Bread of Heaven

The Parker-Lusseau Bakery is as close as one can get to an authentic French patisserie outside of France. It did not exist when we first lived here, but for the last 10 years or so we have made a point of going there for breakfast at least one day while we are visiting.

Today was the day. We rose early, and because of the central location of the Merritt House, we were able to walk there in under 10 minutes. A cheerful attendant greeted us from behind the counter, and we gave her a brief summary of our tradition of visiting this bakery. She told us that Mr. Parker retired recently, but that they continue to make the pastries as they always have, and to keep the business as it was.

Actually, the baked goods are not made in this tiny building. They are baked at another location in town, and every hour or so, a new load of delicacies is brought to this location. I remember seeing this building when we lived here, walking past it many times. There is a historical marker in front of the structure indicating that this was the headquarters of Major General John C. Fremont, the so-called “Great Pathfinder,” as he explored western North America before it became part of the United States.

I got one of their famous almond croissants, and Glenda got a cinnamon bun. I’m sure that a nutritionist would say that this is not a good breakfast. That may be true, but sometimes one must feed the soul as well as the body. Coming to Parker-Lusseau does that for us.

Since we had already walked this far, I reminded Glenda that the old Royal Presidio Chapel stands not far away. After finishing our breakfast, we continued our walk to the mother church of all the California missions. The 7:30 am mass had just been completed, and we found the church empty. We walked inside and sat for a few minutes, imagining the effect that the early Spanish missionaries must have had on the native peoples here.

Going out to the courtyard we found a squad of church workers busily arranging flowers. An older woman as thin and hard as an iron spike quietly spoke orders to her subordinates. Her dark, leathery skin stretched tightly over the bones of her face. I have to believe she has been in charge of the flowers since before I was born. She was obviously the boss. Asking no one’s permission, she grabbed a bough of a nearby tree, broke off several branches, and incorporated the live greenery into the arrangement she was creating.

We asked one of the other workers if there were a wedding or some special service requiring the mountains of flowers they were preparing. He answered that nothing special was happening; they were simply putting flowers into the church where they usually sat— some by the altar, some by a statue of Mary, and others at various places in the sanctuary. As he passed, he handed Glenda a rose they would not need. I was impressed at how cheerful and friendly these workers were to us strangers.

There is a simple niche in the eastern wall of the courtyard with a statue of the Virgin Mary and a small fountain. They are not particularly large, nor particularly beautiful, but occasionally I dream about this spot in this courtyard. It always brings me a sense of peace, joy and happiness.

It was a good thing to walk into Monterey early this morning, where we fed our souls as well as our bodies.Read more