In Search of the Perfect Loaf: A Home Baker's Odyssey

by Fromartz, Samuel

  • • •

  By now you can probably guess what happened. I came home and began working on rye bread. The first problem I ran into, though, was the coarse rye flour. Most whole rye is pretty finely ground, but I knew that I wanted a mixture of coarse and fine flours. The only brand I found that came close to coarsely milled was from Hodgson Mill. I also bought a grain mill attachment for my KitchenAid mixer that could easily produce Schrot—the grainy flour. Finally, I needed loaf pans, since the short-fat ones I had on hand were better suited for zucchini bread than rye. I found some Pullman loaf pans in a King Arthur catalog that when filled halfway took about a kilo of dough. This was a big change for me, for I had never baked pan loaves. In fact, I’d looked down on them for years. But I realized it’s not really about the pan, it’s about the bread. And you can make terrific rye bread in a pan because the shape helps support weak doughs like rye.

  As for Backferment, I did get a package through the mail from Karl, and it tasted quite mild in flavor just as it did in the bakery. But I liked my own sourdough, too, so I used both, at different times for the rye breads, and probably ended up with an amalgam of microbes—who knows? The final over-the-edge step, several months into baking with rye, was to buy a small countertop stone mill, so I could mill all the flour I needed, not just the Schrot. (Of course, I ended up buying a German-made KoMo stone mill, which while sporting an iPad-like price tag will hopefully last ten years or more—and unlike an iPad, will never need an upgrade.)

  With all of these elements in place, I began working on my loaf, a mixture of 70 percent rye and 30 percent whole wheat. It came together pretty quickly and was far easier than the baguette. I kept in mind the lessons about easy mixing and relied on my hands to do the work. I found that if I continually moistened my hands in water, the surface of the dough would remain slippery, not sticky. So I took to mixing and folding the dough in a bowl by the sink, wetting my hands under the faucet and then shaking off the excess so I didn’t incorporate too much. I still used the fold-and-rest method, though since gluten wasn’t involved, I didn’t stretch it out. I would mix every five minutes or so, for a minute or two. After three or four rounds, the dough seemed fine. Since ryes ferment so quickly, the first rise usually took forty-five minutes to an hour, then I’d form the loaf as best I could using the method I learned at Weichardt and drop it into the oiled loaf pan, dusting the top with a good coating of rye flour. Even if it was misshapen, it would invariably flatten out, fill the pan, and rise evenly. While the dough filled only one half of the pan going in, within an hour, sometimes less, it was at the top. At that point, the floured surface would begin to crack open like ice. I’d then bake it, first at a high temperature with steam, then at a lower temperature, just as they did at Weichardt, for a total of sixty or seventy minutes.

  Now the important part: once it was done baking, I’d let the loaf rest for at least twenty-four hours, though the interior of the crumb really improved after thirty-six hours. It takes that long for all the starch to fully set. Karl had told me that the Weichardt Special lasted seven days and I found that to be the case with these homemade ryes as well. They keep well, because they soak up so much water and because the sourdough inhibits mold and bacteria. It was quite amazing really, cutting through a thick crust after a week and finding a moist interior. It’s yet another reason to bake with rye: it not only fills you up and burns slow but lasts a long time without going stale. In terms of staying power, nothing quite matches it.

  With rye under my belt, I had one task left—to explore locally grown grains, which had begun to reemerge spottily in farmers’ markets and in bakers’ breads. It was the latest thrust in the locavore movement and perhaps the most difficult to grasp, for unlike a tomato, we’ve learned to think of flour as just flour. As I began to explore this thread, one baker in particular caught my attention. Maybe it was the picture of his windmill, the small village where he lived, or just his bread. Whatever the case, I knew I had to visit with him and so in spring 2012 I returned to Europe, this time to southern France.

  Roggenweizenbrot

  (DIFFICULT)

  Makes 1 loaf

  Roggenweizenbrot (literally, rye-wheat bread) was my favorite loaf at Weichardt Brot. It has a mixture of coarse and more finely ground rye flours, which I made by mixing equal parts of Arrowhead Mills organic whole rye flour and Hodgson Mill rye flour. To achieve a mild sourdough, which favors lactic acid, I’ve added a second rise, or build, to the leaven. Since there’s such a high percentage of sourdough in the rye-wheat dough, it ferments quickly. The first rise takes 45 to 60 minutes and the final rise in the pan about 1 hour. If cooler than 75˚F (24˚C), it will proceed more slowly.

  A key step in this recipe is to dust the surface of the dough entirely with rye flour, once it’s in the pan. Most of the flour gets absorbed into the moist dough, so don’t be concerned about getting a mouthful of flour when you eat the bread. When the dough rises sufficiently, the flour cracks open on the top, signaling that it’s ready for the oven. This is a far more accurate gauge of rising time than anything else.

  The bread also takes two days to make, with the bulk of the work accomplished on the second day. So plan for a six-hour window on the second day to make the bread. Since this loaf rests for a full day before you cut into it, truthfully, it’s a three-day bread. If you start making the sourdough on Friday evening, you can cut into the loaf by lunch or dinner on Sunday.

  Optional step one: This loaf is quite good on its own, but for a twist you might want to add freshly roasted spices. Lightly toast 1 teaspoon each cumin seed, aniseed, and coriander seed in a pan until fragrant, let cool and then grind them in a spice grinder.

  Optional step two: When starting out, you might want to use 1 teaspoon of instant yeast as an insurance policy to help the loaf rise. But it isn’t necessary if you have an active starter.

  Tools

  Bowl

  Plastic dough scraper

  Rectangular baking stone

  Rimmed baking sheet, for the bottom of the oven

  Loaf pan measuring 9 by 4 by 4 inches (also known as a Pullman loaf pan)

  Kitchen mitts

  First Starter Ingredients

  10 grams ripe starter

  100 grams rye flour mix (made of coarse and fine rye flours; see headnote)

  80 grams water at 80˚F (27˚C)

  Second Starter Ingredients

  180 grams first starter

  100 grams rye flour mix

  80 grams water at 80˚F (27˚C)

  Final Dough Ingredients

  180 grams whole wheat flour

  220 grams rye flour mix

  11 grams salt

  1 teaspoon instant yeast (optional)

  Ground spice mixture (optional)

  360 grams starter

  320 grams water

  Vegetable oil spray or 1 tablespoon melted butter

  Evening, First Day

  Mix the ingredients of the first starter together until combined and place in a covered bowl or container. Rye is very active, so you don’t need a lot of starter to get it going, especially during a long fermentation. That’s why there are only about 2 teaspoons of starter in this initial fermentation. Let it rise for 16 to 20 hours.

  Second Day

  The first starter will have risen and will contain a lot of bubbles, with a noticeably acidic aroma. Mix it with the ingredients of the second starter until combined. Dust the top with rye flour and cover the bowl. The starter will double in size within 3 to 4 hours and the rye flour on top will have cracked open. At this point, it’s ready to be used in the final dough.

  Final Dough

  Place a baking stone on a rack in the middle of the oven and a rimmed baking sheet at the bottom.

  Preheat the oven to 460˚F (240˚C).

  Combine the whole wheat flour, rye flour mix, salt, and the yeast and spice mixture, if using. Break up the starter with your fingers and add it to the flour. Pour in all the water. Then, using
one hand—moistened with water—mix to combine. I find this is easiest if you have the mixing bowl right next to the sink, so that you run your hand under the water as soon as the dough begins to stick to it. If you wait too long, you will have a hunk of dough stuck to your fingers. (If you do get a hand full of dough, moisten the fingers of your clean hand and use your thumb and forefinger to remove the dough from the dough-encased hand, then rinse it again.) Mix until just combined, 1 to 2 minutes, and cover. Then let sit for 10 minutes so that the flours can hydrate.

  At this point, the dough will be quite thick, almost like cookie batter. Wet your hand and then go at it again, squeezing the dough with your fingers and folding the dough over on itself. This should take 1 to 2 minutes. Let the dough rest covered for about 10 minutes, then repeat the action, adding more water so that the dough loosens up a bit. (While mixing, I will add 40 to 60 grams more water.)

  The dough should be stiff but pliable. Cover and let it rise for 30 to 40 minutes, until it looks slightly more porous and gassy.

  Lightly oil the loaf pan, or brush it with melted butter.

  I find it easiest to shape the loaf in the bowl. Wet your hands and fold the dough toward the middle several times, so you have a round ball. Turn it over, so the seam is facedown. Then with your moist hands, roll the ball so it’s kind of a loaf or football shape and about the length of the pan. Then with two hands, pick it up and gently place it in the pan. Wet your hands and smooth out the top, but don’t worry if it’s uneven: the dough will flatten out as it rises and evenly fill the pan. The dough should fill one third to one half of the height of the pan. Dust the top of the loaf with a generous dusting of rye flour and cover the pan with plastic wrap.

  The timing of the final rise is crucial. You want the loaf to rise to within a half inch of the top of the pan. But more crucially, look for cracks in the flour coating. When they begin to appear, the loaf is almost ready for the oven. Let the cracks open a bit, until they are a quarter inch at the widest point. Depending on the temperature of your kitchen, this will take 50 to 70 minutes. If your kitchen is very cool, it might take longer. But remember, the cracks are your ultimate guide—not the time.

  Preheat the oven to 460˚F (240˚ C) with the baking stone on the middle rack and the baking sheet on the bottom of the oven.

  When the loaf is ready, place the bread pan on the baking stone, pour 2/3 cup of water into the baking sheet, and shut the oven door. Bake the loaf at 460˚F (240˚C) for 20 minutes.

  After 20 minutes, open the oven to vent the remaining steam and then lower the temperature to 390˚F (200˚C). Bake the loaf for another 40 minutes, turning the loaf around after 20 minutes if your oven tends to bake unevenly. Then turn the oven off and let the loaf sit in the oven for another 10 minutes, for a total baking time of 70 minutes.

  Using thick kitchen mitts, remove the loaf from the oven. It should fall right out when you tilt the pan over. Place it on a cooling rack. Let the loaf rest for 24 hours before slicing it open. While it rests overnight, place a towel over it.

  This loaf has exceptional keeping quality. I cover it with a towel for 3 days, then place it in a plastic bag and continue to eat it for a full week. Alternatively, freeze half of it in a plastic bag. Remove and defrost the loaf, though there is no need to reheat the loaf unless you desire.

  CHAPTER 7

  Local Bread in Cucugnan and Cobb Neck

  In southern France, the wind is known as the tramontane. It whips from the northwest, flies over the snow-topped Pyrénées, and blows across the bright sunny coastal region of France along the Mediterranean. In the tiny hilltop village of Cucugnan, in the Languedoc-Roussillon region, about an hour in from the coast, the wind is known as le vent de Cers. It blows in a steady hum and howl through the narrow streets of the medieval-looking village, and it was the first thing I noticed when I arrived there one day in March. At night, it’s all you hear, slapping and growling and hissing outside. The wind blows through the old-growth vineyards in the Vallée du Triby, flies up the cliff peering over the western side of the village and then hits a formidable windmill that rises out of the craggy rock outcropping.

  When Roland Feuillas and his wife, Valérie, bought the windmill in 2006 and moved to the village, only a portion of the brickwork was still standing. Luckily, there were still workers in France who rebuilt windmills, so Feuillas contacted a renowned carpenter in this line of work. One morning, at the end of the project, after a long night of drinking wine with the man, Feuillas awoke bleary eyed to begin making bread at six A.M. He walked outside, looked up and saw the carpenter, naked with his arms outstretched, balanced on the huge wooden blades of the new windmill, facing the wind from the valley below. “He was howling like a shaman,” he recalled.

  Windmills, it seems, can have that effect. Feuillas and his wife had bought the mill after selling an educational software company with forty employees. “I was always on this,” Feuillas said, holding up his cell phone. “Now it hardly rings.” His passion was bread, but he didn’t want to just “bake bread.” He also wanted to grow the wheat, then mill it. He had looked through the south of France for a pristine location and settled on this area because no wheat was grown nearby. The fields had long ago been abandoned, so he didn’t need to worry about pesticides drifting from neighboring farms. Here, he would plant long-forgotten French wheat varieties that had been gathered and shared among a small movement of farmers, or were sitting in gene banks. In one instance, he obtained just ten seeds of a variety known as Toussel, which he read had been favored by Louis XIII. He grew the wheat, harvested the grain, chose the fattest seeds, and planted them again. This planting and selecting went on for several years, with a number of different varieties. He also planted different varieties together so that they might breed with one another. He had eight original varieties in this kitchen biodiversity project, including two types of Toussel. Perhaps it was similar to the grain once grown in the region destined for the Cucugnan mill, which like all mills was controlled by the local throne. Holding up a handful of cream-colored, stone-milled flour, Feuillas looked at me and said, “This was the tax.”

  I had first heard about Feuillas from a home baker in Britain, Azelia Torres, who writes the thoughtful bread-baking blog “Azelia’s Kitchen.” When she posted the pictures of his bakery and windmill I knew I had to go. I was curious to see this one-man band who controlled the wheat, the milling, and the baking of his bread. With any scale, these activities are separated and with good reason: each takes a special kind of attention, and once you grow beyond a certain size, it’s impossible to orchestrate them all. But since Feuillas made just a few types of loaves, rather than the dozen or more varieties you might see in a larger boulangerie, this wasn’t out of the question. He relied on a thirty-inch electric stone mill for everyday use (when he wasn’t cranking up the windmill) and he made his bread for people in the village, every one of whom he knew. The name of his enterprise seemed to say it all: Les Maîtres de Mon Moulin, The Masters of My Windmill, a play on a popular nineteenth-century French novel set in the town.

  The windmill in Cucugnan

  Feuillas is among a small movement of paysannes boulangers (peasant bakers) who grow their own organic wheat, mill it into flour, and make their bread. They remain outsiders in the baking industry. This is an especially tough career to pursue, because the state has strict rules requiring farmers to plant only seed sold by agricultural companies. Farmers who save their seed can sell their crop only if they pay an annual tax at the granary, and they can share varieties with one another only through a tenuous research exemption. The radicals of this world—for they are radicals, or at least on the agricultural fringe—read this as the state’s way of protecting French seed companies in the face of much larger global competition, but it also marginalizes the farmer and paysanne boulanger. The rules also impair private attempts to preserve biodiversity and ancient wheat varieties on the farm. “Breeding your own grains is becoming more and more difficult legally,” s
aid Patrick de Kochko at Réseau Semences Paysannes, a group at the heart of this movement, though the farmers have kept at it for now through loopholes and exemptions.

  Being on the fringe of the baking trade meant that Feuillas could make his ideal bread. In his view, the grain, the flour, the bread were all connected and he wanted his hand in all of it. “Can you imagine a wine maker making wine without knowing his grapes?” he said. If he was going to be a boulanger, he was going to do it his way—not unlike the carpenter howling into the wind.

  • • •

  On that first morning in Cucugnan, I had gone for a run on the winding road that swept down from the village and then off onto a dirt path that snaked through the vineyards in the valley. The vines were old, weathered, and gnarled, though young shoots were sprouting out of those branches that had been pruned. It was cool, and the wind, as usual, was howling. The soil was rocky and dry, so the vines had to work that much harder to get any life from it, and perhaps that’s what concentrated the smoky, earthy character of these Corbières wines. It also proved a difficult surface to run on, but I wasn’t complaining. There wasn’t anything like it—running through the ancient vines of France in the early morning light.