So I began to think of this project with Heinz as far more than a way to bake “local bread.” It was really about working with all nature has to offer—first, in the wheat varieties Heinz grew, on a specific piece of farmland in the mid-Atlantic. Then, in my sourdough, because of the diverse microbiota I nurtured within it; and finally in the bread itself, which reflected my own hands. It reminded me of what the French bakers had said to me: how could you make bread without knowing the wheat? It was such a simple question but it had been forgotten in the commoditization of flour and in the loss of craft.
But now, a busy few were finding a new way. It was hardly a romantic notion of “returning” to the past, for everything had changed: Heinz wasn’t growing wheat that the colonists had brought with them from Europe. He was sowing wheat from the Great Plains and trying to make it work in a very different climate, with surprising success. Maybe this work was a distant echo of the very earliest grains, which were traded and shared and eventually made their way out of the Fertile Crescent. The seeds were planted in places where these grasses had never been grown before, becoming the landraces of the future, the source of future breads. Maybe these early farmers, these prototypical bakers, were experimenting, too, feeling something akin to the excitement I felt when I ate this bread from wheat sown in Heinz’s fields.
The following year, Heinz had a new variety in the mix, which he took to calling “Sam’s Wheat.” It had originated with those German wheat kernels that Eli Rogosa passed on to me a couple of years earlier. Now, he had enough seed on hand to sell, and also a new stone mill from Germany in which he could grind flour. When I got the flour from Heinz, I made a small, dark miche that had a surprisingly high amount of acidity, perhaps owing to an overly long fermentation—or perhaps due to the grain itself. Eating the bread, I realized I could trace the wheat back to Rogosa, and from her to the farmers in Germany who had passed it on. Heinz was just the latest stop. While he insisted on calling it “Sam’s Wheat,” I finally told him, “Heinz, it’s not mine! It’s not my wheat!” Roland Feuillas had been right all along. I was just one link in this journey.
Pain Nature
(MODERATE)
Makes 4 loaves
Sourdough loaves made with Anson Mills French Mediterranean flour
I had failed to bring back any flour from my trip to southern France, which was kind of a shame because it had such a marvelous taste. But while looking around, I came across a bolted white flour from Anson Mills in South Carolina that caught my attention. The mill’s French Mediterranean white bread flour was “milled from 18th century white heirloom wheat emanating from Provence, in France.” The variety was a family heirloom, originating with French Huguenots and passed down through generations. I was pleasantly surprised by this wheat, which is stone milled and then sifted to remove the bran, for it came very close to the flavor I had experienced at Feuillas’s bakery in the south of France. The only cautionary remark: Anson’s flour absorbs far less water than you might expect, probably owing to a lower level of protein. Observe that caveat and you will make a decent loaf of bread.
Anson’s founder, Glenn Roberts, is fanatical about freshness and mills the flour just before he ships it to customers. He also maintains it in cold storage so that the flavor doesn’t deteriorate and suggests his customers do the same. The flour is expensive, but if you want to splurge and experiment, it’s worth it.
As for Feuillas’s ancient wheat, I did manage to persuade my brother-in-law, who was returning from Paris, to visit a baker who had some on hand. Through a couple of e-mails, the baker generously agreed to sell a 2-kilo (4.4-pound) bag of this flour, which then went into Marc’s carry-on luggage. He was a bit dubious about bringing a plastic bag filled with fine white powder into the United States, but here’s a tip: declare it in customs. I’ve found the officials look at the entry card, say something like, “Flour, huh?” and then wave you on through.
This recipe closely follows the pain de campagne, so look there for more details on the hand kneading technique.
Tools
Bowl
Rectangular baking stone
Rimmed baking sheet
Plastic dough scraper
Dowel or wooden spoon with a long handle or a chopstick
Parchment paper
Single-edged razor blade, lame, or knife
Baking peel or cutting board, to move the loaves to the oven
Cooling rack
Levain Ingredients
100 grams Anson Mills French Mediterranean white bread flour
65 grams water
20 grams starter
Final Dough Ingredients
150 grams levain
400 grams water
600 grams Anson Mills French Mediterranean white bread flour, plus more for the counter
12 grams salt
Morning, First Day
Mix the ingredients for the levain and let it rise overnight until it has domed and is bubbly. Use the levain after it has risen 8 to 10 hours, though the longer it sits, the more sour the flavor will be.
Evening, First Day
Mix the starter with 375 grams of the water. Add the flour and mix until combined so that all the lumps are gone. Make an indentation in the top of the dough, and add the salt and then about a tablespoon of the remaining water and let the salt dissolve in this pool for 30 to 40 minutes.
Turn the dough in the bowl by folding the edges to the middle, 10 to 12 times, incorporating the salt as you go by pinching the dough with your thumb and fingers. Then flip over the dough so that the smooth side is up. Add the remaining water, as necessary.
After 30 minutes, repeat the folding action. Then repeat this again after another 30 minutes, so that you’ve done three folding actions after the initial mix. Then place the dough, covered, in the refrigerator for 12 to 24 hours.
Second Day
Preheat the oven to 460˚F (240˚C). Place a baking stone on the middle rack. Place a rimmed baking sheet on a shelf below the baking stone.
Take the dough out of the refrigerator. Lightly dust the counter with flour. Remove the dough from the bowl in one piece, dust it lightly with flour, and form it into a rough rectangular shape. Cut it in half with the dough scraper and place half of the dough back into the bowl and into the refrigerator.
Fold the dough in half so that the smooth, flour-covered side is now on top, and so that it makes a rectangular shape. Sprinkle a thick line of flour down the middle of the dough, so you will have two loaves when you cut through the line. Then, using a chopstick or the handle of a wooden spoon or blunt-edge piece of wood, press down on the floury line. Finish cutting with a dough scraper so that you have two loaves of bread.
Move the loaves to flour-dusted parchment paper, making sure they are separated, and cover with a light towel. After 60 minutes, check the dough by pressing on it gently with a finger. If it strongly springs back, let it rest for another 20 minutes and check again. The dough should gently spring back when you touch it and be ready for the oven after a total of 60 to 90 minutes.
Place the parchment paper with the loaves on a peel or cutting board. Slash them with one long cut down the middle of the loaf, about 1/4 inch deep. Then move the loaves to the baking stone. Pour 1/3 cup of water into the pan at the bottom of the oven and bake the loaves for 20 minutes. Release the steam by opening the oven door quickly and then closing it again right away. Bake for another 10 minutes, then turn the oven down to 440˚F (225˚C) and continue baking until nicely dark for another 10 to 15 minutes, 40 to 45 minutes in total. Turn the oven off, prop open the door slightly, and let the loaves rest in the oven for another 5 to 7 minutes. The loaves should sound hollow when you knock them.
Repeat the baking process with the second piece of dough, making two more loaves.
Let the loaves rest on a cooling rack for at least 1 hour before cutting into them. Store the loaves in a towel or paper bag for one day, then in a plastic bag after that point. You can also freeze a loaf after it
cools. When you are ready to eat the frozen loaf, let it defrost at room temperature and then crisp it up in a 400˚F (205˚C) oven for 5 minutes.
Epilogue
Early on in this journey, in December 2010, I took a trip to rainy Portland, Oregon, to meet Tim Healea, the owner of Little T American Baker. Healea had recently opened the bakery and lavished attention on the retail space—a kind of sleek, modernist affair, with counters and tables in natural wood, polished cement floors, and large picture windows looking out over the street in southeast Portland. The morning I arrived, the store hadn’t yet opened, but the bakers were rushing about; the unmistakable odor of freshly baked bread wafted from behind the doors that separated the store from the kitchen. It was a smell I would come to expect over the course of the next two years in many other bakeries across the United States and Europe.
Soon, Healea came out of the back and said hello. Well built, with thick arms and a T-shirt to show them off, he was also soft-spoken, and maybe a little shy. But he was passionate about his bread, which was neatly arranged on wooden racks by a window. There was the “slab,” the name for an airy and addictive focaccia (which was immediately devoured when I brought it home to my friends); a sandwich loaf that looked like a multigrain bread except that it also contained shredded carrots; a hearty whole spelt and flaxseed loaf; and a baguette, which was reputed to be the best in Portland. (I would say it’s a tossup with Ken’s Artisan Bakery, another superlative bakery across town.) Then there was his “house” bread, a round, airy sourdough with a remarkable crust that looked like a sheet of cracked ice in snowy flour.
I spent several mornings with the friendly crew, making these unfamiliar loaves. In the process, it became clear to me that Healea was among a new breed of American bakers. If the 1980s and ’90s had been about Old World breads, the new century was taking American bread in a fresh direction. You wouldn’t call Little T a boulangerie because, aside from its baguette and superlative croissant, you wouldn’t find bread like this in Paris. Little T suggested what was possible going forward.
I saw aspects of this new direction in bread whenever I came across committed bakers. I saw it with Chad Robertson’s whole grain loaves. And in the ryes that suddenly seemed to be appearing everywhere in New York. And Pichard’s unusual long-fermentation baguette, and Zakowski’s cracked Kamut bread. In Cucugnan, Feuillas was rediscovering relic wheats, and then there were other farmers who were trying to bring back wheat to regions where it had long been absent or were working to preserve ancient varieties. All those efforts meant that the end product—the grain, the flour—might offer new colors and textures for the bakers’ palette and for us to eat. What I was witnessing was a blossoming of diversity and creativity.
Diverse wheat varieties have been viewed as an invaluable genetic resource to ensure future wheat harvests, which they certainly are. Yet very few wheat breeders have tried to breed grains that played off the inherent culinary differences in these grasses. In order to create a more productive resource, they bred inconsistency out of the wheat genome rather than celebrating the variation within it. This standardization met the expectations of bakers, millers, and, yes, bread eaters around the world about how white flour should perform and what bread should taste like. But the bakers I met on my journey—and the farmers, millers, and wheat breeders who worked with them—were searching for something else: heterogeneity in flours and whole grains, and variety in the breads they produced. Long-ignored grains, such as barley, rye, and ancient wheat, would help achieve this result, but the methods couldn’t be ignored—the coarseness of the millstone, the sourdough culture, the fermentation regime, the touch of the hand on the dough—because all these variables create the taste of bread.
It’s doubtful that global wheat breeders will change their focus, because their job is to ensure the most acceptable wheat product for the largest number of people. But this parallel movement to diversify the grain supply could have important ramifications, too, considering the advances that bakers are making in the palatability of whole grains. These small bakers, these renegade wheat breeders, these committed farmers and micro-millers, who are working with forgotten grains and trying to discover a new relationship with the “staff of life,” will lead the way with bread, widening the possibilities not only for the committed few but for many others who follow. Some call this “real bread” and from many vantage points it is, especially when it comes to the taste of the bread and the work that goes into creating it.
I won’t pretend that we’re beyond the very start of this enterprise, and there will be a lot of surprises and failures along the way. But without that sense of adventure, without the possibility that this work entails, it probably wouldn’t be worth it. After all, it was this relentless curiosity about bread that drove me forward, and I imagine is driving others as well, whether in a professional setting or at home.
When I began baking many years ago, I didn’t set out to promote whole grain bread, champion artisan bakers, or eat local grains. I simply wanted good bread for my table. I was pursuing memories of the bread I ate as a child, and learning a craft. What I realize, though, is that I learned a lot by engaging with this most basic of staples. Baking opened up a new world to me, introduced me to bakers, and made me think about bread in an entirely new way, beyond the confines of my home and my own desires for a decent loaf. But even now, I’m careful about protecting the special role baking has played in my life.
As I was finishing this book, we took a summer family vacation to the coast of Rhode Island. One day, we found ourselves on a beach with few people. On cliffs that backed up to the sandy beach, ragged plant life and red clay had been exposed by the wind and rain. Looking around, I realized that this was the perfect place to bake bread, for everything was there—sand, clay, and seawater that could be used to mix mortar and build an earth oven. I had built an oven like this once before at the Kneading Conference—an annual gathering of baking enthusiasts in Maine—and I had studied Kiko Denzer’s classic book on the subject, Build Your Own Earth Oven. So my wife, Ellen, and I, and our daughter, Nina, and our two friends, Mark and Susanna, and their son, Niko, got to work. We mixed the clay and sand, adding water to create a loose, muddy mortar. It wasn’t too different from the sand castles we’d been building on the beach all week, though in this instance it helped that Mark had huge feet, and could churn the substance while jumping around. Once the mud was ready, we began building the oven, using a pizza stone that I brought along for the floor. After a couple of hours of work, we finished the dome and left it to set. A couple of days later, I returned and lit a fire inside, with driftwood I gathered on the beach. It became so hot I could barely approach the opening, but I kept feeding it to heat up the thick walls. Two hours later, Mark showed up with pizza dough and toppings.
We swept out the coals as best we could, using a stick and a kind of improvised seaweed mop. We had to work carefully to avoid getting any sand on the dough, but we managed it and then slid an eight-inch pie into the oven. Mark and I sat there, in the sand, facing the waves, the wind blowing gently, watching the pizza bake. Although it cooked unevenly, it was done in about five minutes and we dove in. The crust, where it had fully cooked, was dark and crispy, the cheese gooey. We made a couple more pizzas. Mark snapped open a couple of beers.
It surely wasn’t the best pizza I’ve ever eaten. The ingredients were unremarkable, the dough had overfermented in the sun, and a bit of the crust was undercooked. But as we ate, we marveled at this most primitive of ovens we had built by hand on a beach on the Atlantic Coast. We hadn’t mastered the fire, or the way the oven worked, or really how to make pizza in it. But it hinted at what was possible. We knew we could make something edible from this earth. And we knew we would have to return and try again.
Earth oven made with clay, sand, and seawater
Acknowledgments
This book is really part of a process that began with my first visits to bakeries as a child: the iconic images of bakers in
front of their ovens are still etched in my memory. I was also guided by bakers who over the years opened up their baking rooms to me. I’d like to acknowledge Tim Healea, Mike Zakowski, Chad Robertson, Kathleen and Ed Weber, Richard Hart, Jeffrey Hamelman, Craig Ponsford, Roger Gural, and Susan Tenney. I’d also like to thank Alice Waters, who encouraged my bread baking at a pivotal moment, and Nancy Silverton and Jim Lahey, who also welcomed me into their bakeries.
Those I met in France were unfailingly helpful: Arnaud Delmontel, Roland Feuillas, Frédéric Pichard, Steven Kaplan, Alexandre Viron, and Jean-Philippe de Tonnac. A special thanks to Thomas Chardon, who showed me how to make not just one baguette, but hundreds. Many of these interviews would never have occurred without the tireless help of Denise Young, a former colleague and my Paris-based interpreter. Along the way, Laurent Bonneau generously agreed to provide some of Roland’s flour to my Paris courier (my brother-in-law, Marc Morjé Howard). I want to give a hearty thanks to Afar magazine for sending me to Paris in the depths of the recession. Photographer Brian Doben shot that story, then generously shared his pictures with me for this book.
In Search of the Perfect Loaf: A Home Baker's Odyssey Page 24