
Chef Elsa
Allerheiligenstriezel
A rich, buttery braided bread that Austrian godfathers bring their godchildren on All Saints' Day. The golden six-strand braid is as much ritual as recipe, and the kitchen smells like love while it bakes.
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Hand-shaped rye-wheat rolls from the Wachau valley, proofed on rough linen so the crust cracks open in the oven like a dry riverbed, crusty and honest and perfect with cold butter and a glass of Grüner Veltliner.
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.
Wachauer Laberl are closely associated with Dürnstein and the broader Wachau valley along the Danube in Lower Austria, where rye and wheat have been grown side by side for centuries. The rolls gained formal recognition in the early 1900s as Heuriger culture flourished in the wine-growing regions, and bakers needed a bread sturdy enough to hold up to the cold buffet spreads served alongside new wine. The technique of proofing on rough linen (Leinentuch) is a regional practice shared with some French baking traditions, but the rye-wheat blend and the caraway seasoning are distinctly Austrian. In 2003, Wachauer Laberl received protected regional status as part of Austria's effort to preserve traditional food craftsmanship.
Quantity
150g
plus extra for dusting
Quantity
350g
Quantity
10g
Quantity
7g
Quantity
1 teaspoon
lightly crushed
Quantity
300ml
Quantity
100g
Quantity
1 teaspoon
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| rye flour (Roggenmehl)plus extra for dusting | 150g |
| bread flour or strong wheat flour (Weizenmehl Type 700) | 350g |
| fine sea salt | 10g |
| dried yeast (or 20g fresh yeast) | 7g |
| caraway seeds (Kümmel)lightly crushed | 1 teaspoon |
| lukewarm water | 300ml |
| rye sourdough starter | 100g |
| honey | 1 teaspoon |
The evening before you bake, mix 100g of the rye flour with 100ml of lukewarm water and the sourdough starter in a bowl. Stir until smooth, cover with a plate, and leave on the kitchen counter overnight. By morning it should look bubbly and smell pleasantly sour, like yogurt left out in the sun. This preferment is what gives Wachauer Laberl their depth. Without it, rye flour tastes flat and heavy. With twelve hours of slow fermentation, it becomes tangy and alive.
In a large bowl, combine the remaining 50g rye flour, all the wheat flour, salt, yeast, crushed caraway seeds, and honey. Add the overnight preferment and the remaining 200ml of lukewarm water. Mix with your hands or a wooden spoon until a shaggy dough forms. It will feel sticky and rough. That's the rye. Rye flour absorbs water differently than wheat and never develops the same smooth, elastic feel. Don't fight it.
Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead for eight to ten minutes. The dough will never become as silky as a pure wheat bread. You're looking for it to hold together in a cohesive ball that springs back when you press it with your finger. If it sticks to your hands, wet them slightly instead of adding more flour. Extra flour at this stage dries out the crumb and you'll taste the difference tomorrow.
Shape the dough into a rough ball, place it back in the bowl, and cover with a damp tea towel. Let it rise in a warm spot for one and a half to two hours, until it has grown by about half its size. Rye doughs don't double the way wheat doughs do. If you wait for it to double, you've overproofed and the rolls will spread flat in the oven instead of cracking upward.
Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Divide it into ten equal pieces, roughly 75g each. A kitchen scale helps here. To shape each roll, cup your hand over a piece of dough and roll it in a tight circle on the work surface, tucking the edges underneath to create tension on the top. The surface should feel taut, like a drum skin. That tension is what makes the crust crack open cleanly in the oven instead of just sagging. If the top isn't tight, the roll won't split.
Dust a rough linen cloth (a clean tea towel with a coarse weave works well) generously with rye flour. Place the shaped rolls seam-side down on the cloth, leaving a few centimeters between each one. Pull up folds of the cloth between the rolls to keep them from touching as they expand. Cover loosely with another cloth. Let them proof for forty-five minutes to one hour. The rolls are ready when they've puffed noticeably and a gentle poke with your fingertip leaves an impression that fills back slowly.
While the rolls proof, place a baking stone or an inverted heavy baking sheet on the middle rack of your oven. Set a small metal tray on the bottom rack. Preheat to 230°C (450°F) for at least thirty minutes. You want the stone screaming hot. The initial blast of heat is what drives the oven spring and shatters the crust open along those linen-made fault lines.
Gently flip the proofed rolls off the linen onto the hot baking stone, seam-side up now, so the cracked, flour-dusted surface faces the ceiling of the oven. Work quickly. Pour a cup of hot water into the metal tray on the bottom rack and close the oven door immediately. The burst of moisture in the first few minutes keeps the crust flexible long enough for the rolls to expand before it sets hard. Bake for twenty to twenty-five minutes, until the rolls are deeply golden brown with pale cracks running across their tops. They should sound hollow when you tap their bottoms.
Transfer the rolls to a wire rack immediately. Don't leave them on the hot stone or the bottoms will go soggy from trapped moisture. Let them cool for at least fifteen minutes before you tear one open. I know that's hard. The kitchen smells like a Wachau bakery and every instinct says eat one now. But the crumb needs those fifteen minutes to finish setting. After that, tear one open, spread it with good butter, and listen to the crust crackle. Mahlzeit!
1 serving (about 82g)
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