Who Could Ask for Anything More?
March 1, 2005
Years ago, my Friday nights were not the nights to relax and socialize. They were not the end of a work week. Indeed, they were the longest of my days. Years ago, I started work at midnight on Friday, and didn’t finish until noon on Saturday. I would work straight through with no breaks. I couldn’t take a break – that would break the rhythm of the bread.
I was the sole baker for a bistro that was known for its bread, a light rye. I made the bread every morning, and it was then used to make the Bistro’s sandwiches that day. The bread was also sold to other restaurants in town, as well as at the open-air market on Saturday mornings. I would spend the first six hours of my Friday night shift completely alone – well, sort of alone. The ovens were at the front of the bistro and there was a large glass window facing out to the street. This was to attract the attention of walkers by, who theoretically would see bread being freshly made, and be enticed to enter. While I usually enjoyed the window and the people watching, on Friday nights, just after ‘closing time’, the window attracted the attention of all the Friday night revelers who had just spent the evening at the sports bar across the street. Often, I would be working while strangers, probably seeing three or four of me baking inside, pressed their faces up to the glass and sent me blowfish kisses (at least that’s what I decided to call them). I would wave and continue with my work. I couldn’t stop – that would break the rhythm of the bread.
I started baking because I was told I couldn’t.