the babka hug
I’ve always loved walking through the streets of La Croix-Rousse in Lyon. It’s a hilly neighborhood in the north of the city, historically a haven for unconventional artists and craftsmen. I’ve always had a soft spot for them. Whenever I feel the urge to feed my curiosity and creativity, I take a spontaneous stroll through the area, letting myself get lost among unfamiliar alleys and hidden corners. The French have a perfect word for it: flâner—to wander aimlessly but delightfully.
On one of these aimless adventures, I stumbled upon a shop that left me speechless: a babka shop. Cinnamon, chocolate of course, and dozens of other flavors. It was 4:30 in the afternoon. I do some quick mental math. I need to stop by the supermarket—I think I’ve run out of high-protein flour (at least 12g per 100g, naturally), ideal for long fermentation. I might be out of eggs too. By my calculations, it won’t be ready before 11 p.m. I sigh with mild exasperation, but at that point, the decision was already made. And no, not like Don Abbondio in The Betrothed—this babka must be made.
On the way home, I frantically search for recipes, since I didn’t have any saved—this was completely unplanned. I find one by a pharmacist-turned-baking-enthusiast (and who could blame him?). I rush into the process. No butter? I use margarine instead. I fear it will be a disaster, but between the thrill of trying and the sheer laziness of going back to the store, I press on. Margarine it is.
In my previous babka attempts, I was always disappointed with the chocolate filling. If you don’t add it chilled and firm, the whole thing falls apart. And since babka is a brioche, it’s already quite soft and tricky to handle—especially when you have to fill it with chocolate, roll it up, slice it, and braid it. Those failed attempts, with chocolate messily everywhere, were necessary steps to get here.
Now, I’m finally happy with the result. A golden, crunchy crust, a soft and fragrant interior, with bold yet delicate layers of chocolate swirled throughout. This is how mornings should start—with a warm, sweet embrace.
