Bread and Bucuresti

Last week Nancy and I had reason to travel to Bucuresti for I needed some minor medical attention. We had not been to the capitol before and had heard conflicting views. Our judgment of center city was quite favorable. The streets were busy and the traffic congested naturally, but the avenues were wide and the people mostly friendly. Even in the cold November drizzle the old buildings held charm. There appeared much construction underway and a vitality was apparent.

We did avoid the urban sprawl of the newer parts of the city, and avoided the apartment blocks and the smog. We were pleased with what we saw but were there too short a time to take in the many theatre and musical offerings. I enjoyed a ‘real Chinese’ dinner, something we hadn’t found elsewhere in the country, as both Mexican and Chinese restaurants are not authentic.

It’s a long journey to Bucuresti from Cluj, seven hours on the fast train. I’m not sure when we’ll have reason to go again, but I think we both prefer our provincial city of Cluj and its surrounding hills to the flatness of the Capitol.

Now I wish to write on the subject of the bread and other foods.

My mother used to bake homemade bread. Every Sunday morning she’d knead the dough then let it rise while we were in Church. In the afternoon the house would be filled with that wonderful aroma of baking bread. She’d make four loaves and leave enough dough for a round of cinnamon rolls. The bread was coarse and crusty, the rolls sweet and sticky. My grandfather who lived to be a hundred, refused store bought bread, so the baking was my mother’s Sunday ritual and our delight.

Nancy bakes bread on occasion, but it’s a different bread, much more light and refined. We both tried to get the recipe from mother but it was never written down and now seems lost, but the breads here in Romania are much like the ones I remember from Childhood. The bread kiosks are everywhere. Our local one is no more than 100 meters outside the door and down the hill. They sell a football like loaf, with a stiff crust and, when fresh, a fluffy interior, softer than I remember Mother’s used to be. The truck delivers to the kiosks several times a day and often the loaves retain some of the oven warmth. I prefer my loaf uncut, and the bread lady hands it to you without a bag so I either carry it like a quarterback with his ball or put it in my punga.

The bread comes without any preservatives so in a few days it loses its bounce, but that first day, sliced and with or without butter, it’s wonderful eating. Long ago Sunday evenings used to be a light dinner, the fresh home made bread and stewed tomatoes. We can get that same freshness now nearly any day of the week. The cost is about 50 cents. I had intended to write more, but now I’ve become sufficiently hungry so I’ll go slice myself a piece, add a little gem (jam) and enjoy a snack. Remind me to tell you in the future about the chocolates and pastries.