My Evolution as a Baker
I’ve been baking bread – off and on – since I was about twenty. I hate to admit how long ago that was, so let’s just say that I started after I became a vegetarian (my personal response to the Vietnam war) and suddenly found myself on my own, without much money, and not knowing how to cook. Though my mom was a fine cook and baker (she only baked pastries, not bread), I was neither intelligent nor sensitive enough to ask her to show me how. (I proudly display her photo in my home kitchen as inspiration, though. Clipped from a local paper, it shows her standing at a table, beaming, surveying a table filled with exceptional German pastries she has just baked.)
Living on my own, and without mom or anyone else nearby to turn to, I bought a well-used copy of The Vegetarian Epicure by Anna Thomas, and I started cooking, not, perhaps, with the vigilance and dedication of the young woman who cooked her way through Julia Child, but enough to get a sense of how one goes about cooking vegetarian dishes. The Vegetarian Epicure not only had a host of wonderful recipes for all kinds of exotic dishes (curries! spanakopita! enchiladas!!), it had a whole chapter on baking bread. So, thinking this would impress girls (I was young), I methodically baked each recipe in the chapter. While it didn’t work as a courting strategy quite as well as I’d hoped, by the end of the chapter I could bake a decent loaf of bread.
I suppose I was fortunate in that her recipes were “sure fire.” Following them, I couldn’t help but turn out loaves acceptable enough to give me the courage to try more of them. They all used commercial yeast and a wide variety of other ingredients, and they were all intended to help you get through the bread-baking process as quickly and successfully as possible. While Anna Thomas did introduce me to breads from a number of different cultures, and I’m grateful for that, in reviewing those recipes, it’s hard to imagine baking them today.
Also about this time, I was on the move, living in dorms and apartments as I attended various schools and worked at various odd jobs. I didn’t always have access to a kitchen and, at times, I would impose upon friendly graduate students (who had cars and families and lived in apartments with kitchens!!) commandeering their small kitchens, arriving with bowls and scrapers and linens to try out a new recipe, and always promising (or, in some cases, threatening) to leave a loaf with them.
No matter the layout, as long as these home kitchens had some counter space, a sink, and an oven, I could bake one of the recipes in the Vegetarian Epicure. Because the recipes used commercial yeast and emphasized heat and speed, I didn’t need refrigeration.
One day, though, while thumbing through my mom’s copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume II, I was pleased to discover that Julia Child devotes an entire glorious chapter to baking French bread. Like so many other aspiring home bakers and cooks, I suddenly realized how limited my exposure to the techniques and strategies of food preparation had heretofore been. Once again, she had succeeded in her mission of teaching a young cook (or, in my case, baker) how much he had yet to learn.
Towards the end of the chapter (which I still recommend to serious home bread bakers), Ms. Child describes, in detail, how to turn one’s home oven into a baker’s oven. Except for the part about asbestos (which, hopefully, was edited out of later editions) I more or less follow her instructions today, for these techniques do yield fine home-baked loaves.
I decided to focus on her recipes, which narrowed the ingredients down to the basic four: flour, water, salt, and (admittedly, commercial) yeast. These were also loaves that were (mostly) meant to be baked on a hearth, not in a pan. This meant new shaping techniques, and numerous additional steps (involving French words) all of which did result in better loaves than I had been baking before, in a certain sense: they were lighter, looked more like traditional French breads, had better crust, and successfully managed the contrast between the moist interior (crumb) and the crisp exterior (crust). However, in another sense, they were less interesting: there was not much flavor, certainly not as much flavor as in the Epicure’s more exotic loaves. This is, no doubt, due to the fact that, no matter how traditional, they were still loaves of white bread made with commercial yeast.
A Higher Level of Bread Baking
About this time, a few different factors came into play which, combined, were enough to introduce me to a higher level of bread baking. I moved to my own home, with a small kitchen and a wonderful, vintage O’Keefe and Merritt oven. (I’ll sing its praises later.) I took my first bread-baking class, at a local culinary school, which, despite the fact that the teachers relied on commercial yeast, was helpful in that it introduced me to a couple of books, one of which, The Bread Builders by Alan Scott and Daniel Wing, extolled the virtues of wild yeast, and the other, Carol Fields’ The Italian Baker, which demonstrated how to substantially reduce the amount of commercial yeast through the use of biga.
Perhaps the most helpful factor, though, was the advent of Farine (farine-mc.com), a wonderful website devoted to all aspects of artisanal bread baking. Farine, the masterwork of the individual who is perhaps the most devoted promoter of artisanal bread in America (and elsewhere), a woman who, not surprisingly, also goes by the name of Farine, explores and divulges in great detail – for all to see – the strategies, techniques, recipes, and ingredients of some of the country’s best bread bakers. Suddenly, there was much more information available on this rather obscure subject than ever before.
After absorbing a great deal of it, I decided that I would commit myself to creating bread that pre-dated factory production, bread that resulted from traditional ingredients handled in traditional ways.
Each step along this path to the past was something of a revelation in terms of the potential of bread quality. Substituting distilled water for the chemical-laden water that comes from our taps clarified and revealed the flavor of the bread by subtracting the flavor of the water. Using freshly milled whole grain flour created much of the bread’s flavor.
But it was the switch to wild yeast that made the biggest difference. What struck me at first was what didn’t happen. No more lids popping off proofing bowls as the dough frantically expanded. No more dough spilling out of the bowl after an hour’s fermentation.
And, most importantly, no more yeast aroma and flavor in the bread! What instantly struck me the first time I used wild yeast was not only how much longer and gentler the process became, but also that for all these years I had mistaken the smell and taste of commercial yeast for the smell and taste of fresh bread. They are very different: wild yeast is much subtler and nuanced, allowing the aroma and flavor of the grain to shine.
But using these new ingredients and techniques was not enough. The Bread Builders also devoted much room to baking bread in a wood-fired, brick oven. I became enthralled. Baking naturally leavened bread in a masonry oven would truly be the final step along that path to the past.
Not being able to afford to pay anyone to build such an oven in my back yard, I decided that I was still young enough to build it myself. My friend Holly (Thanks, Holly!) was roped into my madness and agreed to help me.
It took us many months (someone who knows what he or she’s doing can build one in a weekend or two), and rather than go into great detail on how to build a masonry oven (hint: the Internet helps!), all I’ll say is that it turned out well and that I’ll never do it again. I’ll hire someone who knows what he or she’s doing.
It also took months to figure out how to bake in a masonry oven. Though the results eventually were formidable, let me just say that there’s a reason that electricity was discovered. It’s a damned sight easier than working with fire.
In any case, I was suitably impressed with the loaves coming from the oven. They looked, smelled, and tasted as I imagined loaves in a French village in another century would. So I decided to enter them in some contests to see what people who knew about bread thought of them. They won blue ribbons at the LA County Fair and the California State Fair, and I was encouraged by this, though I was never really sure what competition they faced.
I suppose it was about this time that the spirit of capitalism began to creep its way into my thoughts on bread. People had told me they really like my bread. It had won some awards. What if I could make a few bucks off this venture? (I was making a pretty good living writing for nonprofit organizations: I’d always considered bread-baking my avocation.)
I decided to bring it around to a couple of local shops to see if they’d be interested in carrying it. To my surprise, they were. And so I began my bread-baking career.
About this time, a few different factors came into play which, combined, were enough to introduce me to a higher level of bread baking. I moved to my own home, with a small kitchen and a wonderful, vintage O’Keefe and Merritt oven. (I’ll sing its praises later.) I took my first bread-baking class, at a local culinary school, which, despite the fact that the teachers relied on commercial yeast, was helpful in that it introduced me to a couple of books, one of which, The Bread Builders by Alan Scott and Daniel Wing, extolled the virtues of wild yeast, and the other, Carol Fields’ The Italian Baker, which demonstrated how to substantially reduce the amount of commercial yeast through the use of biga.
Perhaps the most helpful factor, though, was the advent of Farine (farine-mc.com), a wonderful website devoted to all aspects of artisanal bread baking. Farine, the masterwork of the individual who is perhaps the most devoted promoter of artisanal bread in America (and elsewhere), a woman who, not surprisingly, also goes by the name of Farine, explores and divulges in great detail – for all to see – the strategies, techniques, recipes, and ingredients of some of the country’s best bread bakers. Suddenly, there was much more information available on this rather obscure subject than ever before.
After absorbing a great deal of it, I decided that I would commit myself to creating bread that pre-dated factory production, bread that resulted from traditional ingredients handled in traditional ways.
Each step along this path to the past was something of a revelation in terms of the potential of bread quality. Substituting distilled water for the chemical-laden water that comes from our taps clarified and revealed the flavor of the bread by subtracting the flavor of the water. Using freshly milled whole grain flour created much of the bread’s flavor.
But it was the switch to wild yeast that made the biggest difference. What struck me at first was what didn’t happen. No more lids popping off proofing bowls as the dough frantically expanded. No more dough spilling out of the bowl after an hour’s fermentation.
And, most importantly, no more yeast aroma and flavor in the bread! What instantly struck me the first time I used wild yeast was not only how much longer and gentler the process became, but also that for all these years I had mistaken the smell and taste of commercial yeast for the smell and taste of fresh bread. They are very different: wild yeast is much subtler and nuanced, allowing the aroma and flavor of the grain to shine.
But using these new ingredients and techniques was not enough. The Bread Builders also devoted much room to baking bread in a wood-fired, brick oven. I became enthralled. Baking naturally leavened bread in a masonry oven would truly be the final step along that path to the past.
Not being able to afford to pay anyone to build such an oven in my back yard, I decided that I was still young enough to build it myself. My friend Holly (Thanks, Holly!) was roped into my madness and agreed to help me.
It took us many months (someone who knows what he or she’s doing can build one in a weekend or two), and rather than go into great detail on how to build a masonry oven (hint: the Internet helps!), all I’ll say is that it turned out well and that I’ll never do it again. I’ll hire someone who knows what he or she’s doing.
It also took months to figure out how to bake in a masonry oven. Though the results eventually were formidable, let me just say that there’s a reason that electricity was discovered. It’s a damned sight easier than working with fire.
In any case, I was suitably impressed with the loaves coming from the oven. They looked, smelled, and tasted as I imagined loaves in a French village in another century would. So I decided to enter them in some contests to see what people who knew about bread thought of them. They won blue ribbons at the LA County Fair and the California State Fair, and I was encouraged by this, though I was never really sure what competition they faced.
I suppose it was about this time that the spirit of capitalism began to creep its way into my thoughts on bread. People had told me they really like my bread. It had won some awards. What if I could make a few bucks off this venture? (I was making a pretty good living writing for nonprofit organizations: I’d always considered bread-baking my avocation.)
I decided to bring it around to a couple of local shops to see if they’d be interested in carrying it. To my surprise, they were. And so I began my bread-baking career.
Through the LA food blogosphere, word began to spread that there was this guy in Los Feliz who was selling bread he baked in a wood-fired oven he’d built in his back yard. Orders increased a bit.
And then the LA Times came calling. The Times used to have a Food section on Thursdays. A reporter told me that the paper would run a full-page article on me and my bread – with photos! – and, of course, she said, we’d have to let people know where to buy your bread. I hesitated. I suspected that what I was doing wasn’t following Health Department guidelines, and I didn’t mind getting in trouble with the authorities, but I didn’t want to implicate anyone else, least of all those who were kind enough to sell my bread. The reporter, though, stated flat out that they wouldn’t run the article unless we identified the merchants who carried my bread.
I weighed the options…. and… well…. I decided on the full-page article – with photos! – in the Times. What’s the worst that could happen? I reasoned.
It turns out that the worst that could happen is inspectors from the LA County Department of Public Health showing up at the shops the day after the article appeared, becoming incensed that my bread was nowhere to be seen (it had sold out long before they arrived), and, in a fit of pique, throwing out all the comestibles they deemed hazardous to the public’s health. Shortly thereafter, the inspectors appeared at my home unannounced and thoroughly inspected it “to ensure that no bread baking was taking place on the premises.”
Incensed, I decided something must be done about this! Feeling a bit guilty, I decided I should be the one to do it. Though I wasn’t exactly sure what it was that should be done. Like so many others facing this question, I googled it.
It turned out that, while selling homemade food was illegal in California, it was legal in about 18 states. I started looking into what it would take to legalize the sale of homemade food in California. At the same time, I used my contacts in the blogosphere to put the word out about being busted.
I discovered that the Sustainable Economies Law Center (up in the Bay Area) was interested in this issue, and SELC’s executive director, Janelle Orsi (thank you, Janelle!), and I decided to take a stab at drafting a state law. I figured that she being a lawyer, Janelle should draft it. Janelle figured that I being a writer, I should draft it.
As I was starting work on it, the phone rang. My representative in the state legislature, Mike Gatto (thank you, Mike!), had heard about my predicament (thank you, blogosphere!) and asked what he could do to help. “Well,” I replied. “Any chance you could help us write a state law?” “Sure!” Mike said. “I have staff for that!”
And during the next 18 months, I had a crash course in how to write legislation and, perhaps more importantly, how to pass it into law. After a lot of writing, re-writing, meetings, and testifying before committees, all of which involved many trips to Sacramento (and I have newfound respect for all those who do this work every day within the rather claustrophobic confines of the state capitol building) the governor signed the California Homemade Food Act in September 2012, and it is now legal to sell certain homemade foods in California. (By the time the bill passed, selling homemade food had been legalized in many other states, as well.)
In January 2013, I became the first person in LA County (and probably in all of California) to take advantage of the Act. I obtained a Cottage Food permit from the Health Department and began to legally sell my homemade bread. I was much too tired to derive a great deal of excitement and joy from this success. I suppose I’d started the project with a chip on my shoulder. But over the course of the year and a half I was working on it, I met a number of people to whom the law’s passage would make an even greater difference financially than it would to me. And now, I must admit, I realize that it was more important that I did this work for their sake than for mine.
There are, apparently, thousands of people throughout California who are taking advantage of the California Homemade Food Act as a primary or secondary source of income, and I’m happy to have played a role in making that possible.
But I’m also a poster child, of sorts, for the Act. One important rationale for its passage was that it would provide micro-entrepreneurs with an opportunity to test the waters with new recipes, techniques, and marketing strategies before taking the often intimidating next step of opening a brick-and-mortar shop. Which is exactly what I did.
And then the LA Times came calling. The Times used to have a Food section on Thursdays. A reporter told me that the paper would run a full-page article on me and my bread – with photos! – and, of course, she said, we’d have to let people know where to buy your bread. I hesitated. I suspected that what I was doing wasn’t following Health Department guidelines, and I didn’t mind getting in trouble with the authorities, but I didn’t want to implicate anyone else, least of all those who were kind enough to sell my bread. The reporter, though, stated flat out that they wouldn’t run the article unless we identified the merchants who carried my bread.
I weighed the options…. and… well…. I decided on the full-page article – with photos! – in the Times. What’s the worst that could happen? I reasoned.
It turns out that the worst that could happen is inspectors from the LA County Department of Public Health showing up at the shops the day after the article appeared, becoming incensed that my bread was nowhere to be seen (it had sold out long before they arrived), and, in a fit of pique, throwing out all the comestibles they deemed hazardous to the public’s health. Shortly thereafter, the inspectors appeared at my home unannounced and thoroughly inspected it “to ensure that no bread baking was taking place on the premises.”
Incensed, I decided something must be done about this! Feeling a bit guilty, I decided I should be the one to do it. Though I wasn’t exactly sure what it was that should be done. Like so many others facing this question, I googled it.
It turned out that, while selling homemade food was illegal in California, it was legal in about 18 states. I started looking into what it would take to legalize the sale of homemade food in California. At the same time, I used my contacts in the blogosphere to put the word out about being busted.
I discovered that the Sustainable Economies Law Center (up in the Bay Area) was interested in this issue, and SELC’s executive director, Janelle Orsi (thank you, Janelle!), and I decided to take a stab at drafting a state law. I figured that she being a lawyer, Janelle should draft it. Janelle figured that I being a writer, I should draft it.
As I was starting work on it, the phone rang. My representative in the state legislature, Mike Gatto (thank you, Mike!), had heard about my predicament (thank you, blogosphere!) and asked what he could do to help. “Well,” I replied. “Any chance you could help us write a state law?” “Sure!” Mike said. “I have staff for that!”
And during the next 18 months, I had a crash course in how to write legislation and, perhaps more importantly, how to pass it into law. After a lot of writing, re-writing, meetings, and testifying before committees, all of which involved many trips to Sacramento (and I have newfound respect for all those who do this work every day within the rather claustrophobic confines of the state capitol building) the governor signed the California Homemade Food Act in September 2012, and it is now legal to sell certain homemade foods in California. (By the time the bill passed, selling homemade food had been legalized in many other states, as well.)
In January 2013, I became the first person in LA County (and probably in all of California) to take advantage of the Act. I obtained a Cottage Food permit from the Health Department and began to legally sell my homemade bread. I was much too tired to derive a great deal of excitement and joy from this success. I suppose I’d started the project with a chip on my shoulder. But over the course of the year and a half I was working on it, I met a number of people to whom the law’s passage would make an even greater difference financially than it would to me. And now, I must admit, I realize that it was more important that I did this work for their sake than for mine.
There are, apparently, thousands of people throughout California who are taking advantage of the California Homemade Food Act as a primary or secondary source of income, and I’m happy to have played a role in making that possible.
But I’m also a poster child, of sorts, for the Act. One important rationale for its passage was that it would provide micro-entrepreneurs with an opportunity to test the waters with new recipes, techniques, and marketing strategies before taking the often intimidating next step of opening a brick-and-mortar shop. Which is exactly what I did.
For a few years business increased and I turned out more and more loaves from my home kitchen (once it had been inspected by the Health Department), becoming so busy I had to hire a more-than-capable assistant, Marcus. Working together, we filled orders for a growing number of customers while getting flour everywhere, which is certainly one of the biggest drawbacks of baking bread in one’s home kitchen.
And so it was with a real sense of relief that, while driving along California’s central coast, my wife and I stumbled upon Baywood Park and I became friends with Richard Webb, the proprietor of the Third Street Bakery.
I remember pulling up outside the Merrimaker bar in what passes for downtown Baywood Park, stepping out of the car, surveying the quiet townscape within a stunning landscape, and instantly sensing that this was the kind of place in which I would like to own a bakery.
I was startled to spot a sign proudly proclaiming “Third Street Bakery” and pointing down the street. There was, as far as I could see, no business (apart from the Merrimaker and a liquor store) operating nearby.
Walking along Third Street I assumed there had been a mistake. This was strictly residential. Pleasant homes, nice trees, but no businesses. In front of a house almost at the end of the block, though, there was another small sign indicating that, despite appearances, this was a commercial establishment. A bakery.
I could just discern a figure inside, working, presumably baking. It was Richard, preparing for the next day’s bake. He answered my knock, and we spent a few minutes talking about bread.
He explained that he was retired and baked mainly as a hobby. People seemed to enjoy the breads and pastries he made, and they knew when he was open, which wasn’t often. He had a following. They lined up quietly about an hour before he opened – on the first and third Mondays of the month. When he was ready, and his wife, Doreen, was stationed at the cash register, he opened the door, and, within an hour he was completely sold out. He would then shut the door. and he and Doreen would travel, returning in time to open the doors of the bakery and welcome the community once again.
Over the next few years I occasionally visited Richard and Doreen in Baywood Park. Each time I did so, I had delightful conversations with Richard about bread and baking and life in Los Osos. Alas, had I known how short a time I would have to deepen my friendship with him, I would have made even more of an effort to visit.
I was saddened, indeed, to receive word, in July 2015, of his passing – a man who derived such joy from baking should have been awarded a longer span in which to savor this enjoyment – and, at the same time, intrigued to receive word that Doreen would be moving and would be putting the house – with the bakery – on the market.
Recognizing the opportunity this represented, Suzette and I quickly closed the deal to buy the property from Doreen. It was only then, however, that we realized we weren’t quite ready to move from L.A.
The way to meet this challenge – to stop filling my home kitchen with flour while opening a bakery two hundred miles away while continuing to live, with a clean kitchen, in Los Angeles – was to find someone to run the bakery in Baywood Park.
Luckily, Marcus was ready and willing to relocate. Also luckily, Marcus not only was adept at baking my bread, he also had a professional certificate in pastry from Los Angeles Trade Tech.
In the summer of 2016, Marcus moved into the apartment above the bakery, and, since the day it opened at the end of August 2016, he’s been running the place and serving as head bread and pastry baker. (We’ve adapted some of my bread-making techniques and ingredients for the pastries.)
And my job? I tell people these days that when you’re a bread baker, you bake bread. When you own a bread bakery, you work with spreadsheets. I’m doing some of each.
And so it was with a real sense of relief that, while driving along California’s central coast, my wife and I stumbled upon Baywood Park and I became friends with Richard Webb, the proprietor of the Third Street Bakery.
I remember pulling up outside the Merrimaker bar in what passes for downtown Baywood Park, stepping out of the car, surveying the quiet townscape within a stunning landscape, and instantly sensing that this was the kind of place in which I would like to own a bakery.
I was startled to spot a sign proudly proclaiming “Third Street Bakery” and pointing down the street. There was, as far as I could see, no business (apart from the Merrimaker and a liquor store) operating nearby.
Walking along Third Street I assumed there had been a mistake. This was strictly residential. Pleasant homes, nice trees, but no businesses. In front of a house almost at the end of the block, though, there was another small sign indicating that, despite appearances, this was a commercial establishment. A bakery.
I could just discern a figure inside, working, presumably baking. It was Richard, preparing for the next day’s bake. He answered my knock, and we spent a few minutes talking about bread.
He explained that he was retired and baked mainly as a hobby. People seemed to enjoy the breads and pastries he made, and they knew when he was open, which wasn’t often. He had a following. They lined up quietly about an hour before he opened – on the first and third Mondays of the month. When he was ready, and his wife, Doreen, was stationed at the cash register, he opened the door, and, within an hour he was completely sold out. He would then shut the door. and he and Doreen would travel, returning in time to open the doors of the bakery and welcome the community once again.
Over the next few years I occasionally visited Richard and Doreen in Baywood Park. Each time I did so, I had delightful conversations with Richard about bread and baking and life in Los Osos. Alas, had I known how short a time I would have to deepen my friendship with him, I would have made even more of an effort to visit.
I was saddened, indeed, to receive word, in July 2015, of his passing – a man who derived such joy from baking should have been awarded a longer span in which to savor this enjoyment – and, at the same time, intrigued to receive word that Doreen would be moving and would be putting the house – with the bakery – on the market.
Recognizing the opportunity this represented, Suzette and I quickly closed the deal to buy the property from Doreen. It was only then, however, that we realized we weren’t quite ready to move from L.A.
The way to meet this challenge – to stop filling my home kitchen with flour while opening a bakery two hundred miles away while continuing to live, with a clean kitchen, in Los Angeles – was to find someone to run the bakery in Baywood Park.
Luckily, Marcus was ready and willing to relocate. Also luckily, Marcus not only was adept at baking my bread, he also had a professional certificate in pastry from Los Angeles Trade Tech.
In the summer of 2016, Marcus moved into the apartment above the bakery, and, since the day it opened at the end of August 2016, he’s been running the place and serving as head bread and pastry baker. (We’ve adapted some of my bread-making techniques and ingredients for the pastries.)
And my job? I tell people these days that when you’re a bread baker, you bake bread. When you own a bread bakery, you work with spreadsheets. I’m doing some of each.
I have a four hundred and forty mile commute (round trip). Luckily, the commute is up the coast along the 101, so the drive, once out of Los Angeles, is quite pleasant, offering a glimpse of what California – with pastures rolling down to the shore – looked like a long time ago. I drive up on Thursday, immediately run some errands and do some chores, make the wholesale deliveries on Friday mornings, and then – the best part of the job – finally, on Friday afternoons, I get to stand behind the counter, greet customers, explain how and why I make my bread, and express heartfelt appreciation for their kind words about the bakery and its baked goods. (It feels wonderful to be part of a community!)
The most important thing to keep in mind, I tell customers, is that the basic protocols for the bread – wild yeast, freshly milled wholegrain flour, long fermentation, distilled water – are in everything we sell at the bakery.
After closing the bakery on Fridays, I run a couple of errands, have dinner, and then light the ovens again (never before 6pm, which is when the electric rates are lower). I then bake the loaves for Pagnol’s Los Angeles customers, load them in my car, and drive home late Friday night, enveloped in the smell of fresh-baked bread.
On Saturday morning, customers come by my home in the Los Feliz neighborhood to pick up their pre-ordered bread. It’s out front, each loaf in a bag with her or his name on it. They slip some money in my mail slot and head home. I sleep in.
During the week, I chat with Marcus to see how things are going at the bakery (which is open Friday through Monday). I mill some flour. I feed the back-up starters (chefs levain). (Yes, we keep some down in L.A., just in case.) I harvest some rosemary. I do some shopping for the bakery. I talk to wholesale customers. I keep an eye (via the Internet) on sales. And it’s Thursday again.
While all is going well at the bakery – both retail and wholesale sales are increasing -- I still maintain my permit to sell the bread I make at home in Los Feliz. I know that occasionally I won’t be able to bake in Baywood Park (e.g., wildfires and floods around Santa Barbara kept me away for a couple of weeks), and so I’ll bake in my home kitchen for my family, friends, and L.A. customers.
Next Chapter: What's In Your Kitchen?
The most important thing to keep in mind, I tell customers, is that the basic protocols for the bread – wild yeast, freshly milled wholegrain flour, long fermentation, distilled water – are in everything we sell at the bakery.
After closing the bakery on Fridays, I run a couple of errands, have dinner, and then light the ovens again (never before 6pm, which is when the electric rates are lower). I then bake the loaves for Pagnol’s Los Angeles customers, load them in my car, and drive home late Friday night, enveloped in the smell of fresh-baked bread.
On Saturday morning, customers come by my home in the Los Feliz neighborhood to pick up their pre-ordered bread. It’s out front, each loaf in a bag with her or his name on it. They slip some money in my mail slot and head home. I sleep in.
During the week, I chat with Marcus to see how things are going at the bakery (which is open Friday through Monday). I mill some flour. I feed the back-up starters (chefs levain). (Yes, we keep some down in L.A., just in case.) I harvest some rosemary. I do some shopping for the bakery. I talk to wholesale customers. I keep an eye (via the Internet) on sales. And it’s Thursday again.
While all is going well at the bakery – both retail and wholesale sales are increasing -- I still maintain my permit to sell the bread I make at home in Los Feliz. I know that occasionally I won’t be able to bake in Baywood Park (e.g., wildfires and floods around Santa Barbara kept me away for a couple of weeks), and so I’ll bake in my home kitchen for my family, friends, and L.A. customers.
Next Chapter: What's In Your Kitchen?