Birth of Bijou: You can take the girl out of New England…
Bijou may be a new local business, but looking back, I can trace some of its origins to my New England childhood. I grew up in Jamestown, Rhode Island (also known as Conanicut Island), a small town in the middle of Narragansett Bay. Ours was a community in which you knew your neighbors and the fire department was run by volunteers. Small town gossip and politics were grist for the mill of daily life, but when push came to shove, people were there for one another.
Some of my earliest memories are of food. McQuade’s Market was the only grocery store on the island (as far as I know, it still is). Somewhat bizarrely, I recall the lure of a mundane salad bar presented in an ebony-colored wooden cart reminiscent of a gypsy caravan, transforming it into something out of a distant fairy tale. My young mind registered that presentation is everything.
Around the corner from McQuade’s you’d find a bakery, Our Daily Bread. Baker Bob, a one-man show, had chosen a quintessentially New England house, all eaves outside and warm, glowing wood inside, for his venture. The shingled exterior wore a coat of deep green paint that immediately became my favorite color. Once inside, you’d instinctively inhale, savoring the yeasty aroma of just-baked loaves and pastries. On an early visit to this mecca of oven-born goodness, I asked my mother why the offerings on display under glass glistened so prettily. She explained to me the magic of an egg wash, which seemed to me a minor culinary miracle. Could an egg really do that? Childhood impression - the finish is everything. My mouth still waters at the memory of a glossy whole-grain loaf studded with poppyseeds. Or a cinnamon twist artfully crafted to create the perfect contrast of sweet spice and savory pastry. When I get a nostalgic cinnamon twist craving here in Staunton, I make a beeline for Magdalena Bake.
Some special Sundays, after attending services at St. Spyridon’s Greek Orthodox Church across the bridge in Newport, my parents would treat us to a visit to Cappuccinos. This exotic (to me) name, I would learn, was taken from an Italian hot beverage consisting of espresso, steamed milk, and foam, delicately dusted with cocoa powder and sweetened with raw cane sugar. When old enough, I was allowed this eponymous elixir (for the record, my personal favorite Staunton locale for espresso drinks is Crucible Coffee). Visual and auditory memories of Cappuccinos abound. The whoosh and purr of the (manual) espresso machine behind the bar. The click of demitasse spoons on saucers. Round marble tables with freshly cut flowers and bistro chairs that scraped the black and white tile floor with each turnover. A touch of unexpected humor in the restroom - opposite the commode, an art photo of ten ladies’ derrieres (all shapes and sizes) in garter belts and lace. So naughty! But nice. The ever-present owners, Norman and Diane, greeted their customers by name with a warmth and hospitality that signaled their joy, however hard they worked.
Autumn in Narragansett Bay came in sharper than the gentle, back-and-forth dance with late summer here in the Shenandoah Valley. You felt it first in the salt-tinged wind off the water as it nipped with the promise of a bite. Soon after, the leaves of English oaks and American elms would begin to turn from verdant green to vibrant orange and red (foliage years were generally good back then). Harbingers of fall, bringing such timeless delights as hayrides at Watson Farm, pumpkin patch meanderings, bobbing for apples, s’mores at Mackerel Cove around a fire, and the annual resurrection of the Carr Homestead ghost story: trespass by night if you dare. And, of course, the award-winning haunted house experience conceived and executed by two island boys, one of whom, James Lurgio, would go on to create Count Orlok’s Nightmare Gallery in Salem, Massachusetts- worth a trip!
When I began this little autumn reverie, I didn’t know I’d be writing a love letter to my hometown. Revisiting moments of my youth, I am struck by how the fall season, like no other, strengthens the memory and forges connections between past and present. I realize how many hours Baker Bob must have labored every week to single-handedly produce an array of high-quality baked goods that beckoned like burnished jewels under glass - tres bijou. His fierce entrepreneurial spirit resonates with me, and I feel a kinship with him across time as I spend countless hours “souping.”
My husband lovingly jokes that I’m all about aesthetics in favor of practicality (he’s not wrong). I admit that the starting point for Bijou was crystal chandeliers and hummingbird wallpaper. I’m certain that the exterior paint color of Our Daily Bread, so characteristically New England in its depth of color, inspired our Bijou green interior (Benjamin Moore Hunter Green, in case anyone’s curious). And the Continental atmosphere that we strive for at Bijou, combining our joint love of Paris and Venice? Surely that has roots in the décor of Cappuccinos, with their petite round marble tables, harp-backed bistro chairs, and black-hued accents throughout. What of the indefatigable hosts, Diane and Norman? That painfully shy little girl (me), dressed in her Sunday best and slowly unwinding a puff pastry palmier, marveled at their energy, passion, and confident enthusiasm. They gave me an early glimpse into the world of hospitality and what a beautiful thing it is to enrich people’s lives through food. It took me three decades to get here, but Bijou was worth the wait. Why soup? That’s a story for another day. Happy Autumn, sweet friends! xoxo
