Ancient Grains for Modern Meals - Maria Speck [110]
My mom had never seen a classic dark German rye bread in her native Greece, let alone eaten one, before arriving as a young married woman in her twenties in the former German capital of Bonn. Still, these dense and chewy loaves enchanted her for life. I’m not surprised. Allow yourself an introduction to the remarkable rye berry, and you might fall for it as much as she did.
If you have eaten a slice of rye bread in the United States, you probably have noticed the subtle tang it adds to your sandwich, as in the classic Jewish deli food pastrami on rye. Yet these grayish rye breads only hint at the peculiar nature of the grain, whose claim to fame in northern Europe is largely connected to poverty and deprivation. To me, the spell of rye is invariably linked to its use as a whole grain—this is when rye unveils its sensational character. Nowhere else is this more notable than in bread: chew long enough on a slice of whole grain rye, which you must, and wait. Don’t swallow, but wait. Notice as the slight sourness of the bread morphs into a sublime subtle sweetness, releasing the natural sugars in the rye, blissfully out of this world.
This mesmerizing trait makes whole grain rye bread the perfect foil for open-faced sandwiches; savory cheeses, mild and pungent; and the hams and cold cuts for which Germany is equally renowned. Both my mom and I crave little else when we get to Munich. My favorite is the simplest of all: a thick slice of rye bread with just a slather of fresh rich butter and a sprinkle of coarse sea salt. Because German butter is richer in fat, you actually need less of it for more flavor. Another slice worth your try is one covered with the thinnest cuts of exquisite dry-cured Westphalian or Black Forest ham. As is customary, we lay it on in waves to get more bang for the bite. Add a few turns of freshly ground black pepper and welcome to cloud nine.
Rye’s transformation from slightly sour to ever-so-slightly sweet is even more pronounced in another kind of German bread. This one is linked to the western region of Rhineland, where my father was raised and I was born: it is coal-colored pumpernickel bread (for a recipe), a family obsession. Little does it resemble the soft, cottony slices you might find on U.S. supermarket shelves. To emulate the distinct sweet-and-sour personality of pumpernickel, American recipes use cocoa, molasses, espresso, buttermilk, and vinegar. Nothing could be further from its roots. Real German pumpernickel, first documented in 1450, has traditionally been made from two ingredients only, rye and water.
The passion for dark rye bread extends across northern and eastern Europe. A heavy, dark rye loaf will be served on a Russian table, and you will find recipes for many different kinds of rye bread in Scandinavian countries such as Sweden and Finland. Hardy rye has traditionally been grown there because it can sprout in cold climates. Thus ingredients such as sauerkraut, onions, leeks, potatoes, and strong cheeses are a natural fit. Robust spices such as garlic, paprika, and coriander complement its hefty flavor. And of course, don’t forget aromatic caraway, whose oil-rich seeds have long been baked into hearty rye bread to aid digestion. One of my favorite uses: savory pie crusts, enhanced with a portion of rye flour, are a suitable bed for onion pies and tarts. Rye’s distinct tang lends itself even to sweets, when combined with dried apricots in delicious butter cookies, for example, or in a pear crumble topped with coarsely ground rye and chopped