the lined tin. Cover with clingfilm and put into the freezer for 20 minutes.
Tip the dough back on to the lightly floured surface, and dust the top with flour. Roll out to a 40 x 20cm rectangle, about 1.5cm thick. Put the butter in the middle, short sides parallel to the short sides of the dough, then fold the two ends of the dough over the top to cover the butter, and press together to seal.
Turn the dough if necessary so that a short side is facing you, and roll out to approximately 55 x 22cm and 1cm thick, trying to keep the edges as straight as possible,
and tucking in any butter that threatens to spill from the ends. Fold the bottom third up into the centre, and the top third down to cover it, again like a letter. Put it back into the tin, cover and freeze for 20 minutes.
Put the dough back on the work surface, with the exposed folds on the right (think of it as a book you’re about to open: the spine will be on your left, the pages on your right). Repeat the previous stages of rolling and folding and freeze for another 20 minutes, then repeat a third time, always starting with the folded sides on the right, and freeze for another 20 minutes.
Dust the top with flour, and roll out on a lightly floured surface to about 60 x 22cm. Cut in half horizontally, then cover and freeze for 20 minutes.
Line two baking sheets with parchment. Lightly flour a work surface and put one of the rectangles of dough on it, putting the other into the fridge. Roll it out to about 45 x 22cm, then trim one of the long edges until straight. Measure 10cm along this straight edge, then cut up to the left corner of the dough to make a triangle. To make the second triangle, measure 10cm along the top of the dough, and cut down to the bottom. Repeat.
One at a time, roll each triangle out to about 30cm long, then roll up the dough from the base to the top; once you get about halfway, stop pressing down with your hand and hold it by the little ears that will begin to poke out from the sides instead, using them almost like the spindles on a rolling pin. Put on a baking sheet, brush with egg, and leave to prove for 2 hours, until, when lightly prodded with a finger, they don’t spring back. Repeat with the other rectangle of dough.
Preheat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas 6. Turn the heat down to 190°C/170°C fan/gas 5 and bake for approximately 25 (fan) to 35 (conventional) minutes until deep golden, swapping the sheets halfway through so they cook evenly. Cool on a wire rack – hot from the oven they will be very doughy. Eat as soon as possible, or wrap individually and freeze. When ready to eat, defrost, then reheat in a 180°C/160°C fan/gas 3 oven for 5 minutes.
Alternatively, freeze the shaped croissants on their sheets, and decant into a bag once frozen. Defrost, then allow to prove and cook as above.
Running late as usual, even for my own grand finale, I race back across town, collect my stuff from the apartment and hotfoot it to the Élysées, an area I have so far avoided, thanks to its apparent lack of attractions in the food department. Just like the Tour itself, I’ll be finishing my journey on the Champs-Élysées, though instead of a crowd of thousands, I’m going to be met by my friend Lucinda, whom wild horses wouldn’t persuade onto a bicycle, but who has kindly agreed to be the official wielder of the chequered flag instead.
Having agreed before my departure to meet at 12 noon on 30 June under the Arc de Triomphe, we’ve had no further contact because she’s the kind of person who makes a plan and sticks to it, lending an extra frisson to proceedings. As usual, the moment is somewhat spoilt by my poor timekeeping: at 12.10, as I swerve through a West African street market that has spilled onto the bike lane, I get a message demanding to know if I’m on my way.
Something that hasn’t struck either of us, of course, but does hit me with some force now, on the bone-shaking cobbles of the grand boulevards, is that if the Place de l’Étoile is absolutely terrifying in a car, it’s practically suicidal on a heavily laden bicycle, but the romance of dying there is undeniable, so I just pull out and make for the Arc in the centre, ignoring the hooting, and hope for the best. It works, though I’m sorry Lucinda is too busy checking her emails to have filmed my final death-dash.
I haul Eddy over some very stout chains and wheel him up to her, feeling justifiably pleased with myself. She squeals, oh so gratifyingly, and breaks out the champagne, dipping a dodgy-looking St Pancras croissant into a plastic orange cup liberated from some bar and shoving the whole thing in my mouth to celebrate my achievement.
Having discreetly removed this, my sixth croissant of the day (4/10), we toast Eddy. It’s been a hell of a trip. Miserable at times, scraping against the limits of my endurance in endless rain and relentless sun, battling strikes, diversions and seasonal closures, yet all of these pale into as much significance as that pesky horsefly bite when I think of the places I’ve seen, the food I’ve enjoyed, the people I’ve met. Not every meal has been a gastronomic odyssey, but I’ve learnt something important about the subtler pleasures of French food, and about the virtues of patience and courtesy, too. Okay, I’ve not lost weight, but I have got thigh muscles the size of Bayonne hams – and I’m deeply, profoundly happy. And I couldn’t have done it without this poor, long-suffering bike, with his headless Wonder Woman charm and dodgy brakes.
As I splash a little of the warm liquid over his handlebars, feeling a bit teary myself, an angry-looking official marches over and points at my noble steed, finger wagging in an international symbol of disapproval. ‘No allowed, vélo. You must go!’ she barks. It does occur to me at this point, belatedly perhaps, that drinking at a war memorial is in somewhat bad taste, so I nod meekly and obediently begin to drain my glass.
As she beetles off to harass some unfortunates with a buggy, two policemen slide over to take her place. Blimey, I think, these people really mean business. ‘Nous departons!’ I tell them slightly impatiently, lifting the bike up by his sticky top tube to show willing as Lucinda hurriedly shoves the cups back in her bag.
But wait – they say, not so fast! First, they want to know what I’m doing, where I’ve been. Brittany? Marseille? The Joux Plane? Really? And with all this stuff? And then they congratulate me with real sincerity and tell us to relax, we can stay as long as we like. The quiet one even briefly, thrillingly lifts his cap: ‘Chapeau, Madame.’
And suddenly, I can’t stop smiling.
Vital Statistics
Total Distance: 2,334.3km
Total Ascent: 23,157 metres
Number of croissants eaten: 35 (poor)
Average score: 6.9 (brought down by 4 stinkers from the same boulangerie in Bar-le-Duc)
Best croissant: 9.5/10, Blé Sucré and Des Gateaux et du Pain, Paris
Worst croissant: 3/10, Vic-en-Bigorre, Hautes-Pyrénées
Number of punctures: 1 (balanced by sets of brake pads gone through: 3)
Maximum speed: 50km/h, on a wide, swooping, empty road near Châlons-en-Champagne
Average speed: 15.4km/h
Interest shown by the dog on my return, in seconds: 27 before going to hide under my friend Elaine’s coffee table and having to be dragged out. I think he missed me.
Acknowledgements
Innumerable people on both sides of the Channel made this book what it is – and I only regret I don’t know all of their names (but do go to Camping Le Chemin Vert in St Lys if you’re ever near Toulouse). Of those I do, huge thanks to my agent Sarah Ballard and Eli Keren, who persuaded me to turn my passion into my work and write something about cycling in the first place, and to my fabulous editor Katya Shipster whose humour, enthusiasm for tartiflette and stash of unlocked iPhones were invaluable en route, and who has been an absolute pleasure to work with throughout this book’s journey – thanks for allowing me to do the trip of a lifetime and tell everyone ‘it’s not a holiday actually’. Everyone at HarperCollins who has put so much enthusiasm into making it what it is: Sarah and Holly for making my words beautiful, Holly for making them look beautiful, Isabel, Julie and Dawn for making them sound beautiful, and Tom, Anna, Dom, Eleanor, Isabel, Charlotte, and Damon for persuading the world they’re beautiful. The wonderful Annie, as ever, for her sterling work on the recipe front, and to Café du Cycliste for making me look good most of the time, despite my best efforts.
Thanks to Trevor, Fergus and the St John crew for allowing me to crash your party with such enthusiasm and Bob for suggesting it, to Jonathan and Colette Meades for being such good hosts in Marseille, and to Anna for making that happen. Jon for being a phone mule and rosé enabler, my parents for looking after me in the Alps (and Ro
sie and Craig and their wonderful washing machine) and scoring some free cheese, and Lucinda for the romantic weekend in Paris. Thanks to Pam, John, Richard, Jenny and Elaine for looking after the love of my life so well while I was away – sorry, as always, for any Outrages, and I hope Philip the Pheasant gets over it in time. Thanks to Caroline Stafford and Caroline Craig for lighting and then stoking the fire of my cycling obsession.
Lastly, thanks to my fabulous peloton: Matt, Tess, Tor, Lucy, Ned, Ali, Bea, Martha, Caroline, Harry, Jay and Gemma, who is not my wife, but probably ought to be for being such a good sport. I really couldn’t have done it without you lot. Thanks for keeping me cheerful, feeding me wine and when all else failed, sending me videos of people slipping over on ice.
Praise for One More Croissant for the Road
‘Felicity Cloake is the perfect travelling companion – curious, funny, philosophical, and, best of all, imperishably greedy.’
Matthew Fort
‘A highly entertaining, tough-minded and enchanting book where the spirit of freewheeling travel writing is grounded perfectly with Felicity’s sure-fire recipes. I had great trouble putting it down.’
Caroline Eden
‘Whether you are an avid cyclist, a Francophile, a greedy gut, or simply an appreciator of impeccable writing – this book will get you hooked.’
Yotam Ottolenghi
‘Completely delicious. I scarfed down it down as if every paragraph was a freshly baked croissant. Cloake’s writing is as mouth-watering as the food she selflessly eats on our behalf.’
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