“Vorrei il Pugliese, per favore.”
I eye the customer in front of me with quiet dread. Margarita, the baker’s wife, turns around and pulls the last one-and-a-half-kilo loaf from the shelf. She places it carefully on the wooden board next to the scale.
“Tutto?” Does she want all of it? The woman shakes her head. Just half.
A silent sigh of relief escapes my lips.
I’ve already been waiting a good fifteen minutes outside the tiny village bakery. The sun is shining, and the queue – more of a cheerful cluster than an actual line – is perfect for idle chatter and gentle gossiping. Somewhere in a corner, the little number dispenser Margarita had to install during COVID now gathers dust, entirely ignored. Slowly, we shuffle indoors. People let others go ahead because, well, this is Italy.
Margarita chats with almost all customers. So while waiting for my turn, I’ve heard all about Anna’s childbirth, nonna’s anaemia, and Giacomo’s rather unfortunate haemorrhoids. It’s almost half past ten. I’m a bit late. The bakery usually closes by half twelve – sold out. Then again they do open up shop at half past six.
Inside, especially after the full glare of the sun, it takes your eyes a moment to adjust. The bread and rolls sit in slanted wooden crates, their contents nearly hidden. You can barely tell what’s left. Only the paste – sweet rolls – are visible behind the glass counter. Just two of those left. When the woman ahead of me asks for the Pugliese loaf, I’m close enough to see: it’s the last one.
Margarita and her husband bake exactly three types of bread and three types of rolls. That’s it. Amongst many other things, bread is a regional affair in Italy. The bread from Emilia-Romagna is reasonably crunchy, though it tends to dry out faster than a gossip’s secret. Since we live near the regional border, they also bake Tuscan bread – senza sale, without salt.
Bread without salt is exactly that, saltless. Before 1870 naturally, every corner of Italy taxed salt. After unification, they just… kept going. That’s why the signs outside tobacco shops, under the big T, still say Sale e Tabacchi – Salt and Tobacco.
In the Papal State, they were particularly creative. Salt was taxed not once but twice – once when you bought it loose, and again when it was baked into anything. Perugia even went to war over this and lost. Their bread is still saltless as well.
In Tuscany it probably started with Pisa raising the taxes on salt, specifically for the then republic of Florence. The Florentines, not easily fooled, simply stopped using it altogether. The result? Bread that tastes like damp disappointment. People in Bologna say that’s why Tuscan food is so salty – so you at least taste something when you mop up the sauce with your bread.
Margarita places the change on the counter and looks at me expectantly. I beam and point at the remaining half of the Pugliese loaf. “That one, please.”
She wraps it in brown paper, and feeling just a touch rebellious, I grab the last two sweet rolls as well. I’ve never actually asked why they bake Pugliese bread here. But I’m deeply grateful they do. This is the bread we really like. It has a crisp crust, it’s soft inside, and – crucially – it tastes like something.
Margarita asks how the dog is doing. She has two miniature pinschers herself. The oldest is due back at the vet, and she proceeds to list everything that’s currently wrong with the poor creature. Honestly, it sounds like a compelling case for euthanasia, but I wisely keep that thought to myself and nod along sympathetically. It’s all very tragic.
Utterly content, I step back into the sunshine, Pugliese loaf under one arm, sweet rolls tucked under the other. The little terrace by the bar is calling my name.