Wachauer Laberl

The first time I saw Wachauer Laberl done properly was at a bakery in Dürnstein during one of those childhood trips with Gretel and my grandmother Eva. We'd driven through the Wachau in late autumn, the vineyards going gold along the Danube, and stopped at a Heuriger for lunch. The rolls arrived in a linen-lined basket, split open along their tops like the earth cracks in a dry summer. I remember pulling one apart and the crust shattering under my fingers while the inside stayed soft and sour and warm. Gretel picked up her half, examined the crumb the way she examined everything edible, and said: "This is what bread should be. Two flours, water, salt, and time."

She was right, as usual. Wachauer Laberl are a rye-wheat roll, meaning they carry the tang and depth of Roggenmehl balanced against the structure of wheat. The crust is their signature, and it comes not from scoring or slashing but from the linen itself. You shape the rolls, set them seam-side down on a rough cloth dusted with flour, and let them proof. The linen pulls moisture from the surface unevenly. When the rolls hit a hot oven, that dry, flour-dusted skin tears open in jagged cracks. No two rolls look alike. That's the point.

These are the rolls you'll find at every Heuriger in the Wachau, torn open and spread with Liptauer or eaten alongside cold cuts and pickled vegetables. They belong to that landscape the way Grüner Veltliner does. Making them at home is simpler than you'd think, but they ask you to respect the timing. The overnight preferment gives the rye its character. Skip it and you'll have a decent roll. Give it the night and you'll have bread worth driving through a river valley for.