Bread Flour

These are sometimes called by different names, such as New York hard rolls, bulkies, or even Vienna rolls. But the distinguishing characteristic of a kaiser roll is the star pattern on the top and a thin, slightly crisp crust that yields to the first bite and crumbles deliciously in the mouth around whatever sandwich filling it holds. Most bakeshops make them using a direct-dough method and knock them out by the thousands. This version, again pushing the limits of our newfound understanding of fermentation and enzyme activity, utilizes old dough, pâte fermentée, to improve flavor, texture, and color, making the resulting rolls significantly better than their commercial counterparts. While strangers will be complaining that they can’t find a good old-fashioned New York hard roll, you will be spoiling your friends and family with these bulkies.

In every book I’ve written there is a version of French bread, each attempting to close the gap between professional, artisan, and home-baked loaves. This is the best version yet and the closest, I believe, to the breads you will find at your favorite bakery. The key, as in many of these formulas, is the use of a large amount of pre-fermented dough, pâte fermentée. My best previous version required holding the shaped loaves overnight in the refrigerator, a technique that still may be applied to improve many lean, slow-rising breads. But purists object because the technique causes blisters, sometimes called bird’s-eyes, on the crust (due to carbon dioxide trapped just beneath the skin during the cold retarding stage). While I like that look, as do many consumers, it is not the way baguettes look at French boulangeries, nor most bakeshops anywhere. This new method allows you to make a full-flavored French bread, from start to finish in 4 to 5 hours (assuming you have the pâte fermentée made in advance). The pre-fermented dough gives the final dough the qualities of one that has been fermented for 7 to 9 hours, the standard of many professional operations. The crust will have a rich, reddish-gold caramelization rather than the more typical yellow-gold color of younger dough. This richer color is a result of sugars released from the starches during fermentation. The bread also exhibits a sweetness that seems as if it must be from added sugar, but all the sugar in this bread is released from within the flour, broken free of the complex starch molecules by amylase and diastase enzymes during fermentation. As with most hearth breads, another key to the success of this bread is handling it gently, retaining as much gas as possible during shaping in order to promote large, irregular holes in the crumb that, again, release maximum flavor. This large, open crumb is one of the signs of a properly handled artisan loaf.

These are fun to make, especially with kids. Instead of baking the bread in the oven, the muffins are baked in a skillet or on a griddle. If you want to get the big holes that the professionals get, you will need to work with a soft, but not sticky, dough and bake or grill the muffins at just the right time, catching them on the rise. The dough, a fairly straightforward enriched dough, can also be used to make English muffin loaf bread, a holey white bread that kids—well, not just kids—love.

The quality of most American focaccia is so poor that I’m surprised it has caught on as it has, being listed by a top food magazine as one of the hot food trends of the new millennium. Its survival and emergence is probably due to the few bakeries that really do it well, showcasing the honeycombed crumb that results from a properly executed rustic dough. Toppings, no matter how creative and flavorful, can never cover for an inadequate crust. This is true for pizza as well as its Ligurian cousin, focaccia. The main difference between them is that true pizza (Neapolitan) has a thin crust, while authentic focaccia has a thicker crust, but not obnoxiously thick as seen in some American renditions. I prefer a thickness of 1 to 1 1/4 inches, with big, open, translucent holes, like a ciabatta or pugliese. There is really only one way to achieve such perfection, and that is through long fermentation by either generous use of pre-fermented dough or by retarding the fermentation process through refrigeration. Either method will get you there, so I offer you two formulas. The results are comparable and demonstrate the possibilities presented by time and temperature manipulation. Following the formulas are some suggestions for variations and toppings.

I’ve long believed that the connecting link in any Thanksgiving dinner is the cranberry relish. It ties all the other flavors together, its juices running in all directions on the plate, blending with the gravy, potatoes, and the dressing, and finally, enlivening the turkey itself with its sweet-and-sour flavor tones. Of course, it has to be good cranberry relish, with coarsely chopped berries, walnuts, and orange juice, not just the canned jelly slices. This bread captures those flavors and can be used to supplement the relish (which always seems to run out before I’ve had my fill). It also makes a beautiful table presentation, with its double-decker braiding, evocative of a traditional celebration challah (page 133).

In Brother Juniper’s Bread Book, I included a recipe for a variation of this bread, but I believe this version is even better, encompassing all the qualities one wants from a raisin bread. It is light, flavorful, loaded with raisins, and it has a wonderful finish, filling your mouth with the satisfying aftertaste of roasted walnuts. If you prefer not to use nuts, eliminate them from the formula without any further changes (you may also substitute other nuts, such as pecans or hazelnuts).

My students often ask me to teach them how to make a cinnamon bun as good as the ones they get at the mall from Cinnabon and other franchise shops. For my money, this version makes a cinnamon bun that outperforms all the malls. But those of us who grew up in eastern Pennsylvania have a soft spot in our hearts for sticky buns, such as the ones originating from the Pennsylvania Dutch countryside. Frankly, everyone in the United States seems to have a favorite regional version, whether it is a cinnamon bun glazed with a sweet, white-sugar fondant or a sticky bun with a caramel glaze. Regardless of side issues, such as white versus caramel glazes, the type of nut (usually walnuts versus pecans), or with or without raisins, the real key to this kind of comfort food is a soft, light, tender, slightly sweet dough baked just right. This formula falls in the enriched, not the rich, dough category because the fat content is slightly under 20 percent. I’ve made versions of sweet dough that do indeed contain up to 50 percent fat, but then why eat the buns? You might as well strap them right onto your hips, since that’s where they will end up (or, as one of my customers used to say, “They call them sticky buns because they stick to your buns!”). Between the shortening, eggs, sugar, and milk, there are plenty of enrichments to tenderize this dough without additional fat. However, if you do want to make a more decadent version of cinnamon or sticky buns, try the formula for Middle-Class Brioche on page 127.

This bread, with its big, shiny holes and amorphous shape, has taken America by storm, just as it did Italy during the past fifty years. Though it hails from an age-old tradition of rustic, slack-dough breads, the name ciabatta was not applied to this loaf until the mid-twentieth century by an enterprising baker in the Lake Como region of northern Italy. He observed that the bread resembled a slipper worn by dancers of the region and thus dubbed his loaf ciabatta di Como (slipper bread of Como). A new tradition was born. During the second half of the century, this ciabatta became the unofficial national bread of Italy, so closely identified is it with the chewy, rustic peasant breads of the Italian countryside. As with pugliese bread, the dough is not unlike that of many other Italian and French rustic breads, including pizza and focaccia, and can thus be made into many shapes other than the Lake Como slipper.

This bread, with its big, shiny holes and amorphous shape, has taken America by storm, just as it did Italy during the past fifty years. Though it hails from an age-old tradition of rustic, slack-dough breads, the name ciabatta was not applied to this loaf until the mid-twentieth century by an enterprising baker in the Lake Como region of northern Italy. He observed that the bread resembled a slipper worn by dancers of the region and thus dubbed his loaf ciabatta di Como (slipper bread of Como). A new tradition was born. During the second half of the century, this ciabatta became the unofficial national bread of Italy, so closely identified is it with the chewy, rustic peasant breads of the Italian countryside. As with pugliese bread, the dough is not unlike that of many other Italian and French rustic breads, including pizza and focaccia, and can thus be made into many shapes other than the Lake Como slipper.

This bread, with its big, shiny holes and amorphous shape, has taken America by storm, just as it did Italy during the past fifty years. Though it hails from an age-old tradition of rustic, slack-dough breads, the name ciabatta was not applied to this loaf until the mid-twentieth century by an enterprising baker in the Lake Como region of northern Italy. He observed that the bread resembled a slipper worn by dancers of the region and thus dubbed his loaf ciabatta di Como (slipper bread of Como). A new tradition was born. During the second half of the century, this ciabatta became the unofficial national bread of Italy, so closely identified is it with the chewy, rustic peasant breads of the Italian countryside. As with pugliese bread, the dough is not unlike that of many other Italian and French rustic breads, including pizza and focaccia, and can thus be made into many shapes other than the Lake Como slipper. You can make this dough with a large amount of either poolish or biga, and formulas for both versions follow. It can also be made with the addition of milk and olive oil to tenderize the dough. In other words, there are many variations, all valid, and as long as you make a slipper shape you can call it ciabatta. Since writing Crust & Crumb, I have continued to fine-tune these rustic breads, pushing the limits of time and temperature manipulation, trying to evoke every bit of flavor trapped in the flour. In the pain à l’ancienne formula, we will make a similar dough but with no pre-ferment and a long cold fermentation. Each variation in technique brings forth slightly different flavor tones from the wheat, and everyone seems to have their own preferences. In this version, the use of 165 to 180 percent pre-ferment seems to be the magic amount to maximize a same-day bread in a 4- to 5-hour window. It yields a slightly acidic and yeasty edge, a flavor that many people love. They say, “This tastes like real bread!” I have found little difference between the biga and poolish versions; both are amazing

Challah, the braided Sabbath bread of Judaism, is a European celebratory loaf symbolic of God’s goodness and bounty. The braids traditionally separate the loaf into twelve distinct sections representing the twelve tribes of Israel. The use of eggs in the bread was probably a way to use up excess eggs before the strict Judaic Sabbath day of rest made it impossible to harvest the new eggs, as harvesting is one of many activities considered work in Orthodox Jewish communities. I’ve made challah many different ways, but this is a great formula that produces a soft golden loaf, radiant when brought to the table. The key to a beautiful challah, one that stops conversation and holds everyone’s attention, is to braid it so that it is tapered at the ends and plump in the middle.

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.