The Last Great Bastion of Breadmaking Badassery

Unless you've been here I guarantee you've never seen anything like it.

Villa's Bread is part hidden hometown gem, part testament to generation after generation of back breaking work, and part time machine. 

Walking through the bakery door is like stepping over a cement threshold into a portal linked to a simpler era or peeking behind the curtain to see the wizard, but the wizard isn't wearing an emerald green velvet jacket; in fact, today he's sporting a red, black and white skull patterned do-rag and sneakers so covered in bread flour that it's impossible to refer to them as any color except off-white. 

And our wizard? He's talking a mile a minute...about bread.

Many of you reading this probably know that the "wizard" to which I am referring is actually my dear old friend Joe Villa, who posted on Facebook two weeks ago that his family's bread business was celebrating its 100th year anniversary on January 1 of 2021. And, naturally astounded and curious, I wanted to know how a business, situated on a residential street in Glens Falls, behind the family home, during this difficult age of instant gratification and gross UPS-delivered consumption, could possibly have made a go of it for that long. Well, the wizard invited this naïve Dorothy over and I learned all about their exceptional business today.

Here's how:

PIETRO

100 years ago, Pietro Villa, who is Joe's great-grandfather, came to America from a town in Italy called Popoli. Popoli is a town in the province of Pescara which is within the Abruzzo region. Per Joe's father Pete Villa (also called 'Pancho'), the area is a hilly sort of wine country and Pietro's family, the Italians from which they are descended, owned the only large sized wood fired oven in town back in the 1800s. Townspeople would stop by Pietro's house when they had a meal which required a more modern touch than a plain old open fire, so even back then, the Villas were baking for the people. 

When Pietro came to this country, he settled in New York city and ran a small grocery store. It would have been a very decent living except that in the early 1900s in NYC it was commonplace for wiseguys and goodfellas to demand a rather lofty percentage of what you earned in exchange for protection and Pietro began looking for a job where his paycheck was mostly his own. Eventually, he relocated to Clifton Park and worked as a horse and carriage long hauler but he missed being in a business which catered in food and people. Hearing about a bakery for sale, Pietro traveled to Glens Falls and bought the bread bakery from the Spinelli family for what is rumored to be a tidy sum of $3,000.00; pulling $1500.00 in cash from each of his front shirt pockets. Prior to the Spinelli family running the bakery the property had belonged, originally, to a German immigrant family who ran a bakery and a one room schoolhouse next door. The one room schoolhouse, which was added onto and made into living space, has, for 100 years, served as the Villa family home. The oven, in the standalone bakery building on the rear of the property, dates back "at least to the Civil War". 

THE OVEN

To be clear, this is not retail space. It's deemed "wholesale" and this production is hard work and sweat and physicality within a building, that from the outside, looks like granddad's garage or hobby shop. There is so much to see upon entering this inner sanctum, and because I have arrived at the wood burning hour, it actually takes a minute (or three) for my eyes to adjust to the haze in the air. It's a smoggy combination of ash, soot, and humidity. This silly girl expected to smell bread but, in fact, despite being Covid-cautious and wearing a cloth mask, my nose instantly fills with the same sharpness that my husband, a retired firefighter, used to come home reeking of when he had just gotten done with a multiple alarm all-night fire. So, to me, Villa's smells like danger and lactic acid; feverish heat and Abruzzian pride. 

As Joe expertly shovels white orange chunks of torridity, muscles flexing and eyebrows raised to his hairline because of the passion with which he speaks, he explains their standard for at least 50 percent humidity in the bakery in order for the dough to "perc" or rise properly. Then, he talks about how the weather affects output due to fluctuations in this humidity. He talks about humidifiers and the chemistry of breadmaking which is all metrically important, but meanwhile, I am cognizant of a few other things as I glance around, writing notes as fast as I can. First, I am dressed all wrong for this place. I am wearing black pants, black boots and a black winter jacket. Everything in this bakery is absolutely bathed in white flour, even "Smitty", who is man number three on the Villa bread totem pole and takes direction like an affable private in the Army. Also, despite the fact that it is 25 degrees out this morning, I am the only person with long sleeves on. Joe, Pancho and Smitty are dressed for a fine August day and it's easy to see why, in spite of the fact that it's January. In front of us is a 24 inch scorching hot open mouth leading to a king-mattress sized platform of sand, chunky firebrick, and what remains of today's inferno, now reduced to briquette sized bits of blazing coal. 

The second thing I notice is that there is nothing in this oven. The bread is sleeping in wooden racks, under flour sacks, waiting for their precise moment of placement. First, the coals have to be dragged out of the kiln, into a fireproof bucket. Second, the bricks have to be watered down, coaxed to the perfect temperature using a specially drenched mop that, when put into the roasting hole, does not burst into flame. Finally, when the heat is just right, Smitty and Pancho race the doughy loaves to Joe in an assembly line style, and each yeasty bundle is shuttled in via the longest wooden handled paddle anyone's ever seen, approximately three at a time, until all one hundred are nestled side by side like newborns in a nursery. We peek in. It's quiet for the first time since my arrival. Then the oven door is shut, a timer is set and we wait.

You might find this a queer analogy, but this bakery, for me, has all the feel of an old school firehouse. There is a dedicated crew working on less than an average night's sleep. Everyone has a job, clearly according to rank. Smitty agrees with my firehouse analogy as he sweeps glowing coals off the floor that missed the fireproof bucket and follows with the constant arranging, collection and disposal of the ashen refuse. He is methodical and careful not to drop anything that could possibly set something else unintentionally ablaze. Where Joe is grandiosity and stories; big movements and imposing tools and poles; Smitty is mostly quiet and maybe even a little wary of the flames. Joe is the Lieutenant. Pancho is the Chief. Smitty is the firefighter. Together, they use their bodies and old fashioned hard work to form the culinary staff of life.

Like a firehouse, there is a brotherly banter, salty talk, and an undeniable feeling that keeping the hours witty and quippy while you are at work is a necessity or else you might remember that you are in a small, dimly lit building that can't be good for your lungs because the air quality is not just poor...it's absent; and if you don't have good music on the radio and Adirondack Red Wing memorabilia on the wall and stories about people who come knocking at the door on Christmas Eve looking for 15 loaves of bread as though it just falls out of thin air and not as a result of the unbelievable amount of effort of people and not machinery, it probably wouldn't feel quite as jolly. 

PROVOLONE, BUTTER and GARLIC

The bread bakes for 25 minutes. We reminisce about school days. Pancho talks about having had polio as a child (which explains his rather John Wayne-like swaggery totter) and how he used to get summoned to the office regularly at St. Mary's School, starting at age 10. Promptly excused from classes in order to head home and help bake bread, he laughs good naturedly at the memory, satisfied with his lineage and the life that was, in many ways, chosen for him. He always knew this would be his business, and despite having a diabetic condition which doesn't allow for regular consumption of carbohydrates, he is quick to tell me, eyes smiling through the floury lenses of his glasses, that his favorite way to eat Villa bread is with salami, hot peppers, and provolone. 

Fascinatingly, all three employees have diabetes. This seems like an unnecessarily cruel joke that mother nature has played on these bakers of bread. Their shared affliction pings my heart. Having three breadmen who can't eat bread at will feels like taking the homeless and requiring them to count money for a living. When they allow themselves an indulgence (which might be more often than a doctor would advise), Smitty likes his bread hot and plain or with butter. Joe enjoys his in a variety of ways including, but not limited to, garlic bread grilled cheese, hollowed out boules filled with soup or chili, and cut into slices broiled with sauce and cheese like mini pizzas. He also mentions grilled PB&J. I haven't had breakfast. I am hungry and intrigued. 

Today, they are baking something called a double loaf. Raw, and pulled from beneath a chalky sack, it's easily the size of my grandmother's decorative round sofa pillows. It will be even bigger when it emerges from the oven. Something about this makes me happy. The double is specially made for a man who has season tickets to the Bills and who stops in to get his lucky loaf before he departs for each Buffalo home game. Another 100 loaves have already gone in and out before this early morning batch, 200 in all on a normal day.

When Covid-19 hit and bread was scarce in 2020, Villa's was almost back to the good old days when 700 to 800 loaves a day was their average. Local stores couldn't keep it on the shelves. They asked for two deliveries a day. It was a heyday of sorts for a short while, but once national store-brand production caught up with local demand, the Villas quietly returned to their regular output, no fanfare. No parade for helping us get through a very tough spot, but the Villas are used to discreetly helping those in need behind the scenes. Ramping down was understandably difficult. Anticipating demand was tricky. The pig farmer who gets their leftover bread had a we-baked-too-much glut for a few weeks until communication improved and grocery buying leveled out again. 

CHANGE

Several things have changed the bread-baking landscape in our area. First, there are fewer "house stops"; mostly just older Italians who gleefully and habitually buy their daily loaf of Villa bread and those who are confined to home. Pancho fondly recalls the days when bread was delivered door to door, and although a loaf has never been cost prohibitive, the Villa family has, since their inception, routinely supported a few families' bread needs due to disability, fiscal hardship or both. Pancho's father (Joe's grandfather, also named Joseph), having had a wooden leg himself, knew that although he struggled, he was luckier than a lot of people when times were tough. And, the irony of a second generation bakerman with a leg of wood shoveling splintery skids followed by loaves of bread in and out of a hole filled with fire all day is not lost on me. It had to require unbelievable bravery, strength and conviction. 

An entire band of merry men used to be employed in order to run a bakery putting out 800 loaves of bread a day; Pancho and Joe can remember upwards of ten employees at times, but Joe, Pancho and Smitty are a triangle of three today. They've lost all the (now defunct) Grand Unions, the small Mom and Pop markets that used to be in town; the larger, yet still family owned markets like Sokol's and Lewis's are gone. No more Cooper Street Price Chopper, no more mini-Choppers. 

That list there, it gives someone like me palpitations, but today no one seemed overly concerned by the economic ups and downs. "I think it's from breathing all the flour, but we're all nuts in here," Joe chuckles. I pressed them about who is set to inherit the business since Joe appears to be the last in line. There is no clear answer. He has nephews who are in college and a brother who is a school teacher. Pancho says when he's 80 he might think about slowing down. I didn't ask when that was but I presume it's sooner rather than later. 

A gentleman I recognize from church stops in at 8:00 am. He knows the bread is coming out of the oven and pays Pancho for about 10 loaves which he will ship to his sister in Texas. Another man, speaking mostly Italian peppered with broken English, enters with what appears to be his son. The son is silent and wide eyed. The Italian man asks Pancho for "bruciato", meaning bread that is burned on the bottom. Hands gesture. I feel like I'm in mid-century Italy. I'm so touched by this I feel my throat constrict but I swallow down hard on my emotion because I am wearing mascara and I have a white floury face now and I don't want to appear kabuki when I leave. 

The Italian customer is masked, so it's hard to tell, but based upon his stance and the twinkle in his eyes and the lyrical language he is spilling forth, he is absorbing the surroundings like a sponge. Pancho lets him choose two fresh from the oven beauties and bags them for him. Exiting with a lilt in his voice that suggests this is the highlight of his day, he yells (that he'll be back) "Tomorrow!" The third person that comes inside is Joe's lifelong friend. He is going to be a new father, literally any day, but he is cool as a cucumber. Babies, brotherhood, bakeries. He has worked here before when they needed help. He grins and shrugs and says he will work here again.

LA BELLA LUNA

I ask the men what their best business practices are. Pancho says, with all seriousness, the ability to get out of bed. They begin at midnight to do this job, first making the wood fire from all the pieces that Joe cut the afternoon before and starting to bake prior to the sun coming up for the first round of pre-7:00 am deliveries. Joe can't seem to pinpoint a best practice, I think because he does so much and it's all vitally important, but we think back to his athleticism in younger days and he is grateful for having had experiences that built his strength as a young man. He skated and ran and skied. He also raced motocross. It's easy to see he misses all of that. Admitting it would be nice to have more than a couple weeks' vacation after working the same job for 35 years, Joe tells me what I already know...that Villa's only shuts down in July and December, harkening back to a time when Pancho was in the Navy and when businesses in the city closed after Christmas for some much needed rest. 

With all the middle of the night activity, and the Italian heritage, and the fact that I am sitting in a bread bakery, we can't help but reference the movie Moonstruck. "La bella luna!" Joe hollers. I declare that Joe is Ronny Cammareri, angst included. He smirks and shows me he still has both hands, despite the fact that they cramp regularly due to the work. 

Plus, he listens to Ozzy, not opera. 

One last thing that reminds me so much of the firehouse, is that these men have used their bodies in physical jobs all these years and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't overwhelmed by the amount of work it takes to do this every day. They admit to being pretty beat up. The knees, the shoulders, the back, the hands...the lungs...the eyes...human skin and bones can only take so much. They covet and appreciate their down time. It gives their muscles and respiratory systems a well earned break, although breaks are few and far between. Really, they are the last great bastion of breadmaking badassery. There is a enormous price which these three men pay for keeping all of us, all of our holiday tables, all of our Sunday dinners and football games and relatives in Texas in the best Italian bread you've ever tasted. 

And for that we should be humbled, forever in their debt, and honored to grace our homes and bellies with their product. 

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