No-Knead Bread: Why Bother?

For some reason, the past few months, everywhere I go on the internet I see some reference to the Bittman/Lahey No-Knead Bread which Mark Bittman originally mentioned in a 2006 article, and this youtube video clip:







As a bread-lover and long-time home baker, the phrase "no-knead bread" gives me a visceral twinge, and not a pleasant one. Now, I don't always knead my doughs by hand: In the past, I've relied heavily on my Zojirushi bread machine, Kitchen Aid mixer and even my food processor to work the dough, but some breads I save for 100%-by-hand manipulation.

Kneading a large mass of dough just feels great.

Not only is there therapy to be had in sometimes-brute pounding, the rhythmic knead-turn-fold-knead-turn-fold technique required in some breads' longer kneading time is downright meditative. Each stage of bread baking brings along with it its own special pleasure, whether it's the physicality of the kneading, the warm, earthy smell of proofing yeast mixture, the sensual attraction of shaping the dough, or that final shudder of anticipation when you pull a fresh, nicely browned loaf out of a blazing hot oven.

So why would anyone forgo some of these pleasures by creating a no-knead bread?

Also (for the bread freaks out there): Can a long, slow rise with a very wet dough really build the same essential structure out of the flour's gluten molecules as we get from the traditional kneading process?


Fans of the No-Knead bread claim that the proof is in the final taste, crumb and crust.



I have to admit, it's intriguing, if only in an "I'll try anything once" way.

Despite the wave of ecstatic reviews (many by acknowledged first-time bakers), I have read a few reviews of this bread which are less than rhapsodic: loaves stuck to the pot, burned bottoms, wet interior, insufficient rise, and a flat taste.

To be fair, there's no way to be sure that these posters followed Jim Lahey's instructions exactly. Plus, as with any bread-baking adventure, we should account for any number of variables: the ambient temperature during the 12-hour rise, the ratio of liquid to dry ingredients, the type and liveliness of the yeast used, and the true temperature of the oven during baking, and over-hasty slicing while she bread is still warm.

I imagine I may have to put this on my to-do list of breads, which is not a short list.


Mmmm... bread.

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Russian Black Bread: An Ongoing Odyssey

Russian black bread (черный хлеб/ chorniy khleb) is a dark pumpernickel-like, rye bread which is more than just pumpernickel. I know, you would probably never think of a hearty, delicious pumpernickel bread from a deli to be qualified as "just" anything, but you'd understand if you ever tasted Russian black bread. It's pumpernickel, yes - but deeper, richer, darker than you could ever have imagined.

Bread at its most basic is an alchemical mixture of flour, yeast, water and salt. Pumpernickel ups the ante by adding molasses, caraway seeds, and rye flour among other ingredients. Russian black bread takes the German pumpernickel to new heights of aroma and depths of flavor than you would believe.

When drinking vodka with Russians, you'll have yummy snacks, or zakuski, to accompany each sip. This black bread is definitely on the table, sometimes topped with butter, caviar, sliced cucumber or pickles.You'll love this as the base for a sandwich, topped with cream cheese and smoked salmon or - my favorite - toasted and slathered with butter.

Russian Black Bread

Ingredients:

• 1 ½ cups water
• 2 tablespoons butter
  
• 2 tablespoons molasses
• 2 tablespoons cider vinegar
• 2 ½ cups bread flour
• 1 cup rye flour
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon brown sugar
• 3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
• 1 teaspoon instant coffee granules
• 1 tablespoon caraway seeds
• ¼ teaspoon fennel seed (optional)*
• 2 teaspoons active dry yeast
• coarse cornmeal
  

Directions:

1. Add the ingredients in the order recommended by the manufacturer and put it on dough cycle.


2. When the dough has finished with the first rise, take it out of the mixing pan and on a counter covered liberally with cornmeal, knead the dough briefly.


3. Shape it into a round or a large, long loaf and place it on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.


4. Cover with a towel and let rise in a warm place for an hour or until it has risen to 1 ½ times its original size.


5. Bake in a preheated 350°F oven for 45 to 50 minutes or until loaves are well-browned.

Notes:

• First, this is an excellent loaf of bread.
  
  I scarfed down two pieces of it toasted with butter for breakfast this morning. However, this bread was slightly sweeter than the black breads I remember eating in Leningrad & Moscow, or even in Estonia, and believe me, like kimchi in Korea, this bread was a daily staple.
  
  More than anything else, this strikes me as a very good American-style pumpernickel bread.
  
  I may try a bit less molasses and a bit more cider vinegar next time. The bread I remember had a distinctly sour taste. Also, the texture is lighter, not as dense. Perhaps using all rye flour makes the difference. The gluten in rye flour is weaker than in wheat, making for a denser, heavier loaf.
  
  Alternately, I could begin with a sourdough starter. In my research of pumpernickel and black breads, I recall reading that traditional Westphalian pumpernickel uses a sourdough starter to counteract the strong amylases in rye meal; also, the bakers use a very long baking time to give it the dark color which many other recipes achieve through darker ingredients like molasses, coffee granuules and cocoa powder. Also, it is an all-rye loaf, whereas many other rye breads use a mixture of flours to improve the gluten and structure.
  
  I don't know if I've ever had the traditional German pumpernickel or if it tastes anything like Russian black bread. I have a sneaking suspicion that this may be my next task: finding an authentic recipe, baking it and see how close the taste comes to my memory of those unforgettable black breads.


• Ah-ha! I just found a recipe for Russian black bread which uses a starter.
  
  I also found, on some of the recipes (like this one) which make use of ingredients (cocoa, coffee, molasses), comments from people saying that this bread just isn't quite the same as the beloved chorniy khleb that they recall. So, yay, I'm not the only one! Once I'm done with this loaf, I am making this other Russian black bread recipe, or I could make it today so I can do a side-by-side taste test comparison.
  
  My, it would be handy to have some Russians nearby to get their opinion. I do know an older Russian lady in the neighborhood: she's the grandmother of one of my older daughter's classmates. We've chatted in Russian from time to time, and she's a common sight walking down the road in her traditional Russian babushka outfit: housecoat, cardigan, woolen socks, tufli (slippers) and scarf. I know that there are several other Russians in that retirement home. Would it be weird of me to drop by with a few loaves of chorniy khleb? Probably.
  


• Since I was elbow-deep in pirozhki-production when I started this yesterday, I decided to use my bread machine.
  
  To make this bread by hand:
  
  
  1. Proof the yeast with the sugar and warm water for 5 minutes or until the yeast gets foamy.
  
  
  2. Melt the butter, let it cool and add the molasses and cider vinegar to the butter. Mix well.
     
  
  
  3. Toss the salt into the yeast mixture, add the butter mixture to it and stir well.
  
  
  4. Start adding the dry ingredients, stirring well after each addition.
  
  
  5. Knead, let rest for an hour and a half or so, then shape, rest again and bake.
  
  
  6. Presto.
  
  


• I know I have fennel seed somewhere, but I tore my spice cabinet apart looking for it and I simply could not find any.
  
  I mean, I can't tell you how many times have I been looking for cardamom pods, cumin seeds or mustard seeds only to find the jar of fennel seeds and ask myself, "Why the hell did I buy this? I never use it!"


• I wonder what difference using Dutch-processed cocoa powder (DPC) would make.
  
  DPC is treated with an alkali agent to neutralize its acids so unlike regular old cocoa powder, it does not react with bases. Since this recipe calls on yeast for leavening, I wonder if switching out the regular cocoa for DPC would make any difference.
  
  I think that I read that DPC tends to make foods darker than the regular cocoa. Russian Black Bread is very dark, darker even the pumpernickel.
  
  Something to think about for the next time I make this.
  


• And just because I mentioned babushki in this post, I give you Babushka Cat:
  

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Caramelized Onion & Shallot Dip with Bacon

I made this dip when I was at my parents' for Thanksgiving. We all fell in love with it, practically licking the bowl clean. I made it again for Lucy's birthday party and then one more time for New Year's Eve.

This dip really thickens up on sitting, enough to break even a hearty potato chip, but the flavors meld and intensify so nicely that I think that it's worth it. If you really wanted to thin the consistency, you might want to add a teeny bit of water.

After a few days in the fridge, this spread is delicious on toasted bread.

Caramelized Onion & Shallot Dip with Bacon

Ingredients

• 1 tablespoon butter
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• ½ teaspoon brown sugar (optional)
• 6 medium onions, sliced crosswise, ¼ inch thick (about ½ pound) - I like a mixture of red and white onions
  
• 2 shallots, sliced thin
• ground black pepper
• 3 slices thick-cut bacon
• 3 scallions , minced
• ½ teaspoon cider vinegar
• ¾ cup sour cream
• ½ cup creme fraiche (optional) - you can use more sour cream if you don't have any creme fraiche
  

Directions:

1. Heat the butter in a large nonstick skillet over high heat; when foam subsides, stir in salt.
   


2. Add onions and shallots and stir to coat; cook, stirring occasionally, until onions begin to soften and release some moisture, about 5 minutes.
   


3. Reduce heat to medium and cook, stirring frequently, until onions are deeply browned and slightly sticky, about 40 minutes longer.
   
   If the onions are scorching, reduce heat; we don't want blackened, crispy bits of onion. If onions are not browning after 15 to 20 minutes, raise heat or add a bit of brown sugar.


4. Turn off the heat; season to taste with pepper.
   


5. Fry 3 slices of bacon, in small skillet over medium heat until crisp, about 5 minutes; remove with slotted spoon to paper towel–lined plate and set aside. Crumble when cooled.
   


6. Combine caramelized onions, cider vinegar, scallions, sour cream, creme fraiche and bacon in medium bowl.
   


7. Season to taste with salt and pepper and serve.
   

The bread is the photo is the second batch of my french bread from The Bread Baker's Apprentice.

As you can see from the picture, it split in a funky sort of way when it was rising, but it's very tasty.



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Not pain à l'ancienne, but pain ordinaire

So yesterday, after lusting over the thought of a fresh loaf of pain à l'ancienne, from The Bread Baker's Apprentice, I dived straight into the book a bit hastily and made the starter for regular old pain ordinaire.

Oh, gee, what a shame, right? Ha! Even the most ordinaire of pains ordinaires is probably light-years away from any other white bread out there.

I can hardly wait for this to be done. :)

However, I have managed to restrain myself and follow the author's suggestion to let the pre-ferment, or pâte fermentée, sit in the fridge overnight instead of using it right away. Letting it sit longer allows it to develop a more complex flavor, so if you're as crazy about bread as I am, the result is worth the extra effort and wait.

When I took it out of the fridge, the starter was nicely puffy, a good 1½ times larger than it was when it had gone in the fridge.






I was worried yesterday when I was putting the pâte fermentée together, because the recipe directions indicated that the water should be at room temperature. Ok, but what does "room temperature," really mean?

I live in a drafty old house with deplorable insulation. This morning, the air temperature outside was in the single-digits; in my kitchen, it was 56°F. So, whatever temperature constitutes "room temperature," I can bet it's not a mere 10 degrees warmer than the inside of my fridge! I saw in the book that Peter Reinhart made casual mention of a scenario where room temperature was 73°F.

That's a long way from 56°F! I ended up turning on the oven to warm up the kitchen a bit, bringing it up to the mid-to-lower 60°s.

The dough for pain ordinaire is now resting nicely in an oiled bowl next to the stove, covered in plastic wrap, where it can rise in warmth for the next two hours before shaping.






With luck, in 2 hours it will have grown to twice this size.


Edit (2:30): The baguettes have been shaped and are in the final proofing stage before being baked. They need to rise to 1½ times this size before I put them into a scorching-hot, moist oven.

I use a roasting pan of hot water in the bottom quadrant of the oven to create the necessary moist interior to attempt to mimic the conditions in a bread oven of a professional bakery.

Here are the two baguettes on their final rise:

Closer view:

Edit (5:00): When I took the baguettes out of the oven, they looked great. Nicely golden and crisp on the outside:






And with a lovely crumb on the inside:





Great. But how does it taste?


I sliced off a thick piece, slathered it with good salted butter and... *sigh* ... heaven.

Then I had to taste it, just the bread, to get a sense of it. The crust was sharp and crispy, but inside it was soft, not over-done. It wasn't tangy like a sourdough; it was creamy and smooth. Once I chewed it, there was a subtle "something else" just lingering on the palate, something slightly nutty, and wholly satisfying in that umami way.

The only disappointment was that the spots on the crust where I scored the dough hadn't bloomed properly. I think I need a razor to make the slashes next time. Also, I think I may have to shape them in a canvas couche to support the sides to that the baguette seems rounder in cross-section instead of the sides sloping down.

Still, it tastes phenomenal, so I'd say that it's a very successful first attempt.

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