Interesting Emendations: Bill Buford's "Good Bread"

Bill Buford’s "Good Bread" (April 13, 2020) is one of the most absorbing, entertaining, and beautifully written New Yorker pieces of the last ten years. It’s about his apprenticeship to a Lyon baker identified simply as “Bob.” There’s a version of it in Buford’s recent memoir Dirt (2020). It's interesting to compare them.

In “Good Bread,” Buford writes,

On Sundays, the baker, Bob, worked without sleep. Late-night carousers started appearing at three in the morning to ask for a hot baguette, swaying on tiptoe at a high ventilation window by the oven room, a hand outstretched with a euro coin. By nine, a line extended down the street, and the shop, when you finally got inside, was loud from people and from music being played at high volume. Everyone shouted to be heard—the cacophonous hustle, oven doors banging, people waving and trying to get noticed, too-hot-to-touch baguettes arriving in baskets, money changing hands. Everyone left with an armful and with the same look, suspended between appetite and the prospect of an appetite satisfied. It was a lesson in the appeal of good bread—handmade, aromatically yeasty, with a just-out-of-the-oven texture of crunchy air. This was their breakfast. It completed the week. This was Sunday in Lyon. 

In Dirt, this passage is longer and consists of two paragraphs:

On Sundays, the boulangerie belonged to Lyon, and Bob worked without sleep to feed it. Late-night carousers appeared at two in the morning to ask for a hot baguette, swaying on tiptoe at a high window by le fournil, the oven room, an arm outstretched, holding out a euro coin. By nine, there were so many people going in and out of the door that it never closed, the line extended down the street, and the shop, when you finally got inside, was loud from people, and from music (usually salsa) being played at high volume. (Bob fell in love with salsa, and then with Cuba, and then with a Cuban, his wife, Jacqueline.) Everyone shouted to be heard – the cacophonous hustle, oven doors banging, people waving and trying to get noticed, too-hot-to-touch baguettes arriving in baskets, money changing hands, all cash.

The crowd fascinated me, all strangers, everyone leaving with an armful and with the same look – suspended between appetite and the prospect of an appetite satisfied. I learned something, I got it, the appeal of a good bread – as I was able to find it here, just across the street from our apartment: handmade, aromatically yeasty, with a just-out-of-the-oven texture of crunchy air. No one lingered. This was their breakfast. It completed the week. This was Sunday.

The differences between these two passages fascinate me. Note the change from “three in the morning” to “two in the morning.” They both can’t be correct. Which one is accurate? I vote for the New Yorker version, because I know it’s undergone the magazine’s vaunted fact-checking process. Note also the extra detail in the New Yorker version about the window: it's a ventilation window. Note the additional “le fournil” in the Dirt passage. Note the change from “hand outstretched with a euro coin” to “arm outstretched, holding out a euro coin.” And then there’s the additional “there were so many people going in and out of the door that it never closed,” the parenthetical “Bob fell in love with salsa, and then with Cuba, and then with a Cuban, his wife, Jacqueline,” the “all in cash,” the “The crowd fascinated me, all strangers,” the “I learned something, I got it,” and the “as I was able to find it here, just across the street from our apartment” – all in Dirt. 

One of my favorite passages in “Good Bread” is the description of Bob and Buford making deliveries:

Bob drove fast, he talked fast, he parked badly. The first stop was L’Harmonie des Vins, on the Presqu’île, a wine bar with food (“But good food,” Bob said). Two owners were in the back, busy preparing for the lunch service but delighted by the sight of their bread guy, even though he came by every day at exactly this time. I was introduced, Bob’s new student, quick-quick, bag drop, kisses, out. Next: La Quintessence, a new restaurant (“Really good food,” Bob said, pumping his fist), husband and wife, one prep cook, frantic, but spontaneous smiles, the introduction, the bag drop, kisses, out. We crossed the Rhône, rolled up onto a sidewalk, and rushed out, Bob with one sack of bread, me with another, trying to keep up: Les Oliviers (“Exceptional food”—a double pump—“Michelin-listed but not pretentious”), young chef, tough-guy shoulders, an affectionate face, bag drop, high-fives, out.

Here’s the Dirt version:

He drove fast, he talked fast, he parked badly. The car, by force of habit, reminded him that he was late and put him in an instant accelerating delivery mode. L’Harmonie des Vins was the first stop , on the Presqu’ile, a wine bar with food (“But good food,” Bob said). Two owners were in the back, busy, preparing the lunch service, but delighted by the sight of their bread guy, as if a friend had popped by unexpectedly, even though he came by every day at exactly this time. I was introduced (“a journalist who is writing about me”), quick-quick, bag drop, kisses, out.

Next: La Quintessence, near the Rhône (narrow street, no place to park, so he hadn’t, cars backing up behind him, none of them honking), a new restaurant (“Really good food,” Bob said, pumping his fist), husband and wife, one prep cook, frantic, but spontaneous smiles, the introduction (“writing about me”), the bag drop, kisses, out. 

We crossed the Rhône, rolled up on to a sidewalk, and rushed out, Bob with one sack of bread, me with another, holding it between two arms like a hug, trying to keep up: L’Olivier (“Exceptional food – a double pump – “Michelin listed but not pretentious”), young chef, tough-guy shoulders, an affectionate face, even if too busy to smile, bag drop, high-fives, out.

Again, the Dirt version is longer, this time divided in three paragraphs. It contains eight additions: “The car, by force of habit, reminded him that he was late and put him in an instant accelerating delivery mode”; “as if a friend had popped by unexpectedly”; “(‘a journalist who is writing about me’)”; “near the Rhône (narrow street, no place to park, so he hadn’t, cars backing up behind him, none of them honking)”; “(‘writing about me’)”; “holding it between two arms like a hug”; and “even if too busy to smile.” 

One sentence in the “Good Bread” passage – “The first stop was L’Harmonie des Vins, on the Presqu’île, a wine bar with food (“But good food,” Bob said)” – is restructured in Dirt: “L’Harmonie des Vins was the first stop, on the Presqu’ile, a wine bar with food (“But good food,” Bob said).”

“Les Oliviers,” in “Good Bread,” is “L’Olivier” in Dirt. “Michelin-listed,” in “Good Bread” is “Michelin listed” in Dirt.

I find all these variations fascinating. Why? Because it shows that nothing in writing is absolute. There’s no one way to say anything. The writer is faced with dozens of choices every word of the way. Contrasting these two versions affords a glimpse of the writing process, or, perhaps more accurately, of the editorial process. My guess is that the Dirt version actually came first (even though it was published after “Good Bread” appeared in The New Yorker). The New Yorker’s editors took the Dirt version and subtly trimmed it. I confess I slightly prefer the more compact New Yorker piece. But I relish Dirt’s extra details, too. For example, that “holding it between two arms like a hug” is very fine, creating a vivid picture of the way Buford carried the sack of bread into L’Olivier. Or is it Les Oliviers?