Yeast

Brioche is the standard by which all rich breads are judged. In fact, whenever rich breads are described, they are often compared to brioche or called a relative. Brioche is actually simple in character: it is enriched with a small amount of sugar, substantial amounts of egg, and lots of butter—at least in excess of 20 percent (butter to flour ratio) but usually 50 percent or higher. I have rarely seen brioche made commercially with more than 75 percent butter, but I have seen formulas that call for up to 100 percent. There are countless formula variations. Some are made with sponges or other pre-ferments, some by the direct-dough method. Some versions are immediately fermented and then shaped and baked, while some require overnight chilling. The anecdotal history of this bread includes allusions to Queen Marie Antoinette, whose last words are reputed to be properly translated as “Let them eat brioche,” and not “Let them eat cake.” There are a lot of reasons to assume that either translation is more myth than fact, but it does beg the question, why would anyone even think to make such a statement? This may be because brioche had two distinct expressions in pre-Revolution France. One version, for the wealthy and thus called rich man’s brioche, was loaded with butter (70 percent or more). The other, made for the huddled masses and therefore called poor man’s brioche, was butter challenged (20 to 25 percent). As so often happens with bread, it makes a perfect symbol for many things, not the least of which is the class struggle between the haves and the have-nots. So, it would make sense that if the queen was about to lose her head because the revolutionaries were, for the most part, have-nots, why not offer them rich man’s brioche. “Yeah, we can do that, sure.” But, alas, it was too late, too futile, and probably too arrogant a gesture. When we examine the formula for rich man’s brioche, one thing becomes evident: it has almost the same flour to fat to sugar ratio as pie dough. The main difference is the yeast and eggs. Most pie dough, whether pâte brisée (plain) or pâte sucrée (sweet), and whether flaky or mealy, is made by some variation of what is known as the 1-2-3 method. This means 3 parts flour, 2 parts fat, and 1 part water (and also, in sweet or sucrée pie dough, sugar). The ratio translates as 66.6 percent fat to 100 percent flour. Brioche, rich man’s brioche at least, has between 50 and 80 percent butter, right in the pie-dough range. This means that brioche can, in principle, be used to make a very nice tender pie or tart dough, which is often done in French pâtisseries. It is a wonderful alternative to the flaky or mealy pie dough under quiche or other custard tarts, as I have witnessed in the clafouti sold in the pastry shop of Paris’s Ritz Hotel. Apparently, they make hundreds of these tartlets everyday for their guests and can barely keep up with the demand. Other applications of brioche include loaf breads for the definitive French toast, tea and café rolls, wraps for meat- or vegetable-filled molds, and, most famously, small fluted rolls with “heads” (petites brioches à tête). Beyond that, there are the infinite regional and holiday expressions of the bread, from the Italian pandoro and panettone, to the kugelhopf of Alsace, stollen of Germany and Switzerland, and the amazing meat- and- cheese-filled Italian version called casatiello. The following versions of brioche give you three options, depending on the amount of butter you feel ready to tackle. In the spirit of Queen Marie, we will call them rich man’s, middleclass, and poor man’s brioche, all of which have valid applications in the bread canon.

There are two kinds of people in the world, those who like chewy water bagels and those who prefer softer steamed bagels. Having grown up on the East Coast in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, I am naturally inclined toward what I think of as the true bagel, the thick-crusted, dense, boiled version, called the water bagel because it is poached in a kettle of boiling alkalized water. (I also like egg bagels, which are made by adding eggs as an enrichment to the dough but, nevertheless, are boiled.) Most people who like the new style of softer bagels, and there are many such adherents, do not realize that what makes them so big and soft is that they are a softer dough, formed after a long proofing. This makes them impossible to boil because they are too airy to sustain their shape in the roiling cauldron. They are perfect for commercial steam-injected rotating rack ovens, however, because they do not have to be handled twice. (The oven lifts the entire rack of sheet pans and rotates it for even baking, after blasting it with a bath of steam to replace the boiling.) According to folklore, bagels were invented in seventeenth-century Austria as a tribute to the wartime victories of King Jan of Poland, and were modeled after the stirrup of his saddle. They were a bread for the masses, popular also in Germany and Poland, but they were introduced into the United States by German and Polish Jewish immigrants, so we think of them as a Jewish bread. Now, because of the softer steamed versions, bagels have once again become a bread for the masses. However, the modern steaming method lends fuel to the debate of authenticity and battles against our nostalgic desire for the real deal. Everyone who loves bagels seems to have a theory as to why even properly boiled bagels seem to fall short of those memories. Some think it depends on the quality of the water. “New York bagels can’t be duplicated because of that great New York water,” say New Yorkers, while others think it has something to do with the quality of the flour, or whatever else they put into the kettle to flavor the crust. Others blame the automatic bagel-shaping machines invented by Tom Atwood in the 1950s. (Prior to that, Tom, now in his eighties, told me, all bagels were shaped by hand using the wrap-around method shown on page 120.) My theory is that nothing can top the taste of memory, but it is quite possible to find and make bagels every bit as good as in yesteryear, though never as good as those of our memories. As a professional baker, a bread instructor, and a water-bagel guy, I’ve been working on making the perfect bagel for a number of years. Just as the steam technique is a totally modern innovation that opened the bagel to the mainstream marketplace, there are many techniques that are now available to both professional and home bakers that did not exist in the days of King Jan. Even the bagel bakers of our parents’ generation did not fully understand bread science as we now know it, though their feel for the product and their intuition was sharpened to a fine edge. What I have been working on is the application of some of the artisan techniques recently introduced by the new generation of bread bakers to the production of a definitive water bagel good enough to challenge our childhood memories and overcome our nostalgic biases. You will have to be the judge. This version is, I believe, an improvement on the formula given in Crust & Crumb, which I thought at the time was as good as it gets. This version uses an easier-to-make sponge, yet still provides the overnight fermentation that maximizes flavor. My students at Johnson & Wales University are too young to have had a “good old days” experience with bagels, so even though they love these bagels, their frame of reference is limited. But my wife Susan who, like me, grew up in the food and bagel mecca of Philadelphia, and some of my friends who grew up in New York C...

When it comes to holiday and festival breads, the varieties and secret family recipes are endless. But when broken down to their basic components, they are pretty much variations on a theme. This is especially evident in the various Greek breads. Artos is the general name for Greek celebration breads, but they are given particular names and twists and turns for specific festivals. It is the twists ands turns that make the breads special, bringing visual drama, history, and family tradition into the process. For instance, the color of the fruit is different for Christmas breads than for Easter since Christmas is a festival of incarnation, while Easter is a festival of resurrection and transformation. The breads are often brought to church by home bakers, blessed by the priest, and then brought to the table or given to the needy. I love the designs of the nativity christopsomos, with its bread-dough cross laminated on top of a round loaf and of the Easter egg–braided lambropsomo, also called tsoureki (a Turkish variation). The orange and brandied vassilopita, served on New Year’s Day in honor of Saint Basil, always has a gold coin hidden in it, not unlike the three kings cake of New Orleans and Spanish cultures. The following master formula can be used as the base for any of these breads, and some specific holiday variations follow. The formula uses a wild-yeast starter, along with a spiking of commercial yeast, to create an authentic-tasting, yet manageable, bread. Nowadays, most versions are made completely from commercial yeast, but this is only a recent innovation. If you do not have any barm on hand, you may replace it with an equal amount of poolish. The fermentation and proofing times will remain the same.

Now that I live in New England again, after twenty-two years in California, I felt duty bound to revisit one of the great New England breads, anadama, and to come up with a definitive version. There are conflicting stories of the origin of the name. Judith and Evan Jones, in their wonderful The Book of Bread, tell the story of a Rockport, Massachusetts, man who was upset with his wife not only for leaving him, but also for leaving behind only a pot of cornmeal mush and some molasses. The angry husband tossed the mush and molasses together with some yeast and flour and muttered, “Anna, damn ’er!” This was later amended by the more genteel local Yankees, as they retold the story, to anadama. Sounds likely to me. Traditional formulas for this bread are usually given as a direct-dough method, but this version utilizes a soaker and a sponge to evoke more flavor from the grain. Corn is chock-full of natural sugars, trapped in the complex carbohydrate starch base, so any trick we can employ to break the sugars free can only improve the already wonderful flavor.

Get back to basics, and take pleasure in baking your own nourishing bread.

This tart with a lattice top is a real showstopper. Your guests’ eyes will light up when it’s brought to the table. Known as a torta rustica in Italy, versions are served around Easter in celebration of the season. The filling is traditionally spinach, though I’ve incorporated other greens for more contrast in flavors. Other versions can have sausage, eggplant, and peppers as the filling.

This is a very simple bread to make either at the campsite or at home. it requires no kneading, and is baked in a Dutch oven or clay baker. This bread’s flavor is developed through extended fermentation.

Cookbook author Joanne Weir is known for her flavor-packed Mediterranean-inspired food. Her book From Tapas to Meze shows the breadth of her Mediterranean influences. Here, Joanne shares a favorite pizza recipe that we adapted for grilling using a Tuscan grill that fits into the fireplace of her home in San Francisco. The bitter escarole on this pizza is balanced by the sweet pine nuts, creamy cheeses, and the salty olives. The dough for a grilled pizza needs a bit more structure from gluten to keep it from oozing through the grates of the grill, which is why this one is kneaded for a longer time than other pizza doughs.

Peter Reinhart is a well-known cookbook author; his Crust and Crumb, The Bread Baker’s Apprentice, and Whole Grain Breads have been graced with prestigious awards. At Ramekins, where he occasionally teaches bread classes, Peter and I baked bread and pizzas together in the wood-fired oven after his last class. This recipe came from his The Bread Baker’s Apprentice. It is an amazing formula that can be turned into baguettes, ciabatta, focaccia, and pizza. That baking session was about a lot more than the recipe. It was about the primary message of this book: joyfully cooking and sharing with others at the fire.

These stuffed flatbreads are shaped much like meat-filled galettes. Lamb is the meat of choice in many Mediterranean cuisines, and here it is combined with other key ingredients of the region—eggplant and pomegranate—along with the warm aromatics often used in Turkish cuisine.

Though pita bread is made throughout the Middle East, we have come to identify it with Greece. When baking, it puffs up like a small balloon and then deflates when removed from the oven. This version has a bit of whole-wheat flour in it for extra nuttiness and added flavor. Make a batch or two ahead and freeze some to use later; these pita reheat easily. Try these filled with strips of roasted Mustard and Lemon Chicken (page 92) and topped with a dollop of Greek yogurt.

Coca is the Spanish version of pizza. Here, it is spread with my Smoky Romesco Sauce, a basic in the Spanish pantry. When topped with green onions, roasted potatoes, and sliced hard-cooked eggs, it is an edible canvas of the sunny colors and flavors of this part of the Mediterranean.

Every baker has a favorite pizza recipe, and this one is mine. This is one of the easiest pizza doughs you can make, and it can be used for calzones, too.

It’s not always easy to find good sandwich bread, and when I need just one loaf I enjoy using the bread machine. I don’t bake it in the machine, because I don’t like the look of the loaf, but it’s neat and easy for mixing and rising. Here’s my formula, made in any standard-size machine.

Il Pane della Ninna Nanna (Lullaby Bread). Neither very sweet nor pizzalike in the flat, savory pie sort of way, this is a gold-fleshed, orange-perfumed cakelike bread that, if baked with care, will be tall and elegant, its crumb coarse yet light and full of the consoling scents of yeast and butter. Fabriziana is one of the several “middle” names of the Roman countess with whom I learned to bake the confection in the cavernous old kitchen of her villa that looks to the gardens of the Borghese. Ours were clandestine appointments, with our yeast and our candied orange peels and the tattered recipe book of her mother’s cook. You see, Fabriziana had never cooked or baked in her life, had never made anything from a pile of flour and a few crumbles of yeast. Forbidden in the kitchen as a girl, her adulthood has been always too fraught with obligations to permit interludes in front of the flames. But in the years we have been friends, she has always demonstrated more than a kind interest in my cooking, sitting once in a while, rapt as a fox, on an old wrought-iron chair in my kitchen as I dance about. And one day when I told her I was searching for a formula for an ancient, orange-perfumed Roman bread, she knew precisely where to find the recipe. Trailing off in some Proustian dream, she said she hadn’t thought of the bread in too many years, it having been her favorite sweet at Christmas and Easter. Once she even requested that it—rather than some grand, creamy torta—be her birthday cake. She told of poaching slices of it from a silver tray during parties and receptions, stuffing them deep into the pockets of her silk dresses to eat later in bed, after her sister was safely asleep, so she might share them only with her puppy. So it was that we decided to make the bread together. Wishing to avoid the chiding of her family and, most of all, her cook, we chose to do the deed on mornings when the house would be safe from them. It was wonderful to see Fabriziana at play. Flour and butter were forced under her long, mother-of-pearled nails, and her blond-streaked coif, mounted to resist tempests, soon fell into girlish ringlets over her noble brow. With a few mornings’ worth of trial, we baked Fabriziana’s lullaby bread, the bread of her memories. And once, on a birthday of mine, the countess came fairly racing through my doorway proffering a curiously wrapped parcel that gave up the telltale perfumes of our bread. The countess had learned to bake indeed.