Victorian Sponge Cake story

A long time ago, Italian cooks were known for their baking skills. Many of them were hired in English and French households. During that time, they developed a soft cake by replacing yeast with beaten eggs. Later it became Queen Victoria’s favorite. She delighted herself having the afternoon tea served with the soft cake. And she even developed her own style, having the cake to be sandwiched with jam and whipped cream. This is still popular in England with many other variations of sponge cake.

Venetian Marzipan Legend

In the middle ages, in Italy, there was a Venetian baker, who had a daughter. The baker was busy making pastries for the weekend. So he asked his daughter for help “Why don’t you mix a small portion of chopped almonds into a large batch of cake dough.” The girl was so in love and daydreaming that she switched the ratios putting a large amount of almonds into a small batch of cake dough. When the father discovered the mistake, he was so furious that he rushed her off from the bakery for wasting so many almonds. He threw his hands up and lamented. However, when he munched on a piece of what he considered ruined dough, he became still and amazed by the taste of raw dough. It was the most delicious confection he has ever savored. The baker cut the dough into small bits and sold it with great success. What he considered a mistake at first, now was a blessing, which brought him a great riches. Therefore, he named the bread marcipani in Latin, after the town’s patron St. Marcus.

 

Lubeck's Marzipan Story

Lubeck, situated in northern Germany, is known for marzipan. Thanks to its location by the river, once it was a major port city. Many goods from Orient travelled through Lubeck including almonds, sugar and spices. According to local legend, when Lubeck was under a military siege and was running out of goods, one of the bakers made bread out of remaining supplies of almonds and sugar. When the ‘marzipan’ bread was gaining its popularity, a young man came to Lubeck and became an apprentice to a confectioner. His name was Johann Georg Niederegger. When the talented Johann achieved the experience he needed, he opened his own shop. He quickly became so popular for his exquisite marzipan that he was supplying even royalty with the marzipan. Today, Niederegger is the best known marzipan brand name in Germany praised for its superb quality.
 

The First Celebrity Chef

France occupies the western edge of the European continent. On a map it seems as an important part of a puzzle connecting the Iberian Peninsula with the continental Europe. The leaf-like-shaped country reminds us of the French elegance. It is a country known for good food and variety of pastry, which takes us to its capital Paris noted for a famous chef. A chef whose attention to details was displayed in his food. “It is a form of art,” insisted Antonin Careme and this is his story.

During the French Revolution, the time when France went through many turbulent changes and later with Napoleon becoming a leader, a ten year old Antonin was abandoned by his parents.

He wandered about the narrow streets of Paris in search of a shelter. In his view, appeared a place with chattering people and cluttering tableware. Savory aromas reached his nose. With growling belly, the boy peeked through the window.

Nicely dressed lady, with a feather in her hat, carefully chew her beef stew and continued chitchatting to a man sitting across her. The man not so talkative, nodding in agreement, simply tried to eat his roasted chicken.

“What are you doing here, boy?” asked a man with crossed hands on his big belly appearing on the door step. He came out suddenly, scaring the boy.

“I…I…was just looking,” Antonin stuttered.

“Go away,” yelled the man cutting off the boy.

Around the corner, Antonin sat against the wall with his knees bent, close to his chest, hugging the legs and tears rolling down his cheeks.

It was already dark and getting chilly, when the grumpy owner was closing the door and heard some weeping. “You’re still here. What do you want?” he asked not so nicely.

“I need a bed for the night,” the boy sniffed.

The man’s heart melted just a little, “You can help me in the kitchen at the crack of the dawn. Now, go upstairs.” He rushed the boy since he was tired and wanted to go to bed himself.

This is how Antonin started his career in the kitchen. With time, he had proved to have a talent for cooking and reinventing hearty meals. “A soup is a must,” he insisted on serving it before each meal. “It awakes your palate and prepares you for the main meal.”

Once he served a soup made of snails and frogs to his coughing client insisting, “It will calm down your cough.” He believed the soup had medicinal qualities.

So he made some small marks, but he recognized it quickly that he had to come up with something new and original to rise above the chefs in the city. And he saw it just in time for the next opportunity.

A famous pastry chef with a patisserie shop near the Royal Palace was looking for some help. Antonin knocked on the door and applied, “Sir, I’m here to help you, if you wish to hire me.”

The pastry chef, who was a kind man, looked at the skinny boy dressed in clothes too big for him as from a much older brother and asked, “When can you start?”

The pastry shop was located in a bustling area with crowds satisfying their sweet tooth.

A six tier ice-cream was carried to a lady sitting under the umbrella. “Pardon me madam,” confused waiter asked, “Is this for you?”

“Why, yes,” confirmed the irritated lady. “Why, I can’t have ice-cream,” she murmured to herself.

A crepe filled with fresh fruits, decorated with whipped cream in a shape of a pyramid and topped with a red cherry was carried carefully to a boy near the shaded area by lots of trees.

“Sir, I believe this is for you,” said the waiter with a smile.

“Thank you,” grinned the boy beaming with pride to be called sir.

Shortly, Antonin was learning how to make all that pastry himself and proudly displaying it in the patisserie’s window.

Pastry dough was formed in a shape of balls, flattened at the bottom and cut in half, then filled with whipped cream and decorated with a long neck, making it look as a swan.

“It’s ready to hop on the river and float away,” commented one boy staring at the window display and licking his lips.

Soft and crunchy macaroons in the colors of rainbow were stocked in a shape of cone and displayed on the opposite side of the swans.

The centerpiece of the window display was a three tier cake covered in smooth white cream and decorated with an eatable ribbon at the very top.

“A ready gift not needed to be wrapped. What an amusing idea,” observed one lady all sparkling in jewelry.

All this was coming out of Antonin’s hands. He worked hard and long hours. The pastry chef quickly recognized Antonin’s hard work and talent. He gave him some free afternoons from time to time. The truth was he knew that Antonin spent his spare time at the library studying buildings. Architecture was the inspiration for his cakes rising high and above with intricate shapes.

            “Attention to details, that’s the key to success,” he proclaimed. He used sugar-paste to carve details seen in classical buildings. Marzipan, the almond paste, was his favorite for building castles with towers and temples with classical columns.

Soon, the young boy, almost a young man was already making a name for himself among the Parisians, and with that came special orders.

“Toop, toop, toop,” the noise of a heel hitting the stone approached the shop.

“Antonin, I have such important guests this Friday. You can’t refuse to cook for me that night,” announced such skinny lady that you could almost see through her.

“Of course not milady,” answered troubled Antonin as he was already busy as it was. 

However, most of those special orders came from Talleyrand, a well-established politician, who encouraged Antonin to leave the pastry shop for freelance cooking. And that’s what he did with time.

His next move was the grand kitchen of Talleyrand’s place, where he made pastry for the high society of Paris including writers, poets and politicians.

Another venue that came with time was banquet cooking at one of Paris’s hotels. This was a valuable experience for Antonin as he learned that serving hundreds of dishes at once was pleasant for the eye, but not palate. The meant to be hot dishes many times ended up being cold by the time they were served.

One of the most valuable lessons he learned at the hotel was preparation of sauces, which later became his signature as well. From the more experienced chefs he learned how to create flavorful dinners.

With Talleyrand’s recommendations, Antonin was gaining more customers including Pauline Borghese, Napoleon’s sister. To impress Pauline and her guests, Antonin made one of the most extraordinary pieces of pastry looking like a vase filled with fruits on top. It took ton of spinach to make the most delicate green color icing. Pistachios were chopped to add crunchiness to the pastry. This centerpiece was displayed with hundreds of individual tarts filled with custard, fresh fruits and topped with a small scoop of ice cream and a touch of a few chocolate flakes.  The guests’ big eyes admired the small tarts amazed at the size.

Talleyrand once challenged Antonin, “Why don’t you create a four entrée with some twist. So we can taste something different each day for a year.” It was quite a test that brought Antonin closer to nature as he used seasonal produce to create different meals for every day. A test, which he supposedly passed.  

However, Antonin’s heart was set on improving puff pastry. And that’s what he did at his patisserie between the freelance cooking. His first puff pastry was more of a thick layer filled with cream and topped with chocolate icing, known as eclair. But he wanted something so light that it could almost fly with the weakest blow of a wind. After many trials and errors, he succeeded creating a pastry full of delicate crusty sheets. But this was just the beginning of the soft pastry, which later came in different tastes and shapes.

One of those creations looked like many thin crusty sheets put together for each out of three layers. The two layers between were filled with whipped cream and topped with sifted confectioner’s sugar to make an even layer. The rumor had it that Napoleon had so much of this pastry that it was named after him. But this was just a rumor.

On a sunny summer day a lady hiding her pale skin under a parasol shyly approached Careme, who was on his way to the library.

“Sir, I do not mean to bother you, but I’ve heard that you fulfill special orders.” She stopped as hesitating if she should continue. “Would you be so kind and make some of your puff pastry for my daughter’s coming birthday?”

“Of course madam. Sweet or savory?” asked Antonin.

“Sweet, of course.” After a further thought she added, “And with custard if possible. That’s her favorite.” It was agreed it would be delivered to the house on the special day.

He shaped the pastry in rounds as individual cakes. Filled them with custard and topped with a strawberry circled with blueberries. It was simply amazing. “Attention to details,” that’s what he often reminded himself.     

            On another occasion, an order came from a gentleman. He knocked the door with his umbrella, which he carried on this gloomy day. He knocked like he needed to warn somebody that he was entering Careme’s patisserie. “I’m searching for a cook of savory puff pastry. Are you the right cook for this challenge?” the man asked.

“Yes, I am certain you found the right person.” Antonin nodded and took the order. He learned to appreciate all customers as they challenged him through his career and helped him become who he was.

The savory puff pastry was as successful as the sweet puff pastry. He filled it with clams savored in white sauce. “Simply mouth melting and superbly enjoyable for the palate,” exclaimed the gentleman, who stopped by just to say it.

            Antonin Careme also made his mark with a white, tall, round hat. “It must be stiffened to sit properly on the head,” he insisted. Later he even published an illustration of it and is credited with creating the first standard chef’s hat.

Today Antonin Careme is recognized as the first international celebrity chef.

Pasteli - The Road of Sesame to Olympia

When you look at a map of Europe, at the bottom you will see Greece between the boot-shaped Italy and a sandwich-shaped Turkey surrounded by the Mediterranean Sea.

Greece is a land of many ancient sites, meaning sites that were used a very long time ago and now serve as places that can be visited and learned from. One of those places is Olympia. It is where the Olympic Games had started and the first athletes had competed.

In ancient times, there was a farmer, who lived a few days walk from Olympia. He cultivated sesame plant for its edible seeds. Every four years he travelled on foot with his donkey loaded with big sacks of sesame to Olympia to sell it. This year was a special year as his son was going to join him on his first journey to the city.

The boy’s name was Aster and every day he followed his father in the fields like a shadow. He marched a step behind him trying to hide from the blazing sun. As the father inspected the plant, it was boy’s opportunity to ask, “Father, which story you haven’t told me yet.”

Now when the boy was ten years old and probably had heard all of the Greek myths, it was harder and harder to come up with a new one. Since the time was before the Olympic Games, the father thought it would be a perfect time to remind Aster about the birth of Olympia. “Alright, son.” The father checked the sesame plant and then kept on walking. “Since tomorrow morning we’re leaving for Olympia, let’s go back to its beginnings.” He paused for a second as searching for the right story and proceeded, “The city was built as a sanctuary to worship Greek gods, mostly Zeus, who was the father of all gods.”

“Then why the athletes compete with each other if this was built for the gods?” The stories about Greek gods didn’t always make sense to the boy, but they were intricate and the more puzzling they were the more questions they brought and the boy loved to ask questions.  

“This is how the athletes honor the gods by competing with each other.” This still didn’t make much sense to the boy, so the father continued. “At the end of the competition, the best athlete receives an olive wreath, which is the greatest achievement for an athlete. With winning the Olympic Games, he brings the biggest honor to his native city.”

The boy seemed to be getting into the story now, “But the Festival is only for a few days, right?”

“Right, it’s for five days,” nodded the father.

Aster moved in front of his father stopping him from checking the sesame plant and with both shoulders risen up and hands spread up in the air he questioned, “So what do they do for the rest of the year?”

“They train throughout the year. It takes practice and discipline to be the best at what you do. And good training is supported by a proper diet. Do you remember what I told you about the diet?” Aster thought with a long stare over the fields and with both hands now gripping his shirt. Not wanting to prolong the silence the father answered, “The diet is as important as training. You have to eat well, lots of fruits, vegetables, sea-food and …”

“And sesame!” the boy rushed with his answer proudly saying, “It is an important source of nutrition and that’s why we’re going to Olympia to sell sesame.”

“That’s right son and now is the time to finish our work for the day, so we can get plenty of sleep before our long journey.” As the sun was setting on the horizon making the ground look red, the father and son walked towards the house.

Meanwhile people from around the Greece flocked to Olympia either to watch the games or sell their goods. Those who could afford to watch the games travelled on horses and the rest journeyed on foot. Every path echoed with chatters filled with dust rising from the thousands of feet trudging the same way. But nobody minded the dust; the air was filled with excitement, pushing the dust out of the traveler’s minds.

In the morning, it was time for the father and son to join the rest of the travelers. The journey took them through the mountains, which trees provided a protection from intense summer sun. The boy’s excitement was very contagious sending greetings to all people.

After the first day of travel, the boy was very tired and fell asleep as soon as he laid down; only a blanket separating him from the ground. It was his first night under the open summer sky.

On the second day, Aster felt every muscle of his body, but the excitement was much stronger than the pain. Towards the end of the day as he started slightly dragging his feet, he tripped on the tree root sticking out of the ground. His knee bruised a little with a trickle of blood. The father rushed to help the boy as he saw his tiredness, “Are you all right son?” But the boy was very sturdy. He quickly raised himself up and only nodded, secretly wiping off a tear that rolled down his cheek. They continued a few more steps, when the father noticed a small clearing among the bushes, “This is a perfect spot to spend the night.”

The following day, Aster standing on a hill saw the first glimpse of Olympia. As they neared the city, the boy tried to take all in one gaze, the shining buildings surrounded by robed men, which almost blended with the marble statues, the hustle and bustle of merchants and spectators getting ready for the first day of the games. “There they are!” he pointed at well-built tanned athletes.

“Yes, you will see plenty of them during the next few days.” The father tried to calm down the boy’s excitement as passing by them people chuckled. “As soon as we enter the city, we have to look for a place to claim for our stall. Then you will have enough time to admire the athletes.”

Already in the city, while the boy and his father were setting the booth, the boy’s eyes didn’t stop following the athletes, who raced, wrestled and boxed. A man dressed in a robe looking very gracefully as a granite statue gave a command to two wrestling boys. “Who is he?” the boy inquired, not noticing his father selling sesame to the first client.

As soon as the buyer was served, the father explained patiently, “That’s one of the judges whose been training the boys for the past month here in Olympia. That’s a tradition.”

Suddenly the boy’s attention was distracted by a yelling food-seller, “Fresh fig cake.” Now his observation shifted on the busy market place. It was jam-packed with booths and stalls; merchants selling the wares, artisans offering hand-made figurines as souvenirs, and food-sellers yelling about their goods. He was amazed seeing such a vibrant market place.

The following day in the morning, a ceremony opened the first day of the Olympic Games, followed with the first contests. The afternoon brought something the boy had never experienced before. It was presented with the speeches by well-known philosophers. “Who are they?” this became the boy’s constant question during the games.

The father always took time to answer them all, “They are one of the greatest thinkers.”

Aster didn’t understand any of the words that were spoken by the philosophers, but they were spoken in such poetic way that it captivated him. While his fascination was with a philosopher, two athletes approached the stall to buy sesame. “That’s the philosopher who says that his long age and good health is thanks to eating honey every day,” spoke one athlete seeing the boy’s interest. The boy was caught off guard and it took him a moment to register what had just happened. As soon as the athletes left, the boy looked at his father with big round eyes and said, “He spoke to me.” The father only smiled. He knew it was a lot for the boy to absorb at once.

The games went on for the next three days. The last day of the Olympic Festival was marked by the procession of victors and crowning them with the olive wreaths, followed by feasting and celebrations.

With a heavy heart Aster helped his father to pack the stall. “We just got here and we already have to pack,” these were the only words that escaped his mouth that morning. He wanted the games to go forever. He didn’t want to leave Olympia.

The father read the boy’s mind and wanting to cheer him up said, “Son if the games went forever, they would never be so special.” It seemed to work as a small smile decorated the boy’s face.

Upon return, the boy filled his mother with all the exciting news of what he saw and who spoke to him.

A few months after the games and before the first frost covered the ground, when it was time to harvest the sesame the boy remembered one of the athletes mentioning the honey. Because the sesame was sold as loose seeds, he said to his father, “Why don’t we mix it with honey and create small bars?”

The father was surprised at first, but after giving it a thought, he said, “Why not?” And this is exactly what they had done after the harvest. They created the first sesame bars known to Greeks as pasteli. With time they created variety of them by adding nuts and raisins.

The sesame bars became very popular throughout the village. It seemed as the chirping birds and the rustling leaves in the bordering woods spread the word to other villages. It farther travelled with the direction of the creeks and through the wide opened fields to the cities; making its way to all Greeks including athletes.

Halva's Journey to the Market of Delhi

When you look at a map of Asia, at the bottom in the middle you will see a country in a shape of an upside down pyramid. It is called India. In the northern part of the country, there is a very old city called Delhi known for one of the largest and most popular markets in India. It attracts merchants from around the country and one of them came from a small town bringing with him his town’s delicacy.

A merchant named Subra grew up in a tiny town north of Delhi. The town interestingly was called Boring. It was interesting, because the location of the town wasn’t boring. It was quite opposite. It was located by the most amazing lake called Dal. The lake was surrounded by rugged mountains blanketed with snow during the winter and decorated with floating flower boats during the summer. It was rather spectacular than boring.

The people of the town were very gloomy; their lips went down instead of up; even their backs seemed to be hunched forward with the heavy hands weighing them forward, almost a dark light surrounded them. Everybody acted very seriously, not a bit friendly. This was very unusual.

The word of the town’s situation reached Subra’s grandma, who lived on the other side of the lake. She on the other hand was a very cheerful person. Her lower eyelids were creased from smiling and laughing all the time. A bright red scarf covered her head most of the time added warmth to her already jolly face. So she couldn’t understand how you could go through a day without a smile. “That is so strange to say the least,” she commented and concluded, “Somebody has to do something about this.” She packed her bags and without any delay hurried to visit her grandson.

Upon arrival in town, she noticed people being unhappy. Her eyes confirmed what her ears have heard before coming to the town.

She got the house before Subra came from school and wanting to surprise him, she kept a watch through the window. As her grandson approached the house, she waived to him hollering, “Hello Subra,” and sending him a kiss. The boy seriously nodded as answering the greeting and entered the house. Grandma’s warm big hugs still have not squeezed out a smile on the boy’s face. So she asked her grandson, “Tell me what treat would put a big smile on your face?”

The boy with big eyes looked seriously at the grandma and answered politely, “Anything made by you grandma would make me very happy.”

The grandma studied the boy, his serious manner, not a crack of smile and thought to herself; I have to come up with something rather extra ordinary to have a slightest chance to put a smile on this kid’s face.

She tried to remember all the sweet treats that she made for her kids and all the sweets that her mom made for her and then she recalled a sweet dense confection, but soft on the tooth melting smoothly in the mouth. It was halva.

Not wasting any time she pulled out the pans and the ingredients and busied herself in the kitchen. The sweet smell reached Subra’s nose and evoked his interest bringing him to the kitchen inquiring, “Grandma, what are you doing?”

“Hmm, that’s a good sign that you’re asking. Does it smell good?” the grandma asked. The boy tilted his head down in agreement. “Wait till you try it.” The boy looked at his grandma with curious eyes. The smell wouldn’t let him leave the kitchen, so his snooping eyes followed his grandma’s every move. Once she tried the treat, her body became motionless. The boy’s interest won over his patience.

“Grandma, let me try it,” with almost a begging voice Subra added, “Please.”

“Hmm, that’s even a better sign,” the grandma said. “Alright, I’ll let you try it, too,” she teased him. She handed him a piece of halva on a small dessert plate and watched eagerly the boy’s reaction. Subra put the whole piece in his mouth and slowly let it melt. With each second the boy’s lips were stretching closer and closer to his ears.

“Wonderful,” the grandma exclaimed.

But now another plan was hatching in her mind. I have to let the other kids try it. “Subra, why don’t you invite your friends tomorrow after school?” The boy was about to say something. It looked like he wanted to protest, but the grandma was very quick in her thinking and added, “Just tell them it’s a sweet treat for a good work they do at school.” The boy analyzed the grandma’s argument and agreed.

The next day, when the children arrived at the house, the sweet smell already greeted them in the doorway. Their noses went up following the aroma, which brought them to the kitchen. “Oh here you are,” exclaimed the grandma acting as she was still busy preparing the treat. “Did you receive good grades today?” she asked.

There were side looks before the first child spoke, “Yes.” Then the others followed in agreement.

“Are you ready for your reward?” her scheme continued.

Now everybody answered in unison, “Yes!”

She swiftly served equal portions to each child and with look of a hawk studied them quietly eating. When the first child finished eating his portion her heart almost skip a beat since there was no reaction on his face. But a moment later after the boy’s tongue reached every corner of his mouth; a big smile appeared on his face. A joyful, “Oh,” escaped grandma’s lips. Her scheme was working. Every child’s face was appearing to have a big smile. Now, it was time to send them home and let their smile infect the others. 

Before the night fell on the town, murmurs started to spread out with everybody questioning, “What’s gotten into them?” Meaning what was wrong with the children who were constantly smiling. Of course, there was nothing wrong with them.

By morning time, everybody wanted to know what made the kids smile. So the word got out of grandma’s halva. The sweet treat became very popular and changed the mood of the whole town, which went from boring to very merry.

Many years later, the grandkid grew to be a merchant, who moved to Delhi to open his own shop.

When he entered the market for the first time, he stopped not knowing, which street to take. There were so many of them, going one way and the other, crossing each other, making a spider web. His eyes jumped from one stand to another in such rush, making him almost dizzy.

Passing by him people were like waves of ocean, which almost swiped him off of his feet, since he was not moving.

The colors of the products radiated with life. At one stand, there were baskets of grains and nuts, ranging from petite morsels to ample seeds, set in small and big bowls with colors of different shades of yellow, green, brown, and purple creating an amazing palette. “Beans! Almonds!” one seller yelled to attract the passing by people.

Subra walked slowly absorbing all the colors and varieties of products. It was quite overwhelming. At another stand, from wooden boxes pyramids were sticking out. He walked closer and realized whispering, “These are spices.” They were made of tiny bits and more visible particles, vibrating with hues of white, brown, and black. He startled, when the seller yelled right over his ear, “Ginger! Curry! Sweet paprika!”

The alleyways were dotted with tea stands. “Tea to refresh you,” offered a seller, pushing a sample of freshly steeped tea into Subra’s hand. Thirsty Subra eagerly tried the aromatic tea, which woke up his tired senses.

He pushed farther towards the walls of carpets hanging on strong ropes. “Everything is so lively,” he whispered seeing a rainbow out of rugs.

The spectacle of colors seemed to never end. The rolls of thin and thick threads vibrated in every possible color there was. Then Subra reached for the rolls of materials. He moved his hand as feeling the fabric and the patterns engraved in the material. “These are the most exquisite silk materials,” he marveled at them a bit longer.

After an exhausting day, Subra found a place to sell his sweet treat made by his grandma that decorated so many faces with big smiles.

With time, the window display of his shop filled with variety of halva in different shapes and shades. At the very front, tiny halva took the front stage, looking like mud pies, like the ones made in the sand, exactly in the color of sand. In the middle, looking like big round cake stood a darker brown halva. Glossy squared halva in the shades of beige was displayed on the sides completing the window space.

Inside the store, the eye couldn’t stop wondering there was so much of halva, standing in rectangular and round blocks. The ones in the front of the counter were displayed in one layer. The ones in the back were stock on each other to save the space.

There were small samples displayed on the silver plate. “Would you care for a sample of chocolate or vanilla halva,” Subra always eagerly encouraged a customer. Once he had a customer try it, it was a constant sensation and a guarantee of a returning client.

The word quickly spread out and the merchant became famous for selling halva. It farther travelled to the other corners of India making it a popular delicacy throughout the country.

The Crescently Moony Croissant

Austria might be a small landlocked country in central Europe, but it is the heart of the continent. Its capital Vienna in the 17^th century was known for the best food in Europe and became the envy of the other European countries. Its location by the Danube River connecting many countries attracted attention of some enemies, and this was the cause for one of the most historical battles. These two facts of food and battle bring a story of croissant.

                The baker named Bartholomew sat at the wooden table with his hands holding a copper spoon and trying to see a mirror image of his face. He had plenty of free time on his hands as provisions were scarce. Not finding his image, he put the spoon down and tried to remember the bakery as it was two months ago before the Vienna was besieged by the Turks. The empty corners were filled with sacks of flour, now gone. The bakers were buzzing like bees sifting flour and filling the room with a white fog. There were chatters and laughs, which they tried to keep muffled not to awake the people yet sleeping. Now it was replaced with sadness and pain.

The first rays of sun woke up Bartholomew from his pondering and reminded him to make his way to the Cathedral’s tower and check the view outside the city walls for any chance of spotting assistance coming their way. He wanted to be the first one to break the news, hopefully good news to the Viennese people.

            He navigated through the narrow winding streets to the center of the town occupied with magnificent Cathedral. After climbing the last step of the steep stairs and reaching the highest level of the tower, he looked through a tiny window. “Oh,” he gasped saddened by the view of hundreds of tents outside the city walls. The tents stretched out for miles, almost creating a city on their own. But it was the unwanted city of the enemy, who cut access to the rest of the world including the transport of provisions. “How much longer can we withstand this siege?” he questioned.

He was about to turn around, when another gasp escaped his mouth, “Oh, I can’t believe it.” Almost in the center, he spotted two men with painted faces and dressed in colorful clothes. One was throwing balls and the other was making faces to entertain the army. “They even brought a clown and a juggler to keep them entertained in such times.” Deeply saddened by the view, his head went down and he caught a different sight; a sight of the red tiled roofs of his beloved city. “Will the help come in time?” the question that was on the mind of every citizen of Vienna.

            Upon reaching the street and heading back to the bakery, he noticed the scattered bricks on the ground and people repairing the crumbling walls of the houses. The five or six-story buildings were packed tightly to each other as the only thing holding them together were the connecting walls. It seemed as if one wall went down, the rest would fall as domino.  

“How are you?” Bartholomew asked one of his clients, who was sweeping the debris from the sidewalk.

            “Trying to keep the spirit up,” the man smiled and continued cleaning. This was the usual routine for the past month; the Viennese people repairing the houses to keep their hope up.

             As soon as he arrived at the bakery, the assistant selling the small portions of bread asked, “Master, did you hear the news?” Not waiting for an answer he continued, “The Turks are getting closer to the walls.”

“They are already close to the walls,” answered absent-minded baker.

“No, they’re digging tunnels under the city walls to get inside the walls and attack the city.” Now, the assistant had the baker’s full attention.

“No, that’s impossible,” Bartholomew insisted even though he knew that it was very possible. Was this it? Was it the end of the city? The baker was lost in his thought. The assistant realizing it left him alone.

As the word had spread out that the enemy was digging the tunnels to reach the city inside the walls, the bakers were encouraged to keep their eyes and ears wide opened for any suspicious activities since they were the only people working during the night except the guards. Most of the bakery stores were on the first floor and the bakery itself in the basement. The basement was the level at which the enemy would dig a tunnel sending some sound. That’s why it was very important to stay quiet at the bakery and keep the ears on alert.

During the night Bartholomew put his right ear to the wall trying to hear any noise. Not hearing anything, he put his left ear to the wall hoping that this one would work better. Still nothing. “Where is the help?” he almost yelled forgetting to keep quiet. The lack of sleep and irritation were starting to effect his tone of voice.

The people knew that before the Turks invaded Vienna, Leopold I, the ruler of Austria signed an agreement with the Polish King to help each other in case of a war. But what Bartholomew and the rest of the people didn’t know was that as soon as Jan Sobieski, the Polish King, heard of the Turkish invasion he rushed his army to Vienna. The help was on the way.

On September 6^th, 1683, Jan Sobieski reached the outskirts of Vienna. A light was shut into the sky to give a sign and hope to the Viennese people. “Hold on. Give me and my army a few days to regroup.” That’s the message the Polish King tried to send to the people.

            On September 11^th, 1683, King Sobieski directed his army against the Turks. The rumbling of horse’s hoofs and clashing of the swords filled the air. The ferocious fight continued until the next day. The Turkish army, which was feared by many, for the first time was losing its battle and started retreating.

            The Viennese people inside the walls were awaiting the end of the battle with eagerness and anxiety; eagerness for the battle to be over and anxiety of not knowing the result. Bartholomew not able to stay put rushed to the tower to see the progress of the battle. To his surprise the Turkish army was running away from the walls of the city and in the direction where they came from. The dust rising from the horse’s hoofs filled the air and just in time, he noticed enemy’s flag flapping above the rising dust fog. “What’s that?” He squinted his eyes as this was supposed to give him a better view of the emblem on the flag. “That is a crescent moon.” Immediately an idea sprang into his mind.

He hurried back to the bakery to prepare for the morning’s celebration. Swiftly, his hands sifted some flour and rolled dough, which he cut into triangles. His lips whistled like never before, while he was shaping the triangles into the crescent moons.

            The following morning, the streets of Vienna filled with people singing praises for King Sobieski, who entered the city with victory. The people dashed to gather the little food that was left to celebrate this glorious day. Some stopped at Bartholomew’s bakery and couldn’t contain their amazement for the bread in the shape of a crescent moon, later known better as croissant. 

            After all celebrations were done, the people turned their attentions to renovations. It was the next step in getting the city back to its glory. The rumbling of the broken bricks and debris echoed throughout the city as they were gathered into buckets. The squeaking of the window glass being cleaned and sweeping of the streets slowly brought the people back to their normal lives. Shortly, with clean streets filled with aromas of different food, it reminded the people of the celebratory croissant. It was gaining its popularity with each day, but not without a dilemma. Some Viennese people whispered that the crescent-shaped roll was not an invention of Bartholomew as they already saw it at some tables during the Easter time. Maybe that’s true, but the fact was that it became popular after the battle and Bartholomew made it part of the victorious celebration.

            But this is not the end of our story. Some of you may already know that today’s croissant is associated with France. Why? Well, seventy-two years later, somebody special was born in Vienna. Her name was Marie Antoinette, who later became the Queen of France. As a child, she loved the sweeter glazed version of croissant. So when she became betrothed to Louis XVI, the King of France, she couldn’t imagine leaving Vienna without croissant. Could you? So she took a Viennese cook to make croissants in France. Croissant became so popular in France that today people think it was invented in France instead of Vienna.