When I was a teen-ager, the family shopped at a vegetable stand for produce and fruit. Near the cash register, there was “the bread.” It had a hard crust, sometimes came with sesame seeds on it, had been slashed in the middle of the long loaf so the crust kind of peeled open as it baked. It was unsliced. In other words, it was yummy. A loaf of the bread, a stick of butter and a knife and I could have a meal.
I can’t find that bread anymore. Sometimes in Italian restaurants, you might get a small slice which is close. But as my dad told me, “Close only counts in horseshoes.”
The bread was dense and chewy. You almost had to eat it the day you bought it because it would get very hard and stale if you left it to the next day. Of course, if that happened, you dipped it in coffee and enjoyed it as it softened.
I don’t know who baked the bread. It came in a plain brown bag with no bakery identification on it. But oh how I wish I could find them. I’d love to be able to buy that bread again.