When the bread comes to the table at C’est Bon, a pleasant and strangely quaint little French restaurant in Port Melbourne that avoids the cutting edge like the guillotine, it is proper French baguette. With rapier-like detective skills, I assume a liaison beneficial with Noisette, the French baker down the road.
In my best Peter Sellers accent, I ask “Is your bread from Noisette?”
“Oui,” says the non-nonsense, super-efficient waiter (who is the owner, too). “They make the bread and par-bake it, we finish it off here.”
Which explains why it is warm, has a thin, pliable yet crisp golden and blistered shell and the lightest, fluffiest interior that simply screams “slather me in butter or dunk me in a sauce. Now.”
Good baguette, as you’d hope for in a place that wears the tricoloeur so conspicuously.