Free In Search of the Perfect Loaf: A Home Baker's Odyssey by Samuel Fromartz

probably the freshest.
    I submitted two loaves—one with a slightly higher proportion of sourdough than the other. While I had some trouble shaping the loaves, because the dough was more relaxed than usual after the overnight rise, they still came out fine: dark brown, a generous opening at the
grigne
, a decent shape, and, I hoped, a winning taste.
    All the loaves were marked with numbered flags and each judged according to crust, crumb, appearance, flavor, and several other categories cribbed from the Paris competition. Some loaves were, to use Kaplan’s words, “insipid,” since they had obviously been made quickly, then languished on store shelves. (The shelf life of a baguette is about six hours, max.) When Tim cut them lengthwise, it was clear that only a few had the open, uneven interior crumb that I was striving for—a basic requirement of well-made loaves in France. Many had the kind of white uniform center that probably resulted from intensive mixing, ample yeast, and high-protein flour. In short, many were replicas of precisely the kind of loaves that had brought down bread in France in the preceding decades. I wasn’t alone in these assessments. Sitting around the conference table and discussing each loaf as they tasted it, the judges were unsparing.
    When it came time to taste my loaves, though, I was nearly shaking with nerves but tried hard to mask the fact that this was my bread. Tim sliced into my first loaf, then passed around the pieces. The judges smelled and then nibbled at the bread. I tasted it as well—it had the soft, open crumb I was seeking, a mild hint of
levain,
and, yes!, the crust was still crisp. Joan Nathan said simply, “This is the best one so far.” Even Furstenberg, who was unstinting in his critique of the other loaves, said: “This is a good baguette.” Ziebold agreed. Now, this wasn’t the Paris competition, or anything even remotely close. But when Carman later tallied up the results, my two loaves earned the highest scores. I had topped the professionals!
    In the postgame interview, Furstenberg wasn’t pleased. He thought the fact that I was only making a few baguettes at a time gave me an unfair advantage. But as I pointed out, I also lacked what the pros had on hand: commercial deck ovens, loaders, and the experience that comes from pounding out a few hundred loaves a day. For me, perhaps the most telling comment came from Loic Feillet, the owner of Panorama—a wholesale bakery in nearby Alexandria, Virginia. He mentioned that he had tried to sell a baguette similar to the one I was making, but his customers, restaurants and stores around D.C., revolted. He could not convince them that his loaf, made with a hint of sourdough, was superior. So he dumbed it down to their idea of what a baguette should be.
    This isn’t unusual. Even in Paris, bakeries routinely undercook their baguettes to meet their customers’ expectations for an extremely pale loaf. By reinforcing this choice, the customer never experiences the taste of a crust infused with the flavor components of the Maillard reaction. It’s like eating chicken with rubbery skin. Somehow customers learn to prefer it. Playing to the lowest common denominator might do wonders for a business, but it has never been a path to greatness. Working in my kitchen, I never had to worry about that. My only customer was the ideal loaf that I had tasted on occasion and had in my head. I didn’t have to compromise. All I had to worry about was to do better next time.
    I have made baguettes many times since the competition and the recipe has continued to evolve, less because I am seeking out new flavors than because I’m curious about how different methods alter the taste and appearance of the loaf. I have even done away with the natural leaven on occasion, trying to moderate the slight tug or chew when you bite into the loaf. I cut the yeast in half from the levels I used in the winning recipe. I’m experimenting with