on milk bread

the lack thereof, and my finding it again

The culture shock was in the crumb.

Milk bread, to be specific. To be even more specific, it was the lack of said bread that I found jarring when I moved to the States. Back home, milk bread abound, under the label of 吐司 – simply "toast" – signifying just how standard it was as fare.

Scarcity has a way of imparting value, and now my appreciation of milk bread is sonnet-worthy (dearest milk bread, how do I love thee?) Milk bread is marked by paradox – a contradiction of flavor and texture. The starker the contrast, the more impressive the loaf.

Richness and sweetness of flavor, achieved by a dash of the richest milk you can find (powdered milk, for some Taiwanese recipes), a smidge of butter, and a kiss of sugar, is balanced by a light and supple texture. It should taste fatty without feeling fatty – there is no visible grease – and the crumb should be Q, a texture that is king to Taiwanese cuisine (The New York Times).

Q, in short, is a texture that is chewy, bouncy, and fun. Ideally, milk bread's crumb is reminiscent of Q. It should be tender, yet elastic; it should give, but not without a little resistance.

As to the exact origin of milk bread, little is known, but it is presumed to have originated in Japan. Legend attributes the bread to British baker Robert Clarke, who opened Yokohama Bakery in Japan in 1862 (Bon Appetit). Even less is known about when milk bread made its way to Taiwan, but my mother theorized that it was in the last couple of decades. Until the end of the Chinese Civil War, there were no dairy farms, she said. Fresh milk was expensive. I think about how my grandmother still drinks powdered milk today.

Growing up, I would always have a slice of milk bread for breakfast. Toasted, it would be lightly golden and crisped on the outside, sweet and steaming on the inside. But I always preferred it untoasted. Fresh, the crumb would be so delicate I felt obligated to treat it with just as much care. I ate slowly.

Three years ago, my mother and I visited Osaka together. For various reasons, the trip was challenging – I was riddled with a stomach bug and a bad attitude – but I was determined to eat. My mother and I shared many good meals but we still reminisce about specifically one: a meal of just shokupan, or milk bread. We had walked past Nogami Shokupan multiple times in the Namba area, always pointing out the fact that they offered only two things – a short shokupan and a long shokupan – for a relatively exorbitant price. The day before we were to leave, we caved and bought the smaller loaf. The bread came with its own instruction sheet, imploring us to eat it as is. Sitting in our hotel, we each started with one slice. It was silent as we ate. Neither of us knew bread could taste that way.

It has now been six years, four American cities, and zero loaves reminiscent of those so plentiful at home. Perhaps it is resignation that has finally prompted me to recreate the bread I know so well. I know it is also out of a love for the smiles on my friends' faces when I share an experience (as good food always is) so near and dear to me. I suspect it is just a little driven by a certain feeling of cultural estrangement, but that is a longer conversation for another time.

I had my gracious and obliging mother send me award-winning baker Wu Pao-chun's (吳寶春) book, which was eventually found nestled underneath a sweater hand-knit by my late grandmother and a dinky little sushi mold that promised perfect hand rolls, sans the hand rolling. I set to work. One batch, two rises, and nine delirious hours later, I tumbled into bed, forty little loaves scattered across kitchen countertops and the dining table, cooling.

I wake up early and patter into the kitchen. Slicing into a roll, I examine the cross-section (nice aeration, mildly overproofed) and take a bite. It gives, but resists – just a little.

For a second, I am in the backseat of the old Suzuki, half asleep, Ronan Keating’s 10 Years of Hits blasting. My mother is at the wheel and morning traffic is bad. Everyone in the car is irritable, but "When You Say Nothing At All" comes on – it is my favorite.

Back in Brooklyn, I am a little sad, if just for a second. I send my mother a couple photos (“Yum!” she says), slip a couple loaves into my bag, and totter off to work.