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Large, teardrop-shaped bread of Altamura (Italy), scattered on a shelf.

The Hunt For Altamura’s Secret Italian Bread – Part 2

This post is one of a two-part series, The Hunt For Altamura’s Secret Italian Bread — Part 1 and Part 2.

“He said go that way,” Jason explained. He was nonchalant in his lack of concern for precision.

“What do you mean, ‘that way’?” I urged. But he ignored me.

I followed.

We wound onto side streets and shimmied through narrow corridors between buildings built so closely together you could reach out of one window and touch the other.

Dish up some more!

Various breads spread among different baskets.

The Hunt For Altamura’s Secret Italian Bread – Part 1

This post is one of a two-part series, The Hunt For Altamura’s Secret Italian Bread – Part 1 and Part 2.

Every culture in the world has their version of it. The Russians have their rye, the German’s their white braided breads. India has her naans and puris, and France has her world-renowned boules and baguettes. Italy, however, is not the place I think of when I think of good bread.

When I think of Italy, I picture squishy, pure white balls of mozzarella. Shiny sun-ripened tomatoes. Earthy, cloudy extra virgin olive oils. I picture a place where pasta fresca is as ubiquitous as American corn.

But exquisite bread? That belongs somewhere else.

Admittedly, I’ve been wrong about things before. And so I must now hang my head when I say: I was wrong about this.

Hungry for more?