One of the simplest charms of Paris is the baguette. The ubiquitous pain Francaise. (Don’t you dare call it a bread stick!) And it is one of the little things I will miss most. As always.

Ah, the baguette! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

You are the perfect platform for all of France’s 5,198 (approximately) cheeses, from the runny Camembert to the rock-solid Cantal. Without you, monsieur baguette,  the cheese course would be a disastre!

But you also go with foie gras like a hand in a glove. Not that I’ve taken the leap to foie gras, because I know how it’s made, but we can’t send others into gustatory rapture without a sliced baguette; no one eats foie gras straight.

You are a surprisingly felicitous foundation for a sandwich. (Pronounced sand-WEECH.) Cut lengthwise, with some butter and cheese and a slice of ham … and there is lunch. And perhaps dinner. Albeit a crumb-machine of a lunch or dinner.

You are the non-sugary munchie to tide us over in that long stretch between lunch and a dinner at 9. A nibble, a bite, and we are set.

But most of all you are wonderful just being yourself in all your bready goodness. Your hard outer covering is simply a shell to hides a soft, airy, vaguely salty interior … a combination that hardly anyone else in the world seems to be able to get quite right. Filling and nourishing without being dense or heavy. A miracle of baking.

And when you are fresh out of the oven, still so hot that I can barely hold you, ooh la la, that is when you are parfait. Almost too hot to hold; too scrumptious to put down.

I will miss many simply charms of this city and country as we return to Abu Dhabi tomorrow. But you, monsieur baguette … of all the little (and many of the great) things of this place … you I will miss most of all.