If “French Baguette” grew up in the city, “country baguette,” well . . . he lives outside town. His wine bottle never leaves the kitchen table; it stands sentry for cheese slab and home-cured meat—a centerpiece worthy of any season. Add a knife and a glass and an apple from the barrel, and one can live, unfussed and happy, at this table. As you would expect, “country” isn’t the dresser; “French” is with his pressed pants, cane, and pince-nez—“country” likes his hands in the dirt, substance over form, age before beauty, and so forth. If delicious is on the menu but fuss seems a misfit, you should start here.