There. Is. Just. Nothing that compares to this. Keep your croissants.
We bought the baguette and butter at the farmer’s market near our apartment. The butter was sliced off of a huge slab brought to the market from what I imagine is an adorable stone cottage somewhere just outside Paris where women wear those stiff tall white lace hats, lace-trimmed aprons over tight black dresses with white buttons, and those clunky wooden shoes.
OK, they may not be all that comfortable but it makes the butter taste better.