Under the Light of Silver Moon
Summer 2021 // New York City / Silver Moon Bakery
“For we, though many, are one bread and one body; for we all partake of that one bread.” *
Cloaked in skinless predawn light, I knock on the back door of Silver Moon. The sound echoes in the silence of birds yet waking. Hayouba swings it wide open, hitting me with a gust of heat. His face is beatific. We kiss both cheeks and then he hugs me so tightly I leave the ground. Tu es trop faim ma chérie. Into my hands he pushes a parchment bag, butter already soaking through the bottom. His oiled brow shines blue in the light. Sat on a tabletop facing the Hudson, I open it. Apricot brioche, croissants, pain au chocolat—I am spoilt.
It was a mad summer. I was working feverish hours at a prestigious restaurant. Slept little, ate even less. The relentless pace of dinner service and aforementioned factors unhooked something wild within me. After staying up too late in bars after work, dawn would creep onto the splayed streets.
A night owl might call it quits at say, 2 or 3 o’clock in the morning. Bakers begin their day at this lonely hour. Putting proofed loaves and treats into the oven, so that folks can start their day with these blessed goods. Insomniacs, like me, might end their day right as these toiling men and women finish their first batches. Timing is key, and I had the right key to open the door.
A summer past, I took a French class taught by a whip-thin Moroccan woman who liked hip-hop and cinema. Naturally, I was enchanted. I’ll never forget her recounting, in slow and measured French, how after a night out, she would knock on the back door of bakeries. If lucky enough, they would hand out the morning’s first croissants and coffee. It took some time, but I found my very own bakery. Or shall I say, baker.
I first saw Hayouba braiding challah in Silver Moon’s window. It was a more acceptable hour of the morning. He caught my eye and I responded with a smile. He smiled back. I gave a little curtsy, as such fancies often posses me. One lavender dawn, I saw him again. If ever a moment to fulfill my dream, it was now. I knocked on the window. He raised his head from the warm darkness within. I gave him another smile. It was written.
He motioned his arm for me to come around to the back door. His English, like the heat emanating from the bakery, was warm if halting. I discovered his French was better, and musical in a way it is not among the Paris set. Soon enough, a bag of croissants was thrust into my hands. Fresh as could be; their aroma was intoxicating. I was always cold then, so I treasured the ripping heat of the coffee also proffered. It became a kind of ritual between us. The walk from 103rd St station in expectancy, my moonish face appearing in the window, a la bise hello. Burnt coffee and warm bread. Enough to continue living on.
Sometimes I found him still in morning prayer, kneeling in the dimness of Silver Moon. I never knew much about Hayouba. Too caught up was I in my own private dramas. He was kind, that I knew. Kindness is a gift. I snatched it up like a hungry Dickensian street urchin. What else is a lost girl at the tender age of twenty supposed to do? It was a while until I found a good answer.
I would later find out that Silver Moon Bakery is a bit of a neighborhood institution. Lines have spilled out of the doors and onto Broadway since 2000. Judith Norell reignited her love of baking in the second chapter of her life. A musician turned professional baker, Judith opened Silver Moon by partnering with her landlord Georgia Stamoulis. We live in a time where so many beloved shops in New York City close due to predatory rent increases. Partnering with one’s landlord is one way to guarantee your place does not fall to that all too familiar fate. Though I recognize this prospect is not even remotely possible for many, I am glad Silver Moon always has a place to stay.
Eating Judith’s frangipane tart with pears sunken into it, one can taste her classical French training under Gérard Mulot. The aromatic paste and well-baked crust act as a textural foil to the lush pears. There are french meringues as big as my hand, which offer an airy chew. And the challah. Oh my. Each loaf glows with an interior as soft as quilt filling. The challah is in such high demand, that when I spoke admiringly about it to Hayoube, he told me I must wait till a day when most of the loaves had not been spoken for.
Bread transcends religion, borders, and language. In the Jewish faith, the round challah, eaten on Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah, is a symbol of continuity. Many of us have memories of gathering round a table where bread is at its heart. The reasons which drive us to the table are manifold, but the bread we share as one. We are all linked in a continuous and contiguous history. That moment of sharing, or of giving someone food made by your own hands— community is built on this. Perhaps Hayoube saw something in me that needed bread, which is another way to say, I needed communion**. Don’t we all ?
P.S. Please be advised, this is not a signal to flock to the back door of Silver Moon like it’s the hottest new thing on socials. Rather, this is a call to forge your own relationships with the people that make your food. Be curious, be kind. You just might be rewarded.
* 1 Corinthians 10:17, NKJV
**communion /kəˈmyunyən/ (formal) the state of sharing or exchanging thoughts and feelings; the feeling of being part of something
Iona!! This is beautiful. What a treat to read
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