Debates about whether pitch-black pumpernickel is wonderful or woeful- or indeed a bread at all - have raged in Germany for centuries. But there is no doubting its place in rural Westphalian culture, writes Christina Niemann.
Eat a slice of pumpernickel every day and you'll feel 20 years younger," claims Hubert Schulze-Hillert confidently. And the youthful 56-year-old bread-maker ought to know. His bakery, Bäckerei Pr�nte, is the only establishment in the German town of M�nster - the only one in the entire region of Westphalia, no less - where this pitch-black bread is baked by traditional methods. No other type of bread in Germany stirs emotions, or divides opinions, in quite the same way as pumpernickel: you either love it or you hate it.
Pumpernickel was polarising opinion as long ago as the 16th century. In a letter to a friend in 1586, the Dutch classicist Justus Lipsius wrote: "When presented with pumpernickel, with its unusual colour, weight and shape, you would scarcely believe that what you have before you is bread. Black, coarse, and bitter to taste, it comes in clods, five feet in length, which an adult can barely lift with his own hands. It is, indeed, an impoverished people that is obliged to eat its own soil."
The French abbot Guillaume-André-René Baston, who lived for a time in the Westphalian town of Coesfeld, was more charit-able in his verdict: "Pumpernickel is really rather unpleasant to look at. Never before has nature bestowed upon us two things that bear a more striking resemblance to each other than a piece of this black bread and a lump of peat. However, should you venture to sample a piece of the former, the pleasantness of its taste more than compensates for its somewhat unappetising appearance."
Today, the black bread's unmistakable aroma and outstanding quality are Herr Hillert's secret. But even he cannot explain the origins of the bread's curious name, which, for centuries, has been a source of interest for both linguists and historians. The following enlightening definition appeared in Meyer's Konversationslexikon of 1878: "The name 'pumpernickel' can be roughly translated as 'the hearty bread', from the Bavarian and Austrian pumper, meaning 'full-bodied and robust', and Nickel, a dialect word for bread."
Philologist Johann Christoph Adelung has pointed out that, in the vernacular, Pumpen was a synonym for being flatulent and Nickel a pejorative term meaning 'any old junk'. But the most charming theory comes from a 17th-century anecdote, according to which a French horseman, stopping at a Westphalian inn, is offered a piece of black bread. Surveying the food with suspicion, he declares: "C'est bon pour Nicole" - Nicole being his horse.
Although no longer an active baker, having handed over the business to his children, Hillert doesn't pass up the chance to fill me in on the art of baking pumpernickel. "The dough must be treated with the utmost care and attention. If you knead it too much, you end up with a soggy, inedible mass," he explains, switching his critical gaze to the giant kneading machine. This contraption is filled with coarsely ground, whole rye meal, iodine salt and sourdough, which are mixed slowly, using a shovel and an instrument resembling a blunt knife, until the dough has been worked into a smooth consistency.
After an hour of stirring and mixing, the dough is ready. The baker crouches down in front of the machine and squeezes out 60cm-long rolls of dough. He grasps the roll in both hands and, in one quick, skilful movement, throws it onto a long wooden table, which is covered with brownish flakes. "It's wheat bran in oil, and it prevents anything sticking to the mould," explains Hillert. The dough is rolled out quickly and virtually disappears into heavy, rectangular metal sleeves, with just one stray piece of dough peeking out of the end. This soon vanishes as a second baker deals a heavy blow to the oven-blackened steel mould.
Pumpernickel dough doesn't expand during baking, as it is prepared without raising agents. Although the dough is now placed into the oven, the baking process doesn't start at once. If the brown mass were baked at this stage, cracks would be visible on the end product and, as Hillert is at pains to emphasise, it would be "inedible". The black colour comes from the baking. The dough is left to rest for an hour or two, after which it is baked at 110˚C for 24 hours. The low temperature, along with the tight seal on the oven, prevents a crust from developing.
"And now," Hillert continues, "it is time for malting." During this process, the starch in the dough turns into sugar, which gives pumpernickel its characteristic sweetness. After baking, the loaf, which can weigh a table-bending six kilos, remains untouched. "You can't cut freshly baked pumpernickel," says Hillert. "It's still too soft and sticky." Very sensitive, one might think, for such a robust-looking product.
In the cutting and packaging room, Hillert shows us a prime specimen of pumpernickel. "First of all, it has to be pitch-black. And when you separate the slices, you should be able to see minute fibres, which are formed by the sugar." The slices that Hillert is holding have been given the go-ahead to be packed in shiny foil, which sports delightfully old-fashioned writing. After being vacuum-sealed, the package must return to the oven for a further four hours at 100°C, to kill off any possible bacteria. The pumpernickel can now be stored for an indefinite period.
A few minor alterations aside, this method of production has remained unchanged for centuries. Pumpernickel was born of necessity, as the sandy Westphalian soil is extremely receptive to rye. Baking day, once every two weeks, was particularly arduous for farm labourers, who had to carry the rye to the mill and then return immediately with the ground meal. The dough was placed in enormous troughs, usually made of hollowed-out tree trunks, for kneading. Barefoot in the troughs, the labourers trampled the glutinous mass into a workable dough, then moulded the loaves, which could weigh up to 60 kilos, and placed them in the massive ovens for between 24 and 36 hours.
There were simple reasons for the great size of pumpernickel loaves: they tasted better that way and remained moist and fresh for much longer. And throwing away stale bread was unheard of, since it could be used for dishes such as Barber, a buttermilk soup made of raisins and other dried fruit together with pumpernickel. The pumpernickel softened during the preparation of this dish, giving the soup its trademark bittersweet flavour. Puddings or cakes, with generous quantities of egg, cream, spices and nuts, were also made out of leftover black bread. In fact, curious as it may seem, most of these creations were sweet, with pumpernickel even on offer as a form of dessert in some cafés and cake shops.
However, for a true Westphalian like Hillert, there is only one way to enjoy it: "Butter it thickly, cover it with a wedge of ham, and wash it down with a good cold beer."