I'm too young for this

Today I bought a French baguette at the Union Square Greenmarket. I wish now I had paid more attention to the stand where I bought it, because - and this is a small miracle - this baguette actually tastes like the French baguettes I remember. I want to go back for more, forever, now that the taste is stuck in my mouth and my brain. There's something very particular about the texture of the crust of a baguette, the slightly dry dusting of flour on the bottom half of the bread, the way it crumbles when you tear off pieces (and, if you're me, the way the breadcrumbs then rain down all over the floor, your shirt, and everything else nearby). It's glorious.

When I was fourteen and then again when I was sixteen, my summers in Paris tasted exactly like this baguette - smeared with nutella, jam or butter for the morning tartine, accompanied by a nice chèvre or fromage bleu at lunch, alongside some bad Beaujolais or cheap rosé in the long light of the evening, or even just plain whenever I got hungry, standing in that sunny Paris kitchen that was even smaller than my Manhattan kitchen is now. I ate bread that tasted like this bread every day during those summers - it's absurd that such a small, daily and unremarkable thing has triggered such a bizarre reaction in me now, years later and an ocean away.

I wish I knew where I could get more bread that tastes like this.

Tu veux du pain? Moi j'en veux.