Preface

It was late in the afternoon when I finally arrived at the bakery nestled amongst the maple trees in Westford, Vermont. All was still and quiet—except for a large wood-fired oven merrily hissing and crackling away in one corner of the bakehouse. Despite the silence, there was a tranquil energy about the room, as though it had been bustling with activity just a short while earlier and had only ceased for a brief moment of rest and reflection.

A sweet, earthy aroma of flour, fire, and yeast permeated the room. After travelling for more than thirty-two hours, I was relieved to be met by the tranquillity and warmth of the bakery. It felt welcoming and familiar—like visiting your grandparent’s house. Like coming home.

“What’s your name?” the baker asked with a heavy French accent. “Babette,” I said. “Non, non—your real name,” he insisted. “Babette,” I ventured again. Then, smiling, he said, “Welcome, welcome!”

• • •

I was named Babette after the French chef in the Danish short story and film Babette’s Feast. And as luck (or fate) would have it, I eventually found my way into the kitchen.

In many ways, my appreciation of food was influenced by my family and my upbringing. My ancestors travelled from Holland, Greece, Italy, Germany, and France to South Africa—taking with them the traditions and food stories of earlier generations. Food is powerful like that. It connects the past with the present, offering comfort even when many miles from home. It perpetuates the significance of heritage, tradition, and belonging. Food, flavours, places, and people are forever connected by the invisible ties of tradition.

I grew up listening to stories of my great-grandfather Paradeisios Michaletos. How he left Greece at the age of seventeen and travelled to South Africa by ship, working as the vessel’s cook to pay his fare. About the struggles he faced as a young immigrant in a foreign land. About his resilience and determination and his eventual triumph in opening the Hellenic Hotel in Pretoria. (The napkins and espresso cups in the photo on page xx are remnants from his hotel; the copper coffee pot in the same photo belonged to my grandfather Constantine Alexander Michaletos.)And stories about my grandmother’s life growing up on a farm in the semi-desert of the Karoo in the 1940s—of kneading and baking buttermilk rusks with her mother and grandmother. These stories fuelled my imagination and helped shape my culinary identity.

My mother, Theodora, introduced my sisters and me to the wonders of the kitchen—teaching us to appreciate fresh, quality ingredients and to be mindful about food. As such, Twinkies®, Vienna sausages, instant coffee, and margarine were unheard of in our household. And we enjoyed our tea and coffee with full-fat milk, no sugar. On weekends and as a special treat, my mother would buy freshly baked bread from La Spiga, the local Italian bakery. Slices of crusty olive ciabatta or dark wholegrain loaves would often find their way into our Monday lunch boxes—the highlight of the week! Rainy days were synonymous with pancakes, the thin kind, mind!—an example of the Dutch influence on the South African culinary tradition. All our meals took place around the kitchen table. And whenever guests were expected, the house would soon be filled with the tantalizing aroma of slow-roasting lamb seasoned with rosemary and garlic and drenched in lemon and olive oil.

I remember watching my father, Johan, prepare the dough for roosterkoek (grill cakes), which would later be baked over hot hardwood coals and enjoyed with ice-cold butter and perfectly grilled snoek (fish). And the care my sisters (Katharina and Frances) and I took in preparing stacks of braaibroodjies (sandwiches grilled over a fire), always buttering the bread on both sides! Breakfasts often consisted of “brood met kaas en koffie” (bread with cheese and coffee) and a new game of γιάντες / giántes (a very old Greek children’s game) would always begin after a simple meal of roast chicken and the breaking of the wishbone.

The extended family often gathered for Sunday lunch at my Uncle Pedro’s hotel, the Farm Inn in Pretoria, where magnificent buffet tables were stacked high with breads, salads, stews, and roasted meats. I always looked forward to those lunches, though more often than not my eyes proved bigger than my stomach!

My husband, Vasili, is Greek and our union has given me the opportunity to further explore my own Greek heritage. I am thankful for my mother-in-law, Melpo, who welcomed me into her kitchen and generously shares her recipes and culinary wisdom. With her help, I am slowly expanding my repertoire of Greek dishes and rediscovering the food traditions of my ancestors.

Now, based in beautiful Vancouver, I am adding a new chapter to an ongoing and multi-generational journey. New foods and different flavours are finding their way into our household, adding colour and zest to our lives. Yet, on difficult days, when the clouds gather and nostalgia and homesickness set in, I still seek the familiar comfort and reassurance of warm pancakes, homemade bread, and buttermilk rusks.

Excerpted from Babette's Bread