Bread is baked and eaten millions of times a day in Germany – but making it is an art. Our author completed a trial shift with Munich organic baker Julius Brantner – to find out whether he has what it takes to become a master baker.
For a brief moment, I envy the plump, flour-dusted pieces of dough lying on the worktop in front of us. They are about to be massaged and folded by strong baker's hands, after being allowed to rest for 48 hours. Sounds great. A tiredness that I hadn't felt before has obviously caught up with me. My daydreams about hanging out in one of the large tubs of dough are interrupted by Julius Brantner, who explains to me in his soft Swabian dialect how to proceed with the finished loaves: “We bake directly on the stone for more intense heat.” “That way I get a nice crust and the bread stays fresh for longer because less moisture escapes.”
Only the usually unseen workers preparing Munich for the day ahead are already on the move: City cleaners, rubbish collectors, delivery lorries. I feel a connection to them, albeit an imaginary one. Still, I am in a heroic mood.
A few hours earlier: I feel awake, even though it's pitch dark outside. It's just after four in the morning and I am cycling, to Kreuzstrasse 1, to one of Julius Brantner's bakeries. A visibly drunk couple collapse into the back seat of a taxi. Otherwise, the streets are empty. Only the usually unseen workers preparing Munich for the day ahead are already on the move: City cleaners, rubbish collectors, delivery lorries. I feel a connection to them, albeit an imaginary one. Still, I am in a heroic mood: We keep the city running while everyone sleeps! My tiny contribution to this silent miracle of everyday life is to support organic baker Julius Brantner provide Munich's residents with fresh bread.
I've always had a mixed relationship with baking. I love the outcome and can hardly imagine a greater pleasure than a slice of good, fresh sourdough bread with a thick layer of salted butter. I would also describe myself as an aficionado when it comes to cakes, tarts and pastries. But when it comes to actually baking, it's a different story. While I rely on my gut feeling when cooking, constantly tasting and readjusting, baking feels like a battle with the recipes and kitchen scales.
Julius Brantner comes from a long-established bakery family in the Black Forest and is now practising the craft in the third generation.
Once the oven door is closed, I feel hopeful – a hope that is usually disappointed. Together with our Munich ambassador Julius Brantner, I want to figure out whether I really lack baking talent or whether I've just been approaching it the wrong way so far. If anyone can tell me, it's him. Julius Brantner comes from a long-established bakery family in the Black Forest and is now practising the craft in the third generation. In 2019, he opened his own bakery in Munich's Maxvorstadt district and became one of the city's most popular bakers virtually overnight. He has since opened a second bakery and people usually queue in front of both shops to stock up on fresh bread, rolls, croissants and pretzels.
When I arrive at the bakery, my pride at getting up so early is quickly dampened. Julius is already waiting for me and cheerfully tells me that he's been there since half past two. Also Mandy and Philipp, with whom I will be sharing the shift today, are already hard at work. The air is filled with the smell of dough and coffee, while techno music is blaring from the loudspeakers. My first task is to help Julius with the hand-rolled buns. The dough was prepared the day before, left to rest for 16 hours and then portioned. Now, the challenge is to shape it properly.
After a few seconds, he places the perfectly folded roll on a tray. I ask for an instant replay. Julius laughs and shows me the moves again, this time in slow motion.
Julius grabs one of the small dough balls, rolls it a few times, then folds it from the outside inward with lightning-fast movements, interrupted by quick karate-like chops with the edge of his right hand. After a few seconds, he places the perfectly folded roll on a tray. I ask for an instant replay. Julius laughs and shows me the moves again, this time in slow motion. As he demonstrates, he explains the origins of the hand-rolled bun, which is related to the better-known Kaisersemmel (Kaiser bun).
The Kaisersemmel has a characteristic star-shaped incision, nowadays usually produced by machine. In the original version, however, the star is formed using the special folding technique that Julius is currently showing me. “This used to be part of every baker's training, but nobody actually does it anymore,” Julius explains. He believes that they are perhaps the only bakery in Munich where the rolls are still folded by hand.
After several gruelling failed attempts, I finally get a feel for the sequence of the movements. Julius also seems quite satisfied and disappears into the cellar to check on the sourdough. About 20 minutes later, he returns and inspects my work. The manual beating makes each roll unique – and mine look particularly “special“.
Could I be an undiscovered bun-rolling prodigy? A budding master baker?
Julius looks surprised: “Honestly, they're not bad at all,” he says. Could I be an undiscovered bun-rolling prodigy? A budding master baker? Turning to Philipp, Julius says: “Will you take care of Wolfgang's broken ones? We'll roll them flat and turn them into salt sticks.” So, not a master baker after all. In the end, I'm left with twelve hand-rolled buns that I'm supposed to bake later.
Next up is Bio Brothandwerk 25, Julius Brantner's signature bread, whose taste is probably largely responsible for his meteoric rise. Again, the light brown dough, which has been rising for 48 hours, is waiting patiently in large tubs. Julius and Philipp lift a tub and tip the dough onto the wooden worktop – a viscous miniature mountain that looks almost sculptural with its loops and folds.
As soon as I concentrate on correcting a movement that went wrong in one hand, I end up making the same mistake with the other. It is incredibly frustrating and difficult.
At breakneck speed, Mandy and Philipp start scraping the dough with spatulas and portioning it using scales. Julius takes two portions of dough and kneads them into shape with rhythmic, circular movements. “This is how we develop tension,” he explains. Finally, he turns the dough over once, gently rolls it into a cylinder and places it in an oval proofing basket. Now it's my turn. Julius insists I work with two doughs at once.
“You think it's easier to start with one, but you'll be faster in the end if you learn it properly,” he says. Spurred on by his confidence in me, I get started. But my hands still don’t want to cooperate. As soon as I concentrate on correcting a movement that went wrong in one hand, I end up making the same mistake with the other. It is incredibly frustrating and difficult. Julius watches my tense face and smiles. He probably can't remember a time when he couldn’t shape a loaf of bread – or rather ... two at once ...
I'm relieved when Philipp asks me to help with the baking. It's now just before eight o'clock, the gigantic oven with its six flaps has been churning out fragrant baked goods every few minutes for hours and the first customers of the day are already peeking expectantly through the shop windows. Philipp shows me how to use the “peel”, a flat aluminium scoop used to remove the bread from the oven.
A little later, I get to bake the handmade rolls I shaped earlier. They look a bit lopsided and uneven, so I'm pleasantly surprised when they come out perfectly after fifteen minutes.
When the timer beeps, it's my moment: I slide the peel under the loaves and carefully lift them out. I'm terrified of burning myself – or worse, dropping one of the precious loaves. But everything goes smoothly, and I place the bread on the wooden shelves to cool. Only my slow pace seems to make Philipp a little nervous.
A little later, I get to bake the handmade rolls I shaped earlier. They look a bit lopsided and uneven, so I'm pleasantly surprised when they come out perfectly after fifteen minutes. Of course, the neat star pattern on Julius' buns looks more like a chaotic swirl on mine. Nevertheless, they are little gems, golden brown, crispy on the outside and fluffy as clouds inside.
As I bite into a still-warm one on my way to the office, I become aware that this moment will forever remain the highlight of my baking career. Because after just one shift, I've decided that this is the end for me. I've witnessed the incredible skill it takes to bake something as seemingly simple as a bread roll. How lucky we are to be able to buy such excellent ones from Julius Brantner in Munich.
