There is nothing like it. I love bread. I was a baker, once, yes… once a baker (if anyone understands this nod and wink I’ll be surprised out of my wits).
In any case, I really like good bread. Real bread. Not that shit you get in the supermarket, full of emulsifiers and preservatives… real bread, from a fucking baker.
Before I worked as a baker, when I was still in school, there was a fellow pupil who worked at an Italian bakery. On one or two mornings each week he would bring a beautiful round loaf of whole wheat italian bread with him, two pounds, still warm from the oven, for Christ’s sake, and he’d tear it to pieces, literally, and give them to us. Heavenly.
You know, the French have their baguettes, the Russians have their black bread… I am sure there are many more typical breads… but I have not yet encountered a country with more wonderful kinds of bread than Germany. And the greatest thing is, in every damned village is a real bakery that makes it’s own fucking bread.
It just happens –what a coincidence!– that I live in the village which makes the most wonderful Graubrot, which is German for grey bread, in the known universe. It is in fact grey. If you saw it lying on the shelf in the supermarket you wouldn’t find it particularly appetizing, but the fact is that this the most wonderful bread on earth. It is best when baked to the point of a slightly charred crust. Of course they make other kinds of bread, they make a great „Italian Landbread“ (a wonderful crumbly sort of white bread), and some wonderful dark breads, sweet with malt and whole grains. Their cakes are so-so, but, my God, the breads!
I know the bakery does it all per hand, no crap in the bread, just real, basic, ingredients, the way it should be. That is the life! I am telling you! Good food, real food! No supermarket crap!
I used to say, when people asked how I could ever have even considered moving from NYC to the German province: I did it for love. And now, if you asked me: why do you stay? It’s the food. The bread, the meat, the cheese… alright, my children probably have something to do with it too.
But there is one kind of bread I miss from America: buttermilk biscuits. Homemade buttermilk biscuits… to die for. Of course, they are not, strictly speaking, bread at all, but let us not quibble over semantics here.

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