Which Loaf Speaks to You?

The old Transilvania Bakery in Vancouver had an almost cartoonish exterior. Its stained cedar planking stood out on the block of stores along its West Broadway location. Transilvania Peasant Bread was spelled out in roughly sawn wood letters nailed above its front window.

Even before walking through the door, you had the idea you were stepping into another world, either into a Popeye movie set or an old storefront from an ancient time.

And why was it spelled ‘Transilvania’ instead of ‘Transylvania’ with a ‘y’?

Deeper into the old world

Here was an exception to the adage, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” Whatever you thought the store looked like on the outside, it would be the same inside.

You just went deeper into the old world when you walked through the doors of Transilvania Peasant Bread Company. But there was a bit of warmth and humanity, too.

The place was mostly empty the first time I went in. It was just Florin, the baker, wearing a cap and a dirty white apron, leaning against a strange-looking wood-fired oven. 1 He held a large loaf under one arm, brushing excess flour off the bread’s base with a painter’s brush.

Loaves the size of an ample belly

There were about ten loaves spaced out over two shelves behind the counter, and they all looked identical. They were large round boules, the size of an ample belly. They were inviting. Golden in colour with a simple cross for score markings on the crust. They had a sheen of flour that revealed the spiral pattern of their bannetons, the wicker proofing baskets that held the dough while it fermented overnight.

A sign beside the shelves announced that the baker was a “Proud member of the Bakers’ Guild.” At the time, I imagined bakers’ guilds belonged in the Middle Ages. It further added to the mystique of Transilvania. 2

The smell of bread and woodsmoke

The room smelled exquisite! The aroma of bread just out of the oven intermingled with a faint odour of woodsmoke. I could feel the heat from the oven. Sunlight poured through windows in the back of the store.

This was around 2005, not 1895. And I’d never seen rustic bread like this in Vancouver, except maybe at Ecco Il Pane, one of the city’s first “artisan” bakeries. But this bread was different than Ecco’s.

“What kind of bread do you have?” I asked Florin.

He nodded to the shelves. His forearms and wrists had a patina of flour dust.

“Only one kind,” he said. “Whole wheat bread. Only wheat, no white flour.”

“Only one kind of loaf!”

He spoke in an East European accent, which I later learned was Romanian. He was from Transylvania, in central Romania. His English wasn’t difficult to understand, but he was a man of few words.

“Do you make other kinds of bread?”

He shook his head and placed the loaf he’d been brushing onto one of the shelves alongside the others. He just made whole wheat peasant bread, he explained.

I thought I was not going to get much more out of him.

“Okay, I’ll have one, please.”

He reached for a bag.

“Which one do you want?” he asked.

Which one speaks to you?

“I don’t know. They all look the same,” I said.

I thought he looked a little puzzled as he looked at the display of loaves.

Then he looked me in the eye for the first time.

“Which one speaks to you?”

The question — it was a challenge, really — was a bit jarring. We’re used to merchants taking charge of the sale of goods, expediting the process, taking the item from the shelf (or from the customer), wrapping or bagging it, and then directing the customer through the transaction.

Asking more

In this case, I had decided to buy a loaf of bread, told Florin, and thought my work was done. Now he was asking more from me.

His question put me into uncomfortable territory. Was this some test? Bread doesn’t speak, I thought. Would he disapprove if I made the wrong choice? I could have been incensed!

But I went along with it. I surveyed the few loaves carefully, considered each one, and then made my choice.

“That one, please,” I said, pointing. “It looks like it’s smiling at me, and one of the eyes is winking.”

“Now it’s yours.”

“Aha! Yes!” Florin said, taking it off the shelf. He smiled but didn’t bother looking at the loaf before sliding it into the paper bag.

“Now it’s yours.”

“How much?”

“Ten dollars.”

I paid him without a second thought. The loaf was broad and pretty to look at, and the package felt hefty in my arms. I was eager to slice into it and learn how it tasted. Did it make good toast? What did it pair well with? Peanut butter, honey, jam?

A princely sum

Twenty years ago, ten dollars for a loaf of bread would have been a princely sum. And I was buying a loaf of so-called peasant bread … could a real peasant afford a ten-dollar loaf, I wondered?

But this was a novelty! I’d never seen bread like this, and as I walked home with the loaf in my backpack, I realized I’d just had a bit of fun. A task as mundane as buying a loaf of bread had been fun because of Florin’s question: “Which one speaks to you?”

“Did I choose the loaf?” I wondered. “Or from the way it smiled and winked, did it choose me?”

Mixed thoughts

In the end, I had mixed thoughts about Florin’s bread. The crust was crisp and thick, the way I like it, but the crumb was dense and too dry for my liking. You could taste the wheat, though, and there was a nice sour note. But you needed something to drink it with, like coffee or tea.

The bread was filling and big and lasted us more than a week. I appreciated that I had connected with the baker, seen his kitchen, and knew the oven where the bread had been baked. That dimension led me back to Transilvania Peasant Bread several times before he quietly closed his doors.

I learned he went on to become head baker and an employee at Beyond Bread, near Fourth Avenue and Alma Street. There was no wood-fired oven, though, and a few years later, he opened a new location in Steveston called Romania Country Bread. The store looked identical to Transilvania Peasant Bread, with similar cedar panelling and wooden letters spelling out the name. He also built a better version of the wood-fired oven he used at Transilvania.

Romania Bread

In Steveston, he found a new clientele and his bread, which was much the same, was loved by his customers, I’m told.

And now Romania Country Bread is closed! A pizza company purchased the premises a few months ago and used Florin’s wood-fired oven to make their pies. But they’ve also kept the building’s distinctive exterior, including the name. Everything is the same. The only difference is that they make pizza instead of Transylvanian bread!

The rumour is that Florin retired and moved back to Romania. I have no idea what happened to him!

Leaving his mark

Florin left his mark on me, though, as the impressionable baker-to-be. His challenge, “Which loaf speaks to you?” invites the customer to open their heart and engage with the bread (and baker) before buying it.

What are you buying? What is its essence? Where does it come from? Does it mean more to you than just a commodity, or is it just a hunk of bread? Will it improve your life? How will it nourish you? How will it nourish your community: the miller, the baker, the candlestick maker?

I like asking the question of myself when I’m buying bread, too, when I think of it. And I love asking it of my customers when I sell bread at a market. Some just point at the nearest loaf; others smile and then look at the loaves a little more closely.

I love all my customers, but the ones I like best are the ones that open their hearts to the bread to help them choose their perfect loaf. Maybe the bread will be a little more satisfying, a little closer to perfection. And for me, I’ll be happy the loaf is going to a good home.

Thank you, Florin, wherever you are!

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