The Work of a Baker in a Bakery That Has Lasted Over 100 Years
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Italian Bakery Apprenticeship Series (1)
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. Over the next three instalments, I'll explore what I learned from stepping behind the counter into the bakery itself. 1. Italian Bakers as 'Carbohydrate Infrastructure' of the Community The first thing that surprised me was how many different things they made.
Every morning, they delivered cornetti and bread to cafés around town. A few times a week, they produced mini cornetti and personalised biscuits for hotels, supplied bread to nearby wineries, and baked custom burger buns bearing the logo of a popular local burger shop. I was struck by how much B2B work a small Italian neighbourhood bakery does.
In Japan, bakeries often exist as highly specialised shops. Some are known for their shokupan, others for artisan sourdoughs, and others for exceptionally good croissants. People queue for their signature product.
Italy certainly has its own forms of specialisation, but neighbourhood bakeries feel much closer to everyday life. Their role seems less like that of a 'bread maker' and more like that of a 'local carbohydrate provider'. Cornetti for breakfast. Pizza by the slice and focaccia for lunch. Small savoury breads for aperitivo. Hotel breakfasts. University canteens. Burger buns. Before I realised it, I relied on them in all sorts of ways. Italian bakeries quietly supply almost every kind of flour-based food a town consumes throughout the day. They are, in a sense, part of the town's infrastructure.
2. Running a Bakery Is Basically Arithmetic
When I brought in the sourdough loaf I had baked, the first question I was asked was, ‘What was the hydration percentage?’ Having struggled with maths since primary school, I immediately got stuck. We pulled out a spare sheet of paper and worked through the calculations together, starting with the hydration percentage.
Hydration percentages, fermentation times, production volumes, and next day's sales forecasts.
They seemed to speak in numbers all the time. A small team would constantly share tiny adjustments to keep the business running day after day.
I also noticed how they minimised waste. One thing that particularly struck me was that they never threw away the ends of prosciutto. Once a piece became too small to slice with the machine, they would blend it with a little water and spread it onto focaccia dough. Leftover croissant dough was also folded into new batches of dough. At one point, someone remarked, ‘Because this increases the butter content, we'll need to recalculate the amount of butter in the new dough’. That was when I realised much calculation goes into even the smallest decisions. They also produced large batches of fried pizza and bomboloni and froze them. In Japan, some people may have a negative impression of frozen food. For them, however, what mattered was keeping the business running consistently. They needed to bomboloni ready for the rush immediately after opening, and to handle busy periods throughout the day. That practical mindset left a strong impression on me.
Behind it all, though, was work that was far more demanding than I had imagined. At another bakery near my home, the bakers would arrive at the workshop around 11:30 p.m. and begin working with dough that had fermented overnight from about 4 a.m. They apparently went to sleep shortly after lunchtime. Perhaps this is simply the nature of bakery work, regardless of the country. Even so, I remember thinking, quite honestly, that it was far tougher than I had expected. When I asked the owner about his dream for the future, he laughed and replied, ‘To stop working’. He said it jokingly, but there was something real about the answer. 3. Bakers Design the Way People Live The bakers thought not only about the bread itself, but also how it would be eaten — where, when, and how. In Italy, there are bakeries, pasticcerie (pastry shops), and cafés. Their roles overlap in some ways, but each serves a different purpose. A bakery is generally not a place where customers sit down and eat what they have just bought. Perhaps because of that, the bakers were acutely aware of how their products would fit into people's daily lives. ‘This one should be reheated before eating’. ‘People will probably eat a cornetto in the car or on a bench, so it's better if the syrup doesn't leave their hands sticky’. These were the kinds of conversations the bakers had as part of their everyday work. In other words, they were not simply making 'delicious food'. They were thinking about how it would be eaten, how it would be transported, and when it would be consumed. They were designing bread with the whole experience in mind. 4. Tradition and Evolution One of the first things I noticed when I stepped into the bakery was how rational the entire workspace was.
Freshly baked loaves were placed on long wooden boards that could glide smoothly through the bakery. Even the height of the shelves had been carefully calculated so that the dough would not stick together after proofing. There was very little wasted movement. To arrive at this layout, he had apparently reorganised the bakery three times.
What impressed me even more was the way he worked. While carrying out his own tasks, he seemed to have the entire bakery in view at all times. He constantly kept an eye on his apprentices, giving instructions as he worked. Watching him, I could feel the weight of decades of experience. Although he is the third generation of a family bakery that has been operating for more than a century, he continues to refine and improve it. One thing I found particularly interesting was the importance he placed on lifelong learning. Reflecting on his experience studying classical literature at law school, he told me, ‘Even at my age, I'm still learning from different people every day’. In fact, he has spent years learning from a wide range of people. He had a close relationship with the late Carlo Petrini, founder of the Slow Food movement, and was later selected to represent Italy in an international bread-making competition. He also taught the sourdough masterclass at my university. That connection is what made it possible for me to apprentice in his bakery in the first place. Even now, he often says, ‘I'm always happy to teach students’, and continues to share his knowledge generously. What struck me most, however, was that he never described any of this as a pursuit of novelty. When he spoke about baking with natural leaven or making panettone, he did not say that he had 'adopted new techniques'. Instead, he said, ‘I simply brought back Italian traditions’. For him, tradition and progress were not opposites. Learning continuously was a way of renewing tradition rather than replacing it. Perhaps that mindset is one of the reasons this family bakery has survived for more than one hundred years. I deeply admire it. 5. What the Word 'Artigianale' Really Means In Italy, the word 'artigianale' is extremely important for small businesses. You often see it written on the signs of gelaterias and other local shops. It is a word that Italian consumers genuinely value, which is precisely why businesses are so keen to emphasise it. At first, I assumed that artigianale simply meant 'made entirely by hand'.
In reality, however, bread-making is highly mechanised. Dough-rounding machines can shape dough perfectly in a matter of seconds — seeing one in action, I was genuinely astonished by its speed. Bread can also be mass-produced in factories, just like the bread sold in supermarkets.
Yet the owner told me, ‘The most important thing in bread-making is human experience’. Every day brings different temperatures and humidity levels. The only constant is the baker's experience.
That comment made me realise that artigianale does not mean 'made entirely by hand'. Rather, it means having the flexibility to adapt every single day.
In Japan, bakeries often display the same signature products day after day. In Italy, by contrast, what is available often depends on what ingredients are on hand. Take focaccia, for example. Some days it is topped with slowly caramelised onions. On others, it might feature olives, ham and cheese, or courgettes. The bakers divide trays into different sections, producing a wide variety of flavours in small quantities. Because the selection changes slightly each day, customers never grow bored. When my favourite topping happened to appear, I found myself thinking, ‘Oh, nice!’
The bakers continually adjust their products in response to customer feedback. This is something that large-scale factories simply cannot do very easily. To me, that is the real strength of having skilled craftspeople producing food just behind the shop counter. At one point, they tried selling French-style croissants, but eventually stopped because they were not selling well. They also changed the liquid brushed onto their focaccia after customers commented that using only olive oil made it feel too heavy. As a result, they began mixing in sunflower oil. Even on the days I was apprenticing there, they were experimenting with new pizza-making methods. They continually refine even the breads they have been making for years, always looking for ways to improve them. Perhaps that is possible because they remain in constant conversation with the people they serve. Whenever I walked through town with the owner, people stopped to greet him wherever we went. It reminded me that he was not simply a baker. He was an important figure in the life of the town. In this series, I have explored some of the work and values of Italian bakers. In the next instalment, I would like to write about the relationship Italians have with bread itself — a relationship that feels quite different from what I had expected. I hope you'll join me for it. Follow our journey @movimento.metropolitano.
