House of Bread

“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread “~ John Muir

lic, ny

A few years ago, I moved from Manhattan to Queens to be with András, kicking and screaming the whole way. I had lived in Manhattan for 9 years, was convinced that my favorite things would be too far out of reach in his borough. He lured me with love, a farmer’s market right outside our building and promises of good bread.

The farmer’s market is indeed a gem, but the bread he spoke of came from an old Greek bakery below our subway stop and was wholly unremarkable. Luckily for him though, he was right, Queens is home to some of the best bakers in town. 

On a summer bike ride around the neighborhood, I passed a truck that said Pain D’Avignon, and followed it home down the street in hopes of finding French bakers that recalled those of walled French city of Avignon. Instead I found only a wholesale operation, and the breads I could smell completely out of view behind brick and motor. Still, I rang the buzzer and met JoAnne Cortese who opened up her doors to one of the most magnificent houses of bread I’d ever seen.

Owned by three gentlemen from Yugoslavia, Pain D’Avignon’s bakers are masters of handcrafted, artisan baking, and their commitment shows in the texture and flavor of their breads. Each and every bread is mixed by Moussa Cond’e, who has been mixing the unbleached, American-raised grains since he came to Pain D’Avignon from West Africa 8 years ago {he’s pictured here in this room of white}. After Moussa mixes the dough, all the breads are hand scaled and shaped before going to rise.

Bakers work through the night to turn out some of the finest, most toothsome artisan breads in town that until recently could only be had in the bread baskets of some of the best restaurants in town, including Picholine, Locande Verde and The Standard Grill.

Last week, Pain D’Avignon opened a retail shop at the Essex Market on the Lower East Side in Manhattan, home to Saxelby Cheese and Fromaggio Essex. The market is still one of New York’s best-kept secrets, and it’s worth a journey to this wondrous old-world market for the bread alone. Sadly, you won’t get to meet Moussa or the other men and women behind those hand shaped breads but you can take home their treasures to taste for yourself. 

A Little Loaf

{Handmade Christmas, part i}

Let's start simple. Let's see, there is the little loaf.

1. Wrap lovingly in wax paper {check}, gardener's twine {check}, and a touch of color.

2. Say something sweet on a little label. Mine came from Cavallini & Co, but you could make one with construction paper and a paper hole punch.

3. Give.

Now that was easy!

Ferry Building Fantasia

san francisco, ca

I know, I promised you recipes. I promise, they’re coming. But András and I just returned from 72 delicious hours in Northern California in honor of our one-year anniversary, and I wouldn't dare keep such delicious discoveries from you.

A trip to see the California redwoods was a childhood dream for András, and since I’m happy to be included on the grown-up version of his dreams, we decided it was the perfect place to celebrate our first year as husband and wife. As we flew over Grand Canyon, playing footsie under our tray tables, András read about our national parks in National Geographic Adventure, and I flipped open the American Way. I tried to imagine us frolicking among the giant trees of Humbolt Park, when an advertisement of a young couple glistening beachside at a Sandals interrupted me.

Spend your first anniversary in luxury

I suddenly wondered if we shouldn't be heading to relax on a beach, get a massage, sleep in a big bed with fluffy duvets. I squeezed András hand.

He set down his magazine and kissed me. “We should make it a tradition to spend every anniversary at a National Park,” he said.

“Every anniversary?” I said. “I was just thinking maybe we should be going somewhere a little more, I don’t know, luxurious. Somewhere with feather duvets.”

“Luxury make people soft.” He said.

“I’m a girl, I like soft.” I said.

Being soft isn't such a bad thing, particularly because it also includes eating stinky cheeses and cupcakes, both of which can be found in abundance at the legendary Ferry Building and its epic farmer's market in San Francisco, our first stop when we landed. András found us a parking spot a few blocks away with a 1-hour limit, giving my enthusiastic appreciation for the culinary potpourri of the marketplace an unrealistic deadline. I tried to explain that this was like telling Carrie Bradshaw she has only 15 minutes at Manolo Blahnik. It didn’t register.

Undeterred, I clicked my heels on over to the market by which time we had 49 minutes, exactly enough time to discover homemade pop tarts with fruits grown on Frog Hollow Farm, chocolate persimmons, black mission figs, tasty, salted pig parts from Boccalone Artisan Meats, Vanilla Tomboy Cake from Miette Patisserie and Harvest Whoopee Pies from Recchiuti chocolates. The foods of the Ferry Building are poetic, charmingly arranged and packaged to perfection, rendering decision-making harder than the aged Mimolette at the Cowgirl Creamy stand. So we tasted and took photos, juggling between our cameras and wallets in rapid succession.

And then, like clock work, András signaled our time was up. He ran to get the car, while I snuck in a final stop at the stunning Boulette's Larder, a labyrinthine of delights where tiny fresh eggs and delicate pastries were displayed on pedestals like jewels. Every detail was so thoughtfully arranged, and each and every person standing in the eternal line was the picture of Northern Californian prosperity. I took my place behind the elegant mammas feeding their rosy wee ones concord grapes and fresh figs, and breathed in the bliss.

Just as I approached the front of the line and reached for one of the handsome pastries pictured here, my phone rang. András was waiting outside in the car and I had to come, immediately. I took their card, letterpress on recycled paper {naturally}, and plugged their details into my iphone as we whizzed north toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Online, I found out the namesake of their restaurant is their beloved Puli, or Hungarian Sheepdog, called Boulette {which in French, means little meatball}, making their stylish sensibilities all the more lovable. I met my first Puli on the night András proposed to me in Hungary, and it sat at our feet as I ate a plate of goose and saurkraut in a local Csarda {inn}. The pup, and Boulette's Larder, will forever hold a special place in my soft little heart.