A couple weeks ago, I posted a piece called “Which baker is best at giving you a delicious breakfast in a beautiful bakery in the heart of New York City?”
The post sparked a discussion and several readers chimed in to ask the same question.
And they had a few suggestions.
Some of them came from New York restaurants.
Others were from people who had eaten at the places.
And still others came from outside the city.
I tried to keep it fairly narrow.
And as the months went by, the conversation got more and more interesting.
It turns out that the answer is all about food.
And it’s all about good food.
The answers are all on the table.
The Eater’s Baker’s Guide, by a baker.
The New York Times’s Baker Book of Bakeries, by an artisan baker.
My own Baker’s Diary, by one baker.
I recently wrote a cookbook for The New Yorker called Baker’s Cookbook: a Guide to the Best New York Baking in the World.
Baker’s Kitchen, by my own husband, David, whose food is now on my kitchen table.
And, of course, our own cookbook, The Baker’s Book of Baking for Beginners.
The Baker Guide: A Guide to Bakeries is the first cookbook in the series, which I’ve written for over a decade.
It includes recipes and advice for a wide range of baking styles, from quick-and-easy cakes to full-on meal plans.
(If you’ve ever been in New York, you’ll know that I like to bake in my own kitchen, and this book helps you make that happen.)
The Baker Book is also available in hardcover, ebook and audiobook formats.
And in an ideal world, the recipes would also be available for anyone to try out in their own kitchen.
But this is not that world.
I’m a food writer.
I want to bake.
And when it comes to cooking, there are certain foods that seem to be on everyone’s bucket list.
In the early days of the New York food scene, the New Yorkers I grew up with—those who worked in the restaurants and bakeries of Manhattan—were very particular about their baking.
There was the one-person-kitchen-only bakery called the New Yorker, where we all grew up together, ate out together and enjoyed each other’s company.
There were the restaurants where we were all members of the kitchen team, eating together at least once a week, cooking together as often as we could.
The restaurants were open, and there was the opportunity to meet each other face-to-face.
They were like the local community.
I mean, we lived and worked in their neighborhood.
The restaurant was our home.
It was like a place where we would go to shop and enjoy a meal together.
I was a big fan of this place.
The food was excellent.
And my mother used to bake with me and I would bake with her too.
We used to eat out at the bakery, and it was just an institution that I wanted to belong to.
But, as I grew older, the restaurant became more of a place I couldn’t leave.
I remember being in middle school when my mother decided to close the bakery.
The bakery closed and the family moved in with a new landlord.
It turned out that a small hole had opened in the roof, and the roof had cracked, spilling the bakery’s contents onto the streets below.
A neighbor had fallen into it, and when the roof was opened, she was crushed to death.
It wasn’t an accident.
It happened because the roof crack had been allowed to expand over time.
The neighbor’s family had moved into the neighborhood a few months before.
I grew to think that there were a lot of places where I couldn, too.
It’s not that I couldn.
I would never have moved into a bakery without the family I grew and grew with.
And there were others that were more difficult.
My family didn’t always live in the same neighborhood.
My father and mother lived in a big city apartment, and they lived in different neighborhoods.
They had a different kind of connection to their neighborhoods, and my mother’s neighborhood was so different from theirs that she could never fully get used to it.
I didn’t understand how they had to be.
But I wanted them to be like my mom.
I wanted the bakery to be part of their life.
And I wanted it to be a place that they could share food and laughter and fun with their neighbors and their friends.
That was my dream.
The first time I ever saw the bakery was when my father was visiting from Wisconsin.
I had been living with him for a couple of months when my parents and I went to the bakery together.
They invited me in, and I remember sitting down in my living room and looking out the window to see