Pain au levain
A lean loaf raised on starter alone, folded rather than kneaded, retarded overnight and baked covered so it steams itself.
Named from the ingredients as written, including those carried in from sub-recipes. This is not a guarantee — check the labels on what you actually buy, and note that a product’s recipe can change.
Feed your starter 4-8 hours before you mix, so it is at its peak when it goes in.
Test it by dropping a teaspoonful into a glass of water: a starter at its peak floats, and one that sinks wants feeding again before you start.
Mix the white and wholemeal flours with the 340ml of water until no dry flour is left.
Cover and rest for 60 minutes.
Give it the full hour. This is the autolyse, and the flour hydrates and begins forming gluten on its own — an hour of kneading you do not have to do.
Add the starter and pinch it through the dough for 2 minutes, until no streaks are left.
Add the fine salt and the 25ml of water and squeeze the dough through your fingers until it feels smooth again.
Cover and ferment at 22-24C/72-75F for 4-5 hours.
Perform four sets of stretch-and-folds in the first two hours, 30 minutes apart, lifting one side of the dough, stretching it up and folding it over the middle, then turning the bowl a quarter turn and repeating four times.
Leave it undisturbed after the last fold.
Stop the bulk when the dough has risen by half to two-thirds, domed at the surface and wobbles as one mass when you shake the bowl.
Do not wait for it to double. Sourdough taken too far in bulk goes slack and soupy, spreads flat the moment it is turned out and bakes into a dense gummy crumb, and nothing later in the process recovers it.
Scrape the dough onto an unfloured worktop.
Pre-shape it into a loose round by dragging it towards you in quarter turns with a scraper.
Rest it uncovered for 30 minutes, until it has relaxed and spread slightly.
Shape it again more tightly: fold the edges into the middle, turn it seam-side down and drag it across the bare worktop in short pulls until the surface pulls tight and smooth.
Keep the worktop free of flour underneath it. Flour is precisely what stops the skin gripping the surface, and without that grip there is no tension to build.
Dust a banneton or a cloth-lined bowl heavily with rice flour.
Lift the loaf in seam-side up.
Cover and refrigerate for 12-16 hours.
Heat the oven to 240C/475F with a lidded cast-iron pot inside it, and give it a full 45 minutes at temperature, since the pot comes up to heat far more slowly than the air around it.
Turn the cold loaf out onto a square of baking paper.
Score it once, a single slash about 1cm deep held at a shallow angle to the surface.
Make that one decisive cut through the skin. A timid, shallow score seals over in the first few minutes and the loaf tears itself open at the side instead.
Lower the loaf on its paper into the hot pot and put the lid on.
Bake covered for 20 minutes at 240C/475F.
Take the lid off and turn the oven down to 220C/425F.
Bake for a further 20-25 minutes, until the crust is dark brown all over.
Take it darker than feels comfortable. Most of what a sourdough crust tastes of is made in the last five minutes, and a pale loaf tastes of paste.
Check the centre with a thermometer if you have one: 96C/205F.
Cool on a rack for at least 2 hours, and listen for the crust crackling as it contracts.
Do not cut it warm. The crumb is still setting, and a knife through a hot loaf drags it into a gummy paste that never recovers.
The no-knead sourdough focaccia in this collection uses the same starter with none of the shaping, and is the easier place to start if this is a first loaf.
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Sour, and the degree of it is the thing you control. Wild fermentation produces both lactic acid, which is mild and yoghurty, and acetic acid, which is sharp and vinegary, and cold retarding favours the second — so the twelve to sixteen hours in the fridge are a flavour decision as much as a scheduling one. Under the acidity, wheat itself is sweet and nutty, and the wholemeal adds a bran bitterness. And then the crust, which is where most of the flavour is: hundreds of compounds formed by browning that simply do not exist in a pale loaf. Salt at 2 per cent is essential and is the difference between bread and paste.
The dough smells strongly and pleasantly sour at the end of bulk, and that smell is a genuine progress indicator. Baking is where the drama is: the first fifteen minutes smell of wet dough, and then quite suddenly the kitchen fills with the smell of bread as the crust starts browning. A cooling loaf goes on smelling for an hour.
Two textures held far apart. The crust should be genuinely crisp and thick enough to resist a knife, and the crumb should be soft, open and slightly chewy with a moist, almost custardy quality. That combination is what a covered bake produces: steam trapped by the lid keeps the surface soft through the oven spring so the loaf can expand, and taking the lid off lets it dry and set hard.
The best sound in this collection and it happens on the cooling rack. As a loaf cools the crust contracts faster than the crumb and cracks audibly — a fine, continuous crackling that lasts several minutes. It is called singing and it is the reward for taking the crust dark. The other sound is a knock on the base, which should be hollow.
Crust first, which is bitter, toasted and complex. Then the crumb, mild and sweet, then the acidity arriving behind it and building across a slice. The finish is sour and clean and makes you want butter. A day-old loaf tastes noticeably more sour than a fresh one, since the acids keep developing.
Cooled completely, and this is not a preference. The crumb continues setting as it cools — the starch is retrograding — and a knife through a hot loaf drags the structure into a gummy paste that never recovers. Two hours minimum.
Butter, and good butter, since there is nothing else on it. Olive oil and salt. Cheese. Soup. Anything at all — it is bread. It is particularly good with the things in this collection that have no starch beside them: mujaddara does not want it and gambas al ajillo absolutely does.
The hardest thing in this collection, and not because any step is difficult. It is hard because it requires reading the dough rather than the clock, and that is a judgement that takes several loaves to acquire.
Almost nothing — 500g of flour and some salt. The cost is time and attention.
A lidded cast-iron pot, which is the one piece of equipment that genuinely changes the loaf. A banneton or a cloth-lined bowl. A dough scraper. A thermometer is optional and useful.
Any time. The schedule is mix in the afternoon, retard overnight, bake in the morning.
None, though kitchen temperature is genuinely seasonal and a winter bulk takes noticeably longer than a summer one.
The bulk is the judgement that matters: risen by half to two-thirds, domed at the surface, and wobbling as one mass when the bowl is shaken. The loaf is baked when the crust is dark brown all over — darker than feels comfortable — and reads 96°C in the centre.
A shaped loaf should feel taut, with a smooth skin under tension. If it feels slack and spreads on the worktop, the bulk went too far.
Nothing to manage, beyond the obvious hazard of a cast-iron pot at 240°C with no cool handle anywhere on it.
Letting the bulk go too far, which is the fault and is the one this recipe warns about hardest. Using a starter that is not at its peak. Flouring the worktop during shaping, which is exactly what stops the skin gripping and prevents any tension building. A timid score, which seals over and lets the loaf tear open at the side. Under-baking, which gives a pale crust and a bread that tastes of paste. And cutting it warm.
Flat and spread: over-fermented bulk, or a weak starter. Dense and gummy: under-fermented, or cut before it cooled. No ear and torn at the side: the score was too shallow or too flat. Pale: it needed longer uncovered and a hotter oven. Tight crumb: under-fermented or under-hydrated. Stuck in the banneton: not enough rice flour. Sour beyond what you like: shorten the retard; sweeter and milder means less time in the fridge.
The entire schedule is make-ahead. The retard is flexible from twelve to about eighteen hours, which makes it easy to fit around a day.
Cut side down on a board for three or four days. Never in a plastic bag, which softens the crust, and never in the fridge, which stales bread faster than room temperature does — starch retrogradation is at its quickest just above freezing.
A stale loaf refreshed for ten minutes in a hot oven comes back remarkably well.
Sliced and frozen, it toasts straight from the freezer and this is much the best way to keep it beyond a few days.
Stale sourdough is an ingredient rather than a problem. Croutons, panzanella, ribollita, breadcrumbs, French toast.
Two loaves at once is straightforward and needs two pots or two bakes; the dough handles the same. Keep the percentages.
Any strong bread flour. Wholemeal can be rye, which ferments faster and gives a darker, sourer loaf. Water temperature matters more than most people expect and 28°C is a starting point — a cold kitchen wants warmer water and a hot one cooler.
Vegan, vegetarian, dairy-free and nut-free. Not gluten-free and not adaptable. Contains cereals containing gluten, declared. Worth noting that long fermentation degrades some of the fructans in wheat, which is why a proportion of people who find ordinary bread difficult manage properly fermented sourdough better — that is a real effect and not a cure for coeliac disease, which this is emphatically not suitable for.
Strong white bread flour with a protein content around 12 to 13 per cent. Stoneground wholemeal. Rice flour for the banneton, which is worth buying specifically. A cast-iron pot, which is the real investment and lasts a lifetime.
It costs about fifty pence in flour and produces a loaf that sells for four or five pounds, which is the strongest financial argument in this collection. A starter costs nothing and lives indefinitely.
Flour, water and salt, with no packaging and no waste. About as good as food gets on this axis.
Around 160 calories a slice. It is flour, water and salt. Long fermentation degrades a proportion of the phytic acid in wholemeal, which makes minerals more available, and reduces some of the fructans that cause bloating in some people — both are real, modest effects and neither makes bread a health food.
Worth it, and worth being honest about: this is the one recipe here that will probably take you three or four attempts. What you get for that is bread better than almost anything you can buy, for about fifty pence, and a skill that does not go away. Stop the bulk earlier than you think, keep the worktop bare when you shape, and take the crust darker than feels right.
Everywhere. Bread raised on wild fermentation is the original form and belongs to no one.
Boule simply means ball in French and describes the shape. Pain au levain is the French name for the bread; levain is the starter.
BOOL.
A round loaf. The French word for a baker, boulanger, comes from it — a baker was originally a maker of boules.
Every loaf of leavened bread made before the mid-nineteenth century was sourdough, because there was nothing else. What lives in a starter is a stable symbiosis: wild yeasts, which produce most of the carbon dioxide, and lactic acid bacteria, which produce the acid and the flavour and which outnumber the yeasts by a very large margin. The two coexist because the bacteria acidify the environment to a level the yeasts tolerate and most competing organisms do not, which is why a well-maintained starter is remarkably robust. Commercial baker's yeast, isolated and sold from the 1860s, made bread faster and blander and effectively ended domestic sourdough in most of the industrialised world for a century. The vocabulary in this recipe is largely French and largely twentieth-century: the autolyse in particular was named and popularised by Raymond Calvel, a French cereal scientist, in the 1970s, as a way of developing gluten without over-oxidising the dough by long mechanical mixing.
Sourdough went from a specialist enthusiasm to a mass domestic activity within about fifteen years, and then very abruptly further during the 2020 lockdowns, when flour and yeast shortages made starters a widespread household project. It is one of the few traditional techniques to have been revived at scale rather than merely written about.
Whenever. It is bread, and the schedule — mix one afternoon, bake the next morning — is the real constraint.
Everything here is traditional except the cast-iron pot, which is a modern domestic substitute for a steam-injected deck oven. Trapping the loaf's own moisture under a lid is a genuinely clever workaround and it is what made good home sourdough possible for most people.
It nearly disappeared and came back. The modern high-hydration, open-crumb, dark-crusted loaf is a specific twenty-first-century aesthetic and is not what most historical sourdough looked like — older loaves were denser, tighter and paler.
San Francisco sourdough is the famous one and is genuinely distinctive, associated with a particular bacterium. German and eastern European rye sourdoughs are a different tradition entirely — denser, much sourer, and often baked in tins.
It is a standard modern build. Where it is more useful than most is in telling you what to look for rather than how long to wait, and in the specific warning not to let the bulk double.
The autolyse is Calvel's and is documented. Nothing else here has an author.