How a Baguette Ruined My Smile (And Nearly My Sanity)
Back in my 20s, I took a baseball to the mouth. Bad bounce, worse timing. Knocked out all of the front top teeth. A good friend, and a better dentist, crafted me a bridge that lasted nearly 30 years.
It had been too long, I was told. But the thought of that old thing being yanked out of my mouth by a dentist with their foot on my chest and the smell of a freshly opened crypt never appealed to me.
Eventually, I nutted up and had the whole thing redone: full implants, done in Southern California, at SoCal prices — $30k, two years interest free.
Fast forward to September 2023. We were staying in a house outside of Avignon.
One night, I was eating a baguette, because obviously, and something felt...wrong. A weird crack, a crunch, and then that slow dawning horror.
Coming into the kitchen, D immediately knew from the look on my face that something was up. "What's wrong?" she asked. I smiled at her. "Oh my God. What happened? What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," I mumbled, hand over my mouth. "I bit into this baguette, and my life got ruined."
It was the front tooth. Dead center. Couldn't miss it. A $30,000 showpiece, shattered by a €1 hunk of bread.
I did what anyone would do — saw my life as being over. Then started Googling. But in France, doctors are not allowed to advertise. Finding a dental specialist is like trying to uncover state secrets. Especially one who works on my type of implant. Speaks English. In the south of France.
After a couple of hours of deep internet spelunking, I found a guy in Montpelier, an hour away. I would've driven to Hungary if that's what it took.
When I arrived, I was greeted by a front desk staff who didn't speak a word of English. I'd practiced: "Je m'appelle Paul. J'ai un rendez-vous." They smile, pointed to a chair.
A few minutes later, Doogie Howser, DDS. — he looked about twelve — called my name as he came out of his office. Thankfully, he did speak English. I asked if he'd worked with the technology of my implant.
"Non, by I think I fix," he said cheerfully.
Okay.
While he was doing his thing, I asked if I could schedule a cleaning, and he replied, "I do that when I am done." (In France, apparently dentists do their own cleanings. No hygienist in sight.)
He patched the tooth and gave me a quick scrub. I left relieved. The tooth looked good. I couldn't stop looking in the rear view mirror. Cost me about €125 for the repair and the cleaning. Victory.
Three days later, the patch up dropped off like the New York Mets after the first of May.
I immediately rescheduled online. Next thing I knew, I received and notification that my appointment had been cancelled. I emailed the dentist for a follow-up. The message was blunt: "I can't help you."
Now what?
Around that time, we'd decided to return to Burgundy at the beginning of October. We would stay the winter in the house we'd rented in July. It was a win-win — Virginie and Bernard (our friends and landlords) could use someone in the house during a time when Airbnb tenants were scarce, and we now had a home base for more than 30 days. For the first time since March.
Once we settled back in, the hunt for a dentist resumed.
But the whole advertising thing for doctors presented a real problem. And if you're looking for a dentist who specializes in a particular implant, good luck.
Then one day, Virginie and I were talking. I told her the whole saga.
She paused and said, "My dentist can probably fix it." I laughed. "I doubt it. It needs to be someone familiar with this specific implant technology." After all, we were next to a town called Mersault. Not exactly a hot bed of leading edged dentistry.
She looked at me the way only a determined French woman who spent 10 years running a high-end German hotel can. "I will call him," she directed more than said.
The next day she texted: You have an appointment next week. Tuesday at 18:00. Don't be late. You didn't say no to Virginie.
“Honestly? A chipped front tooth looked better than a Bond villain cosplay.”
Naturally, on the way to the appointment, I got pulled over by the gendarmerie. Apparently, I didn't "sufficiently stop" leaving a gas station. He asked if I'd been drinking. I said no. He asked if I'd used cannabis. I said, "Not since Clinton was in office."
He chuckled. Nice guy. I drove off — hands trembling, still half-tootheless.
The dentist in Beaune was also nice and he spoke English. I asked if he'd ever worked with the Nobel Biocare implant. He pointed to a poster on the wall. Nobel Biocare.
No kidding. Here in the tiny town of Beaune. Virginie!
He examined my disaster. "I don't know if we can fix it," he said. "If not, it will need to be replaced."
I handed him the temporary apparatus I'd kept from the original surgery — the dental version of a spare tire. Works ok, but don't drive to fast: ergo, no baguettes. He said he'd need a couple of weeks to see if he could get the broken one repaired. Otherwise? Replacement.
Then, during the wait...the temporary one broke. Right in half.
On one side: a lonely row of top teeth. On the other: full-on Richard Kiel from the old Bond movies — minus the charm.
Could it get worse? Apparently, yes.
Luckily, the dentist brought me in the next day. As a temporary fix to the temporary fix, he reinstalled the original chipped implant. Honestly? A chipped front tooth looked better than a Bond villain cosplay.
That's when he gave me the news. It couldn't be fixed. Just replaced. Cost? €8,000.
Welp.
We started to schedule the procedure. But now we had another twist — we were moving to the Loire Valley at the end of the month. Four hour drive. Four appointments. Hotels. Logistics.
I told him I'd have to consider my options.
Eventually, I did what I probably should have done from the start: I contacted the implant manufacturer directly. They sent me the name of a dentist in Tours who worked with their tech. Perfect.
Except...he was traveling until the beginning of April. It was the first week of February. I emailed the company again. Crickets. Apparently, you only get one wish with the dental implant fairy.
April finally arrived. I finally met the dentist in Tours. He was thrilled to speak English, and immediately launched into a detailed account of his three-month trip around South America.
Then he finally looked at my mouth. Paused. Smiled. And with full cookout dad confidence, he basically said: "Hold my beer."
"I can fix that," he said.
Two weeks later, he did fix it. Flawlessly. Total cost: €600
So yes, I move to France for the food, the rhythm, the romance. But I stayed because eventually — eventually — someone always says: "We can fix that."
And let me tell you, it's hard enough trying to communicate in French at the grocery store. But it's even harder for the cashier trying to understand the American who keeps talking with his hand in front of his mouth like he's holding a secret.
Town to Visit: Carcassonne
If you've ever wondered what it would feel like to sip wine in the shadow of a medieval fortress, Carcassonne is your spot.
It looks like a movie set. A double-walled citadel, complete with towers, ramparts, and a long, occasionally bloody history dating back to the Romans. The place played a key role in the Crusades and was once a stronghold of the Cathers — if you're into Knights Templar-adjacent lore, you'll feel it in the stones.
We started with just a weekend there. But we loved it so much, we scrapped our original August plans in Charente-Maritime and rerouted to Caunes-Minervois, just down the road.
Our first real friend in France lived there, and on that first night, we had drinks at a rooftop bar with an unreal view of the lit-up fortress. It was the kind of view that makes you stop talking mid-sentence. We didn't tour the whole citadel that trip, but just being near it — glowing above the town like a dream someone refused to wake up from — was enough to make you believe in castles again.
Later that night, we had a 3-hour dinner with our friend and her husband at La Table de Marie. Here's the advice: when Marie tells you what wine to order with your meal, just nod and say thank you. She chooses that list herself, and she does not miss.
One of the most charming, perfect nights we've had in France. Getting to know two awesome people while throwing down perfectly local food.
We also hit the Saturday market. Big, beautiful, buzzing with locals. Afterwards, our friend took me into one of my favorite shop experiences ever at La Ferme. Amazing wine selection, truly knowledgeable staff, and charcuteries that will make you rethink your entire fridge strategy.
Then, across the street I had my first crouton from a hot baguette at Boulangerie-Patisserie Papineau. I didn't know bread could crackle like that.
Carcassonne might be touristy, but for once, it earned it.
One French Quirk
The Great Check Deposit Adventure
I tried to deposit a check on a Monday in Montrichard. The ATM at my bank technically takes deposits, just not mine. It just bent the check and spit it back out like a polite rejection. But it still asked me if I wanted a receipt...
Fine. I'll go inside. Except...the branch was closed. On a Monday. At 10:30 a.m.
No worries. I needed to drive up to the city of Blois anyway for groceries at my favorite store, Grand Frais. I'd seen a branch of my bank near there.
Also closed — this time for construction. The workers told me the ATM was still working though. Yes, working, but only for withdrawing cash or checking your balance. Deposits? Non.
Tried the ATM in Montrichard again the next day. Still no dice.
So I went inside. This branch, if you can call it that, had no counter. Just two desks and two humans. One of whom might have been mute. Neither spoke English.
I told the man I wanted to make a deposit. He looked mildly panicked and began rummaging through drawers like he was searching for an EpiPen. Eventually, he produced a deposit slip.
It was in French, but I could sort of piece it together. What I couldn't do was fill it out. It wanted my account number, name and bank of the writer of the check, and basically the names of my known living relatives.
I told him I would come back. Next day: branch closed. Until Friday. Gah. Of course.
Friday arrives. Market day in Montrichard. I went into town with my completed deposit slip and the quiet confidence of a man who had read three blog posts on this subject.
Same two employees. Same silent treatment. I handed over the slip and the check. The man tore off the carbon copy, handed it to me...and then tossed the check and the slip into a box.
Just a plain cardboard box. Behind his desk. No stamp. No "Merci". No indication that anything official had just happened.
I looked at him. He looked at me. That was it. I guess I'd made a deposit.
It went through. The following Wednesday.
Until next time, savor the chaos.
Thanks for reading. If you’re enjoying the stories and want to help us grow, forward this to someone who dreams of moving to France — or at least wants to laugh at someone who already did.
Thanks for being here.
Paul
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