The Dallas Morning News: Living without Bread? Voilá!

I like to eat. I've head the privilege of eating in more than 40 of these United States, and a sampling of other countries as well. They say that man cannot live by bread alone, but for me, it goes a long way.

Voilà! I had rediscovered my bread, the object of my lifelong epicurean delight. In deed, for my wife explained that she'd purchased this ciabatta, along with some French baguettes, at a new emporium bakery in Allen called, amazingly, Voilà!

Guest Column – William J. Stevens

As a child in Brooklyn, my neighborhood offers up a host of bakeries where my mother would buy our daily, and I mean daily, bread. There was rye, pumpernickel, seeded, plain, rolls and bagels, but the bread I loved best was Italian. It could be long, submarine-shaped "baguettes", oval or round loaves, or even on occasion, a thick sculptured twist. All these Italian breads had crispy, flaked shells, with very light doughy centers. Some would even come with sesame seeds scattered on the outer surface. For night time snacking I disdained pretzels, chips and such; a hunk of "good ol' Italian bread" was my preferred treat. No butter, no jam, no nothing – just bread. My mother even had circular trays with tall edges to catch the crumbs as I tore my bread apart while watching TV.

This hankering (some might say obsession) for bread has followed me wherever I've lived or traveled, and alas, has often caused nostalgia, bitter disappointment and regret. Why? It's hard for me to understand, but not everyone in the world appreciates and offers up this type of bread. I've had it in France, Italy, and Spain, for sure. But South Carolina, Colorado, Florida? At best, I could find a weak substitute, usually mushy, undefined, and wholly unsatisfactory. San Francisco sourdough. No way. Chicago hard roll? Close, but no cigar.

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What about Allen? I found a reasonable facsimile in the supermarket – a pre-frozen dough they pop in the oven each morning. I closed my eyes and pretended it was authentic ciabatta … and then, it all changed.

One morning my wife, Ana, brought home a spectacular loaf of unusually large size. This was not the usual supermarket ciabatta. As I explored it was a gentle squeeze pried open the bag and slipped it onto the cutting board, I began to marvel. The bread was huge. This bread was warm. The curst was crispy. The bread was obviously freshly baked. I tore a piece (the end piece is my favorite) and stuffed it in my mouth.

Voilà! I had rediscovered my bread, the object of my lifelong epicurean delight. Indeed, for my wife explained that she'd purchased this ciabatta, along with some French baguettes, at a new emporium bakery in Allen called, amazingly, Voilà!

I now make the local bakery a regular weekend stop on my morning rounds. I buy a week's worth of ciabattas and baguettes and occasionally sample other variety of European-style bread. On my way to the car I hug the huge loaves like a teenage girl hugs her pillow. I confess that when I get in my car with the fresh, still warm loaves, I have to munch a piece or tow (or six or seven) before I start the engine.

I was so exited I had to spread the good news. I recommended the bakers to a tennis buddy (who happens to be from Romania with distinctly European, i.e. similar to my Brooklyn, tastes in bread). A week or so went by and we met for our customary tennis match, where he greeted me with a healthy dose of abuse, "Why did you have to tell me about that bakery? I tried it, loved it, told all my friends and now they're mad at me." When I asked him why everybody was so upset, he explained that this precious find had now dashed all hopes of any of them every adhering to a successful diet.

William J. Stevens is an Allen resident and regular Neighbors contributor.