Tantine. Competition or cooperation?

Tantine

There is a French bakery in Shanghai called Tartine.  I had heard that name before, or was it Tantine?  I was on my ebike making a delivery to a customer, riding north through the center of Changzhou downtown, when I saw a shop with the name Tartine.  It took nanoseconds to consider my choices.  I was carrying an insulated pack of frozen Calzones, with not that much ice packed into it.  I was still maybe 20 minutes away from my destination.  On the other hand, how often do I get downtown?  My curiosity, leavened with my chronic feeling of isolation in my chosen avocation, pushed through the objections.  I looked for the next sidewalk access curb and turned my bike around.

Today was Sunday afternoon.  My good customer, Theresa from Kentucky, had messaged me through WeChat last Monday, the day after my first Sunday Brunch at the new and unfinished larger shop I had rented, next door to the bakery.  The Brunch had been a marathon push, up at 4 a.m. and running full bore until late afternoon.  I remember only this about Monday:  I was brain dead and physically exhausted. 

A few days ago on Wednesday morning  Randy came to the bakery.  As his coffee was brewing he was chatting.  He said that Theresa would be coming, and he was eager to talk with her about his idea for a tourist magazine or ezine for Changzhou.  Still, nothing clicked in my brain.

Theresa arrived, and she and Randy sat at the table outside.  I made her a cup of coffee, and let them talk as I went about my business.  I was able to join them for a short time.  Theresa opened her web page, Tguide.org, on her smart phone. It was slick, professional layout, interesting articles.  I listened to them discussing things, like content, distribution, calcitrant self-proclaimed writers.  From my seat at the outdoor table I noticed a figure walking away from the glass elevator, and thought I recognized Rich.  He is the American at the Information Technology College who took my baby, kitten Spock.  I called out to him, and he joined us.

He is that kind of guy, that if he isn’t buying anything he feels guilty just dropping in.  I hate that.  Rich is a tall guy well padded.  Prior to coming to China he spent a number of years in New Jersey.  He wears his hair short except at the forehead, where he lets it grow long.  It would fall over his eyes except that he combs it up, and it drops to the side of his forehead like an exhausted spring.  While he talks he has a habit of pulling on a strand, alternately tugging it and winding it between fingers.  The summer heat is rough on him, so as he stood at the table talking with his characteristic lisp, his skin glistened.  Occasionally he ran a thumb over his forehead and flicked away the accumulated sweat.

We shared with him the topic of our discussion, writing and publishing on line.  It was then that we all discovered he was a published author of at least one novel in the horror genre, and travel articles in ezines.  He pulled up his blog on his smart phone to show us, and it was packed with reflections on his experiences with life in China.

Theresa and Rich exchanged phone numbers, and then he left.  The next day I was delighted to see that he had contributed an article to Theresa.  He also posted it to the Ex Pat FB page.

As the conversations wound around, encompassing many topics, it kept returning back to the main stuck point.  Publications in China are tightly controlled by the government.  Theresa’s web page cannot go online until she has a publishing license.  This is a huge obstacle.  They each knew someone who had currently or in the past such a license, and speculated whether or not these people could be as an umbrella for this Tguide.

I went into the bakery for something, and came out with a slice of cake for Theresa, perhaps it was Almond Cake.  These cakes take a long time to sell, and I’ll throw them out after two days, so I saw no loss in offering her a piece while it was still fresh.

Towards the end of her visit she asked me if her calzones were ready.  It was then that my memory retrieved a vaguely imprinted WeChat message from her asking for 20 calzones and five loaves of multigrain bread, to be picked up on Wednesday.  I looked up the message on my WeChat history, and there it was, posted on Monday.  Hard to imagine that I would blow off such a significant order, but there you are.  Believe it when I say I feel overwhelmed these days.

She brushed it off and said she’d be back in a week, if I could have it ready by then.

Theresa is married to a Swiss named Christian.  They have two children, Nico and Serafina, ages about 5 and 3.  Both children have her burnt copper hair, both bright and confident children raised by a gentile southern woman.  They are global citizens, home being defined by their current location.  Christian works for an international company here, and is well paid.

That afternoon I went online and ordered mozzarella cheese.  There was nothing else I could do, but wait until its delivery in a day or two.

On Thursday Julie, the current baker-apprentice, made up 20 150 gram balls of pizza dough, wrapped them and put them in the fridge.  Each time I opened the fridge they were there, glaring at me.  I started every time a delivery man came near our door, tensely waiting for the arrival of the mozzarella. 

The cheese finally arrived on Saturday, a little worse for wear from the summer heat.  I put the soft cheese into the freezer and waited as long as I could.  Finally it was hard enough to grate, and XiaoLan got right to it.  Meanwhile, I thawed and cooked up four of Randy’s sausages to put into the calzones.  As they cooled, I rolled out the dough in an assembly line.  It took perhaps 90 minutes to get them all done, wrapped and into the freezer. 

On this Sunday morning Julie made a fresh batch of multigrain bread.  When it was mostly cooled off, I packed the cooler bag with ice packs and loaded up the calzones.  The ebike battery had a fairly fresh charge, so I was off for the long journey north.

I was traveling north on the Hua Yuan Jie new extension.  This had been a major construction job, tying up my neighborhood roads for more than a year, but now that it is open I can leave my shop and head directly into downtown Changzhou and beyond, without needing to make a single turn.  In large sections it is still lightly traveled, and so it is a pleasant drive.  It takes me over the main canal on a long bridge, where the hot summer air is stirred by a stiff breeze. 

I was on the northbound road just east of the People’s Park.  Just west of that park is the main shopping area of downtown Changzhou, commonly referred to as NanDaJie, or South Road.  When I worked for Web I was lent out to the NanDaJie Web campus for many weeks running, and so I felt comfortable in this place so far from my own community.

I had almost reached the main ‘east-west’ (though not true to compass) road, JiangLing, when I noticed a shiny block-print sign above a shop, ‘Tantine’.  For some reason, the name rang a bell although I couldn’t make a connection.  A hand written sign on the window, on a piece of white paper, said in English ‘We need your help’ and the rest was in Chinese.  There was a hand drawn loaf of bread there.  I turned my bike around and parked.  The windows were otherwise blank and dark. The door, however, when I pulled it opened easily.

A dark wide-planked hard wood floor met my feet.  After a few feet of industrial concrete wall the white kitchen tiling began.  At the back there is a white kitchen area through a glass that extends from ceiling to waist height.  A three-deck stainless steel oven is against the left wall, then a cooling rack, and then the entrance to the L-shaped kitchen.  Through the door I saw the proof box, and the pastry extruder.  This is a moving belt from 1 to 2 meters long, ending at a right angle where there are a pair of rollers.  The pastry is passed through the rollers, and as it moves along the belt the baker catches it, folds it over and puts it back through the rollers.  In four quick mechanized passes it accomplishes what it takes me a half hour to do by hand, with a wooden roller and copious amounts of flour.  One batch put out by such a machine would equal four of mine, each laboriously rolled by hand alternating with waiting while it hardens in the fridge, to be brought out again and rolled.

A large bread mixer, small work table and sacks of flour filled the rest of that room.  The other part, seen by the customers, has two long work tables.  The walls have mounted racks that store the tips, bags and other accoutrement of pastry and cake decoration.

The young man I first meet is tall and thin, with a long thin face, a tiny goatee and hair that is slicked back at the sides and high on top.  He is, of course, Chinese.  The pants he is wearing must have a special name, of which I am ignorant.  Black, broad waistband, loose fabric draped and pleated that falls to the knees almost like a dress, then tapers to the ankles.  He is a striking figure, to state the obvious.  I introduce myself, and he recognizes the name.  On that first visit I feel pressured for time, so after a brief introduction I ask if I can return the next day.  He graciously assents.  This is their countdown week, the hope to open the next weekend.

I continued on my journey to Theresa’s home apartment complex.  I managed to pick the right road to cut west, and quickly found myself at her intersection.  I called her for further directions, to bring me to her apartment building.  Since she is a VIP customer, no money changed hands.  I simply deducted her order from the prepaid balance.  Honestly, she is not the customer I was thinking about when I devised the VIP system.  She uses her balance up within a month, and gets a 5% discount on everything she orders, including Randy’s meats.

I returned directly to the bakery and hooked the battery up for a recharge.  I was scheduled for night shift, since Han Dan has left us after less than a month.

That evening Libby texted our WeChat Ladies group that there would a luncheon in Xin Bei on Monday, organized by AnnMarie who is apparently back after two months of traveling.  The event will welcome the newcomers.  I was eager to see AnnMarie again, and other old acquaintances in Xin Bei.  However, I had already arranged to go back to the Tantine Bakery.  I was torn.  I thought I might pop in to the bakery on the way north and just reschedule.  I did not have any contact information for them, so I couldn’t call or text.  I was in a quandary.  Randy came into the bakery, moments after I had texted him asking if he was aware of the luncheon.  He hadn’t read the text, so I asked him.  His reply was that he had been in touch with AnnMarie all week, and was indeed planning to go.

I was busy in and out of the kitchen, while Randy went out to smoke.  The next thing I know, a woman calls my number and asks for Randy.  Taken aback, I tell her he’s not there at the moment, but he can’t be far.  I see his bike bag on the floor.  He had asked me for some flyers for the Sunday Brunch, which I was printing out for him to take.  Not knowing what else to do, I searched out Randy’s phone number on a label and dictated it to her.  As it turned out, Randy had left without saying a word, going by himself, probably by bus, to the luncheon.

I fixed myself a  lunch, and headed out to Tantines to get there around 1 p.m.

The same man met with me, and showed me around.  We sat and chatted.  He had worked at Tantine in Shanghai for many years.  With this training, he was well prepared to go it alone.  I did not ask what kind of support and how much he received from the home bakery.  Is he a branch?  An independently owned franchise?  We didn’t get into that side of it, mostly because my Chinese isn’t good enough.  What I did want to know was materials.  What flours did he use?  Did he do his own sourdough?  On Sunday I had shown him my multigrain bread, packed into my ebike for Theresa.  He was surprised that I could sell such a crusty bread to Chinese and westerners alike.  He was told the Chinese would not accept such breads.  I reminded him that it was all about Healthy.  If you tell them it is healthy, they will at least try it.

A young woman came in halfway through my Monday visit to Tantine.  She was friendly, excited about this new venture.  She also had trained in Shanghai at Tantine’s.  She agreed with me, that we should not feel competitive but rather collaborative, since we share a passion for bread.

I mentioned the best flour we had come across, the Golden Statue from Hong Kong which costs us 150 rmb per 50 lb sack.  He dismissed this flour as no good.  He says he buys imported flour from France, also costing 150 per 50 lb or 25 kg sack.  There is a delivery fee of 100 rmb, but it does not change whether you order three sacks or 20 sacks.  I raised my hopes that they would share some of this booty with me.  Let my order piggy back on theirs, to save on shipping costs.

I left, with a warm feeling that maybe I wasn’t so alone in this work.

Back in my own kitchen over the rest of the week, I tried some simple breads that relied heavily on quality of flour to induce flavor.  They laid flat on the tongue.  I finally texted the young lady on her WeChat, and asked if I couldn’t please please please buy one sack of flour from them.  She checked with her boss.  He said no.  And that was that.

Maybe what I need to do is ask to be a volunteer there, just like people ask me.  Of course, they will probably say no for the same reason I say no; I don’t wish to share my secrets.

On Friday night I will go to the Spanish restaurant, Viva, next door to Tantine.  My dinner group, Stephanie, Emilio and Ricky, will gather there.  I hope to pop in to say hi, if the doors aren’t locked.  And then after dinner, I hope to bring my friends with me to the Blank Space, where AnnMarie will once again be ‘holding court’.  I am ready to kick loose, sit with familiar people and listen to some good jazz.