Farmer’s Bread

January 13th, 2010  |  15 Comments

Bread seems to be a category of its own. True, it falls under the “baking” umbrella, but artisan bread bakers snatched up the craft and dragged it to their own specialty bake shops. These people are bread whisperers. They can speak to the dough, smell its needs, and anticipate its every gurgle. They “feed” it starters, and know when to poke and prod it and punch it down, so it doesn’t get too moody. They have a symbiotic relationship with doughs that takes years to develop. I confess, I’m jealous.

Even though I worked in some lovely fine dining establishments, almost none of them baked their own bread. Instead, the bread orders arrived at 5AM from reputable bread bakers, and were quickly ushered in to the kitchen before the light of dawn revealed this shameful secret to the waking New Yorkers. I’m not sure why things worked that way, since chefs typically pride themselves on making everything from scratch. Some even hang their reputations on this.

No other task was too painstaking. I watched the chefs take days to make stocks and sauces, roasting bones, simmering liquids, straining, reducing and straining, then straining again. Hours were spent putting together terrines, baking them gently for hours, and letting them rest over night, so they could be sliced with neurosurgeon precision. Even most of the desserts took multiple sets of hands and several moon cycles to put together. So what about the bread?

Did the chefs feel like they didn’t have the skillz, like some of the baking-challenged Top Chef contestants? Were the labor costs not worth it, since the bread basket was a freebie for every diner? Perhaps there wasn’t enough room in the walk-in fridge to accommodate rows of rising baguettes? Or was it a task best left to those who weren’t likely to screw it up?

Though I was learning all manner of pastry technique, I was deprived of the bread making experience. It left a hole in my heart the size of an air pocket in a crusty sourdough loaf. I felt like a ballerina studying without the pointy shoes. This missing knowledge nagged at me, so I signed up for some bread-making classes at the Insitute of Culinary Education.

We made as many beginner’s breads as time would permit — easy breads that used packaged yeast and had one or two rises of a few hours each. These breads were considered simple in the eyes of a seasoned bread baker, but if, like me, you were making these for the first time, all you could do was blindly follow the recipe and hope you got some edible bread. All my breads came out okay, but that’s as enthusiastic a description as they deserve. I had no idea what signs I was looking for. I was just a clueless tourist in the city of Bread.

And this is my general problem with culinary school. The instructors only show you how to make everything once. You try it, and get the general idea, and then move on to the next thing. If you mess it up, tough. You’re still moving on to the next thing. The essense of the recipe can’t seep deep into your marrow unless you make it a hundred more times. Then, and only then, do you know that dough inside out. You know what it’s supposed to look like the second you start dissolving the yeast. You know if it gave off enough foam, and if its alive and kicking. You know if you really do need to add all that flour today because it happens to be a dry day. You just KNOW it like its your twin brother. You can read its mind. This can only come from exhaustive repetition.

My father had a natural instinct for this concept. Having no experience with bread baking, he woke up one morning and decided that he wanted to bake his own. After browsing his cookbook collection, he landed on Jaques Pepin’s Farmer Bread, and assessed the recipe to be easy enough to follow as written. The resulting bread was decent, yet he noticed a few areas where he could try some experimenting. And the obsession began.

Over the next few weeks, he made the same bread over and over. Sure, he could have tried baking other breads, but he was a dog with a bone and he couldn’t let go. He tinkered and toiled. He watched the dough rise every time, on all weather days, and saw what happened when he forget to add salt. He tried using different amounts of flour. He tried using baking sheets and stones. Some days he spritzed the oven with water, and other days he didn’t. He became the master of this one particular bread recipe.

Now, when I go visit, he makes this bread and it is the most magnificent peasant loaf imaginable. The giant boule commands attention at the center of the table, and I can’t wait to hear the crust snap as I break off a hunk, ready with my butter-loaded knife.

Farmer’s Bread
adapted from Jacques Pépin’s Table, by duh, Jacques Pépin
makes 1 big fat loaf

4 cups (454 g) all purpose flour plus 1 teaspoon for sprinkling
1/2 cup (84 g) rye flour
1/2 cup (14 g) wheat bran
2 1/2 (12 g) teaspoon salt 
1 teaspoon (4 g) granulated yeast
2 1/3 cup cool tap water (about 70 degrees F, a comfortable room temperature)

1 cup walnuts (optional)
1 tablespoon coriander seeds (optional)

1. Ingredients. These are musts.

 

2. Ingredients. These are optional.

 

3. Stir up the flours, bran, yeast and salt (and walnuts and coriander, if using).

 

4. Add the water a little at a time. You may not need all of it. I certainly didn’t. You are looking to moisten all the dry ingredients so a dough can come together. Here I started with about 3/4 cup.

 

Start stirring.

 

Add more water as needed.

 

Stir that in.

 

If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that I prefer to get in there with my bare man-hands. (Kidding. Those hands are my dad’s.) You can feel what’s going on better.

 

Knead the mess until it comes together into a soft, sticky ball.

 

Then have some quiet zen time kneading peacefully, working the dough under the heel of your hand, folding it in on itself, pressing it down. After 5 minutes, the dough will get more elastic and supple.

 

5. Lightly spritz a large container or bowl with nonstick spray. Pop in your dough ball, cover tightly, and let rise at ROOM TEMPERATURE for 12-14 hours or overnight.

 

It will double in size and get airy and pillowy.

 

My favorite part: punch it down. It will deflate and release some of its gases.

 

Shape into ball. Place it on a parchment lined paddle or inverted baking sheet. Spray lightly with non-stick cooking spray…

 

…and cover loosly with plastic wrap. This way the plastic won’t stick to the dough. Let rise again at room temperature for 1 1/2 hours.

 

While dough rests, preheat oven to 425 degrees F. If you have a baking stone, place it in the oven to preheat, too. If you don’t, preheat an inverted sheet tray. The dough should double in size again. Here it is ready to bake.

 

Sprinkle loaf with remaining teaspoon of flour.

 

Gently, GENTLY, without pressing the air out, slash a tic-tac-toe shape on the bread to give it that peasanty character. A small, sharp paring knife will work better than this giant serrated monster, but we use what we’ve got, right?

 

Slide bread into the oven, parchment and all, on to your stone or inverted baking pan. Creating a humid oven environment in the oven at this initial baking stage helps the crust get crustier.

 

This can be achieved by spritzing some water directly into the oven a few times (using a spray bottle), and then quickly closing the oven door to trap the moisture. (Or you can place a shallow pan filled with an inch of water on the floor of your oven. This water will evaporate as the bread bakes.)

 

QUICKLY, spray some water into the oven, around the bread. Don’t worry if some gets on the bread. Don’t let much heat escape from the oven. I tried to do it so quickly that I couldn’t even get a clear shot. You get the idea, I hope.

 

Bake for 15 minutes at 425 degrees F. The high heat will help set the crust. Reduce the heat to 400 degrees F. Now the interior of the bread can bake through more gently.  Bake for another 45 minutes to an hour. The top will become deeply golden…

 

… and so will the underside. If you tap the underside, it should have a hollow sound.

 

As tempting as it is to slice into it right away, let the bread cool. It needs a chance to settle. NOW slice. Try not to eat half the loaf in one sitting, like I did.