The Italian Way of Living with Bread

Italian Bakery Apprenticeship Series (2)

LOST IN TRANSLATION: LIFE OF A JAPANESE GIRL IN ITALY

After baking a sourdough loaf using a starter that a local baker in Bra had kindly shared with me, I returned the following day to ask for feedback. That visit led to an unexpected opportunity: I was invited to spend several days as an apprentice in the bakery. During my time there, I began to notice a number of things about the world of the Italian forno — a traditional neighbourhood bakery. In this series, I'd like to share some of those observations. For this second instalment, I would like to continue where the previous article left off. 5:30 a.m. I arrived at the bakery while it was still dark outside. The town was silent; only the bakery had already begun its day.

As we worked through the morning preparations, customers began arriving one after another, even though the bakery was not supposed to open until 7 a.m. I remember thinking, Isn't it still closed? But the owner simply smiled and said, “Opening hours don't matter much. The day begins when the customers arrive.” Then he started serving them as if nothing were unusual. Italian bakeries seem to follow the rhythm of everyday life rather than the hours written on the door.

What struck me most was that nobody seemed to hesitate when ordering.To me, many of Italy's everyday loaves look remarkably similar. But the regulars knew exactly what they wanted. They remembered the names of their favourite breads, asked for their usual order, exchanged a few words about their children or the day ahead, then disappeared just as quickly as they had arrived. One customer told me that this was the bread he used to make panini for breakfast and lunch.Ever since moving to Bra, I have felt a bit like a tourist fascinated by the idea of the Italian sweet breakfast — cappuccino and a pastry at the bar. Watching these customers, though, I began to think something else. Perhaps becoming truly Italian means being able to walk into a bakery and order a simple loaf without a second thought. At least, that's what I like to tell myself. In Japan, bakeries are often self-service. You pick up a tray, take a pair of tongs, choose your bread and queue at the till. In Italy, things work differently. The bread sits behind a counter, and the baker serves you directly. “How much would you like?”

 “A little smaller, please.”

 “Like this?” The transaction unfolds as a conversation. Bread is weighed, sliced and adjusted according to each customer's request.

In Japan, bread often feels like a carefully crafted object. Great attention is paid to preserving its shape, keeping toppings in place and presenting it beautifully. There are sandwiches designed to reveal perfectly arranged layers when cut open, and bakery displays that resemble miniature theme parks. New products and seasonal specials appear one after another. In many ways, Japan seems to have developed a culture of admiring bread as much as eating it.In Italy, the relationship feels rather different. Loaves are stacked high and swept into paper bags without much ceremony. Focaccia and pizza are cut with large scissors in a few decisive movements. At first, the roughness surprised me.Then I realised something. Bread here is not treated primarily as a product. It is treated as food. Italians have a habit known as scarpetta — using bread to wipe the last traces of sauce from a plate. Even in restaurants, bread taken from the basket is often placed directly beside the cutlery rather than on a bread plate. The way it is handled suggests that bread is not something special or separate from the meal. It is simply part of it. In a sense, bread may be closer to a plate than a dish in its own right.

The customer service is fascinating, too.Sometimes all you hear is a voice calling from the back of the bakery: “Arrivo!” — I'm coming! Then the conversation begins. “What are you after?”

“I'd like that one.”

“It's not ready yet.”

“Ah, then what about this?”

“That one, we have.” These exchanges unfold as if they have been happening forever. If a customer seems curious about a particular loaf, someone will often cut off a small piece and hand it over to try. There is a generosity to it that is difficult to describe. The attitude is almost: go on, take it. The people working there do not seem to perform the role of 'shop assistant'. They do not force smiles or put on a customer-service voice. Everything feels more natural than that. Even the younger staff are close enough to exchange jokes with the regular grandmothers who come in every morning. Another thing that fascinated me was seeing biscuits and miniature tarts displayed alongside the bread. At first, I assumed it was simply a bakery selling a few sweet treats on the side. Then I realised that Italians do not necessarily think of these things as desserts. Often, they are breakfast. Take fette biscottate, for example. They are something between bread and a biscuit — dry, crisp slices that are typically spread with jam and eaten in the morning. Brioche and crostata occupy a similar place. They are not necessarily viewed as indulgences; they are a practical source of energy at the start of the day. In Japan, sweetness is often associated with confectionery. In Italy, sweet foods seem more naturally woven into the rhythm of everyday meals. What struck me most was that bakeries are not simply places that sell finished products. If you order a brioche or a cannolo, the cream is often piped in only after you place your order. Some bakeries even take reservations for pizza dough, handing it over with simple instructions: “Leave it to rise for an hour at home, then bake it for ten minutes. And don't be shy with the toppings.” The more I thought about it, the more I realised that Italian bakeries do not operate on the idea of selling a product and ending the relationship there. You warm the bread at home. You finish baking it. You fill it with ham. You share it with someone else. In Italy, the bakery and the dining table remain loosely connected. Perhaps that is why people do not come to choose bread so much as to buy it. It is less a question of What shall I have today? and more a matter of picking up the usual loaf. For Italians, bread may be less of a special food to look forward to and more a part of everyday life itself. In contrast, I found myself wondering what the Japanese equivalent might be.

There are fewer and fewer places in Japan where people buy rice from the local rice shop or stop by the neighbourhood deli for a croquette on their way home. The kinds of places you drift into almost every day. Places where people know your face, where there is an “usual”, and where a small part of your daily rhythm quietly unfolds. As I thought about it, I found myself remembering the old-fashioned kissaten cafés of Japan.

There would be a television in the corner and a newspaper on the table. The owner would remember exactly how each regular liked their boiled egg with the morning set. Over time, new items would quietly appear on the menu, shaped by the people who came every day.People did not go simply for the coffee. They went to see the owner. For that to happen, the prices had to remain affordable enough for daily visits. When a new café opened nearby, it was rarely seen as a competitor. The relationships that mattered there could only emerge through repeated visits.The more I watched the bakeries in Bra, the more I felt that they worked in much the same way. People do not gather because someone sets out to create a community. They gather because a place becomes part of everyday life. Community is not the goal; it is the result. Watching the bakeries of Bra, I found myself thinking about places like that.

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