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The Scent of Wild Levain
At four o'clock in the morning, the stone-walled bakery in the foothills smelled of toasted flour and woodsmoke, but Simon was sweating over his electronic scale. He had weighed the sea salt down to the tenth of a gram and measured the water temperature with a calibrated laser probe. Despite his calculations, the large wooden trough of wild sourdough dough had barely risen since midnight, remaining a sluggish, stubborn mass beneath its linen cloth.
From across the flour-dusted workbench, Madame Laurent watched him with amused patience, wiping her palms on her apron. "Simon, put the plastic timer away. You ought to feel the dough with your knuckles rather than consulting a digital display."
"The formula specifies six hours of primary fermentation at twenty-one degrees," Simon replied, gesturing defensively at his leather-bound notebook.