The distribution of breads: destination San Cristóbal

The history of bread in San Cristóbal de las Casas begins with the bags loaded with wheat that traveled, along with flocks and other edible products, with the Castilians who settled in the Valley of Hueyzacatlán. The settlement brought consequences. Some were evident, such as the hegemony of wheat in San Cristóbal, indisputable until the 19th century and in relative competition with the Tuxtlecos, who entered the scene in the 17th century. By then, the cards were on the table: San Cristóbal already had a baking vocation, an indelible, everlasting vocation.   Although little more than memories remain of the mills of that time —and a route that can be cycled through the mountains— in this Chiapan destination, identity remains linked to bread: to the traditional and the modern, to the coleto and the European. Thus, bread makes an appearance at breakfast, is offered as a snack at noon, or as the closing of the evening meal. Bread is found in homes, in cafes —which are not few— and in restaurants. My first encounter with the region's bakery was fortuitous —shortly before I found out that I was going to write this article—. It was in Sibactel and Aldama, two of the 60 communities that produce coffee in Chiapas. It was after touring the coffee plantations, around noon. It was in the drying patio of the community benefit of Sibactel, with a cup of pozol. It was at the home of the coffee grower Pedro Vázquez, where his daughters served coffee from the pot, horchata, and a basket full of sweet bread as a gesture of hospitality. In that first round, I was left with the firm consistency of the breads —very different from the airy, soft, fluffy European ones— and a note of smoke, always present in the kitchens and wood-fired ovens that, in this part of the world, are still common.  Upon my return to downtown San Cristóbal, and thanks to the recommendations of the chefs from Tierra y Cielo, I arrived with more intention at the door of the Fátima bakery, a two-colored storefront —purple with white, recognizable from afar— on Benito Juárez street, which has been in operation for over 30 years.The shelves at Fátima are a library of the wide repertoire of coleto bread that, in addition to what has already been said, is diverse in form and substance. Here you will see wheat mountains of flat, rolled, or braided breads —my favorites— with crusts covered in sugar or sesame, with dark or yellow crumbs, prepared with piloncillo, cinnamon, and often with lard. You will also recognize them by their first names: cazuelejas —perhaps the most famous—, rosquillas, marquesotes, egg bread, or lard bread. You will love them a little more because they are a bargain. At the risk of sounding like a broken record —or the donkey back to the wheat, in a more fitting analogy— I want to emphasize the texture of these breads: that which is firm, porous, sometimes sandy, sometimes crunchy. If you ask me, that texture is an excuse, a provocation, an ideal state that cries out for the drowning of a hot drink —coffee, chocolate, atole, you name it—.  Scholars of the subject, like Edgar Zulca Báez, attribute this characteristic to more practical issues such as preservation, that “its compact structure ensures its integrity in transport and is resistant to decomposition,” writes the academic.Kievf and Marta —who in their bread explorations prepare, among other things, tascalate breads for breakfast— recommended that I complement the expedition with bakeries that follow in the footsteps of Danish and French heritage. Obediently, I headed to the ovens —from places like La Casa del Pan, Oh la lá and the Horno Mágico— that complement the baking scene with pastries, croissants, puff pastry pies, chocolatines, and butter, a story that, for now, is a different matter altogether.