Overview
It began in March 2020, in a flat in south-east London, with a stack of restaurant produce, no customers to feed and a dodgy sourdough loaf that Tom was ready to throw away. Sian promised it to a neighbor instead. That first loaf became a weekly ‘honesty bakery’ run out of a domestic kitchen, paper bags carried round the block by a heroic crew of friends and family, until a tiny Victorian shopfront appeared at exactly the right moment. They painted it pillarbox red, named it after the street they lived on, and started baking. Five years on, people still queue down Anerley Hill for what comes out of that impossibly small room.
This is the book of that place, with a hundred flavor-first recipes built on the conviction that great ingredients in patient hands beat clever shortcuts every time. There are rustic sourdoughs and stuffed focaccias; the buns, maritozzi and glazed cinnamon rolls people set their alarms for; pastries and pies that reward a slow morning; nostalgic sweet bakes like brown butter banana cake and old-school bread pudding; sarnies taken very seriously indeed (the Bhaji Butty, the Kimchi Faceplant, Only the Bravas); proudly imperfect pizzas topped with pot-roast pears and Gorgonzola or fennel sausage ragù; and a pantry of jams, hot sauces, pickles and mayos to tie it all together.
But it’s also a quiet manifesto. Woven between the recipes are essays on the things the Bakehouse is really about – patience, nostalgia, portability, imperfection – and on why so many of us now choose to wait in line for something honest and unhurried, made by people who give a sh*t. It’s warm, funny, occasionally chaotic and entirely unpretentious.
This is the book of that place, with a hundred flavor-first recipes built on the conviction that great ingredients in patient hands beat clever shortcuts every time. There are rustic sourdoughs and stuffed focaccias; the buns, maritozzi and glazed cinnamon rolls people set their alarms for; pastries and pies that reward a slow morning; nostalgic sweet bakes like brown butter banana cake and old-school bread pudding; sarnies taken very seriously indeed (the Bhaji Butty, the Kimchi Faceplant, Only the Bravas); proudly imperfect pizzas topped with pot-roast pears and Gorgonzola or fennel sausage ragù; and a pantry of jams, hot sauces, pickles and mayos to tie it all together.
But it’s also a quiet manifesto. Woven between the recipes are essays on the things the Bakehouse is really about – patience, nostalgia, portability, imperfection – and on why so many of us now choose to wait in line for something honest and unhurried, made by people who give a sh*t. It’s warm, funny, occasionally chaotic and entirely unpretentious.
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