I love locally grown and ground flours because they taste great and think right. So when my son wanted to share a meal for his birthday, not just a cake, we used local rye to make crepes in the cow pasture near his boarding school.
While eggs and butter do a lot of flavor work in this recipe, the rye has a speaking role. I can trace the flour back to the field, and picture where the rye was milled, sure as I can remember my kid on his first birthday, standing at a coffee table and digging at a roasted chicken with hunger and delight. Beyond my love for my son and a beautiful day, does the flour stand on its own merits? To find out I interviewed a couple of New York City bakers who use Farmer Ground Flour.
Peter Endriss bakes at Runner & Stone in Brooklyn. I met his bread at a tasting of regional flours six months before I met him. His rye — dark and dense, sweet and sour — sat in my brain like a gargoyle perched on a building.
The name Runner & Stone refers to New York City’s first water powered gristmill, which was located nearby. In stone milling, the top stone is called the runner and the lower, stable stone is called the bedstone.
His breads appeared at farmers markets before the bakery nested inside the restaurant at the end of 2012; since then, good press has shined a star on the loaves, helping them march out the door long before lunch is even served.
“The only non-local flour we’re using is artisan white bread flour from Central Milling,” said Endriss in a recent interview, beginning a verbal tour of the invisible breads that sold out before 10 that morning, thanks to attention from the New York Times.
Runner & Stone features baguettes that are white, whole wheat and buckwheat. It also makes a whole wheat walnut levain, Bolzano rye, sesame semolina, and a rye ciabatta, all with varying percentages of whole grain Farmer Ground flours. The brioche and croissants have 10% whole wheat flour. Champlain Valley Milling, another mill in New York state, provides the white spelt flour used in its pretzel, modeled after a southern German pretzel that uses Dinkel flour, which is also spelt.
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These breads are built with many qualities in mind.
“First, I want the bread to be nice,” Endriss said. The second is “how much whole grain can we add to a baguette and still have it be my impression of a baguette?”
This means a thin crust and an open interior with a flavor that is not too sour; something pleasant to eat and a little lighter than a whole wheat sourdough.
The 1970s concept of whole grain breads carried a halo of self-righteousness and the reputation of a penitential texture, but these loaves — and the team that makes them — are more down to earth about blending earthy concerns with the loftiness of high bread.
“I have a degree in environmental science,” Endriss said, reflecting on what motivates his flour choices. “I think my experiences in studying natural resource management and doing fieldwork associated with that, [gives] the farm a stronger presence in my mind when I look at an ingredient.”
Local flours for flavor, not structure
In baking circles, the arguments against using local flours tend to focus on their unpredictability. Because smaller mills blend from fewer grain sources, the batches vary more than larger mills. This isn’t a problem for Endriss, who doesn’t rely on the whole grain flours for structure. The white flour provides that, and the local flours act more as flavor elements.
Whole grain flours get another strike because the bran acts like little knives, interrupting the formation of the gluten matrix. Using pre-ferments – fermenting a portion of the dough before the whole batch – helps ameliorate some of that.
“The scale of our production is probably the factor that allows us to adjust to inconsistency in the flour,” he said. “If our five kilos of dough is fermenting a little too fast, we just put the tub in the fridge and fix it.”
In a larger bakery, 300 kilos of dough running off the track would not be so easy to correct.
She Wolfe Bakery also uses Farmer Ground Flour, backing up the local whole grains with King Arthur organic flours. The bakery supplies Andrew Tarlow’s restaurants – Reynard, Marlow & Sons, Diner, Roman’s – and the breads are also for sale at Achilles Heel and Marlow & Daughters.
She Wolfe began at Roman’s, where Austin Hall baked bread in the wood fired pizza oven. In January 2013, the bakery moved to rented space in a shared kitchen and began baking seven days a week.
This bread has also enjoyed great press, and with good reason. The whole wheat miche — a kind of French country loaf that might be the poster child for the artisan bread movement — is still sitting in my mind, staring at me like Endriss’ rye gargoyle.
Linked to the land
Hall’s interest in local flour is linked to the land, and similar to Endriss’s. (Coincidentally, the two worked together briefly at Per Se, where Peter expanded the restaurant’s bread program.)
Hall grew up in Iowa, in an agricultural community but not in a farming family.
“Watching the farmland around me disappear into a bedroom community was frustrating,” he said over a pilsner at Achilles Heel, where his bread sat on shelves, down the row from whiskey bottles. The round ciabatta sat like a cake on a crystal pedestal, dimpled white rounds sandwiching the plump filling of a muffuletta.
Coincidentally, the Farmer Ground Flour in those loaves is the product of suburban sprawl. Outside of Ithaca, N.Y., the land that grain farmer Thor Oechsner was renting was getting snapped up for development. He needed to make more money from his crops, so he added value by switching from growing grain for animal feed to growing food grade grains and starting a flour mill.
Hall likes this local flour because he believes supporting stone milling helps preserve a body of knowledge. The miche serves that kind of preservation role, too.
“For me the miche is such a preindustrial thing, you know?” he said. Everything about it, from the lightly sifted stone milled flour, to the size of the loaf and the style of baking is related to a series of preexisting conditions.
“You’re using a stiff starter because it’s easier to control without refrigeration. You’re mixing a really wet dough, because if you don’t have a mechanical mixer, it’s just a matter of dragging your arm through a mixing trough,” he said. “You’re making a large loaf because if you’re baking once a week, you want it to keep for a long time.”
Hall delivers the romance of a bread that’s frozen in time. Even if people can’t taste the values a baker imagines, I love that Endriss and Hall want to feed people the landscape. That is a motive I understand, whether my griddle is perched on a campstove in the midst of a pastoral view, or steady at the home stove, steering in the morning pancakes.
Main photo: Bolzano miche from Brooklyn’s Runner & Stone bakery and restaurant using local flour. Credit: Mayumi Kasuga