Because Latin American culture is inherently welcoming—families will often open their doors to entertain, host, or feed others without giving it a second thought—they offered to take me to Marcos’ hometown so I could see where it all began: in his parents’ bakery. So the next day, the baking duo picked me up in an old red truck, as local news reports blared through the speakers.
We sped out of the crowded city to the countryside, where farms that yield everything from agave to artichokes peppered the landscape. We arrived in the village, with its beautiful Iglesia Zimatlán de Alvarez towering over the center of town and a flutter of small green, red, and, white flags in the main square, and we headed straight for the main market in search of a few ingredients: piloncillo, chile, and different cuts of meat that Marcos promised to grill for lunch.
The market was a treasure unto itself. Various shapes of piloncillo were gathered in bunches, there was fresh masa being made from blue and yellow corn, and pan dulce was piled high. Ingredients for mole, hanging from stalls and overflowing bins, were aromatic and enticing. But it was when we drove down a long, winding road, and reached a metal sign that said Levain Pan—the original, that is—that I knew we were in the right place.
Their home doubles as the bakery, which perhaps explains how their work and identity have become so intertwined. When you live with bread—and the labor of love required to make it—that instinct to follow the scent is rooted in something instinctual. There, in the large kitchen, fresh ingredients were being chopped and ground for a meal; the living room was full of artesanías (handmade crafts commonly found in Mexico). Hints of sweet pan dulce permeated the air.
Marcos’s parents have happily worked together in their home every day for 30 years: up early to bake loaves for the day, before transitioning into the mixing and shaping of breads for the following. They take frequent breaks to sip fresh Oaxacan coffee in the garden until nightfall, when it is time to sell—and they roll their truck out onto the streets as young families and workers getting off the job flock, like moths to the light, toward their glistening display.
Put reaching that moment at the end of the day—when the truck graces the town and bread flies off the shelves—takes work. When we first arrived, Marcos’s mother warmly welcomed me into the home before assigning me the task of laminating dough for their reganadas (similar to a puffed pastry, but rolled extremely thin and dusted with flour at each turn). This no-nonsense woman had a well-ironed system and wasn’t afraid to tell me how it should be done: use lots of flour, pat quickly and fold, fold, fold, making sure to brush excess flour away efficiently. Meanwhile his father, a quiet but steadfast worker, commanded the incredible rotating stone deck oven with ease, meeting me with a quick smile as we worked. Though every step of their process required care and precision, once the evening’s deliveries began—and everyone in the community got a taste of the final result, eyes lighting up in joy—there was a pride to be taken, that any baker could appreciate.
It’s special to see a family-run business enter a new world of baking, and even more so when traditions remain in the process. It’s not an easy balance to strike, but it’s one that represents the momentum of Latin America baking today. And it’s stories like these that fuel the pastries and bread we all love to stumble upon when walking through a new city on a crisp morning.
