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The smell of meat smoking filled the air, despite being just yards away from the busy noontime traffic that transported people from the Adirondacks to the Catskills on NY 28. The scent brought images of knockwurst and sausages in my head. I almost regretted my decision to give up land-based animals several years earlier; the key being almost. The delicious scent however, did serve to lure me into Heidelberg Café and Bakery and made me feel reassured for deciding to eat in the place that baked the bread I bought in my grocery store. The bread was the whole reason why I was here. In my grocery stores in central New York, whether it was the regional stores of Price Chopper or Hannaford, or the numerous health food stores that littered their way throughout Otsego County, the bread of Heidelberg Bakery made its presence known. Touting itself as artisan bread made with all natural ingredients and no preservatives, this bread reminded me of the bread I'd get in the Continental restaurants I used to frequent. A hybrid between the gooey Wonder Bread of childhood years and the tougher sprouted grain breads I'd been eating as an adult, it was nostalgic bread with a health food face. It was fun food that I could feel good about. One day, out of curiosity to see what the ingredients were in one particular brand, I noticed the mailing address of the bakery. Most of the breads I'd been eating, especially of the health food kind, seemed to originate in California. One bread that I'd been eating which had been chock full of Omega 3 wonder in the guise of flax, pumpkin, and yes, hemp seeds, was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota; presumably the hemp had made its way from nearby Canada before it resided in the American food chain seeing that (foolishly, I believe) American farmers were prevented from cultivating hemp for food, paper, and clothing products. I was used to my bread coming from far away, which seemed somewhat disingenuous seeing that one reason for eating natural and organic was to reduce greenhouse gases. I would think that the increased transportation would somewhat defeat this purpose, so I never really liked that fact about my natural bread. At least though, with the natural bread, I could tell where it came from and could understand what the ingredients were. Even if it did come from the other side of the continent. Given all that, I was surprised when I saw that my Heidelberg Bread came from central New York in nearby Herkimer County. A local bread that was also natural definitely satisfied two requirements for a more sustainable lifestyle in these times. Like many companies nowadays, a website was provided so I could get more information. I don't spend every moment of my time accepting these web invitations, but being so pleased at this nearby location, I decided to visit the virtual place to find out more information. It was here that I found out that not only was there a bakery on location, there was a German restaurant as well. So now, here we were, my husband and I, visiting the nursery where our bread was born. How often in the United States did this kind of experience take place? It was like I was in a small town in Europe rather than the middle of the industrial corridor of upstate New York. Just miles away was the New York Thruway, which covered a stretch of I-90. Cities such as Utica, Rome, and New Hartford were just miles away, and the urban crumble of the city of Herkimer trudged by in late May asphalt heat. Yet here was this little restaurant, which looked like a small warehouse if it weren't for the latticework in the front, that baked bread and cooked German food. Being that it was a commercial bakery, its location in the middle of industry really wasn't that strange. But the whole small town café atmosphere that the place promoted made it, well, unique. The interior of the café was lined with shelves of bread baked somewhere in the back room. The walls of the café was a cheery yellow, brown cabinets held knickknacks and bread, while several tables of a similar dark color were scattered throughout the dining area. It was small, but looked as though twenty five or thirty people could sit here comfortably and eat. Nowhere near this number was there; some businesspeople and an older couple were the only other diners were saw throughout our lunchtime. That doesn't mean that no one else came into the place. People dashed in and out all throughout our stay there, grabbing bread and coffee and rushing out about a business. All of them seemed to be in a rush except for one woman who walked into the place like she had thought she'd gone to the drugstore or some unrelated place and somehow wound up here. She went to the shelves of bread and rummaged around them, like she misplaced her glasses or some other necessary accessory in the rye section, no was it wheat, maybe white. Then she started primping and plumping the loaves as though she was confusing them with items in the produce aisle and she was checking for bruises. She went through the entire shelf this way and no one seemed to mind her even though they saw her. Without a word or a purchase, she wandered out of the store. Maybe this was just something she did every day and everyone else here was used to her, like oh yeah, that's the Lady Who Massages the Bread. I was just glad that the loaves were protected in plastic bags. Modern artificial wonders had their plus side sometimes. The menu featured common German food like sauerbraten, sauerkraut, and yes, knockwurst. Smoked food was there as well; my husband had smoked chicken with sauerkraut, and I had a grilled vegetable sandwich that seemed littered with sauerkraut as well. Sour mixed with tangy and sweet with a touch of smooth butter flooded my taste buds. Even though it was boiling outside, inside it was air-conditioned and we had a each had a bowl of split pea soup without feeling overheated. The hot late spring day disappeared in the darkened wood and Central European fare, as though it was December in a Swiss ski lodge. Baked goods littered the shelves by the counter, tempting me when I was hungry before the meal. Luckily, the meal I ate was filling enough that the satiation took away any desire to indulge in sugary wonders. A man who I recognized from a photo on the website came out and spoke to several customers like they were old friends. Maybe they were. From what I could tell, he was the owner, the overseer of my bread. He wore a chef's smock like he had been caught right in the middle of putting the peasant bread in the oven and mixing the batter for cookies when company arrived. He laughed with them as he rung up their order of three loaves and then dashed back into the kitchen behind the counter. Oh, yes, and the sandwich I ate? It, of course, featured the famous Heidelberg Bread. The smoked vegetables wore a ciabatta roll like a camper rolled in a sleeping bag. The roll was light and fluffy and filled up the vegetables like a vital supporting actor. Cracked wheat bread made up the sandwich my husband had; a common bread that seemed to accompany sandwiches in the health food cafés that sold their bread. To finish up the meal, delicious coffee and many loaves to go of rye, pumpernickel and a flaxseed bread made up of white flour. As we left, I watched the older couple sitting together, eating a meal. He had an oxygen tank and she cut up his food. It was an important reminder to enjoy what time I had with my husband in whatever way I could, because who knew what the future held. This meal at Heidelberg was one way that I could do that. Satisfied in spirit as well as body, we left the restaurant and the seed of our daily bread, nourished in more ways than one. |
