I just realized something that many of us probably take for granted: the bolillo is not just a bread, it’s almost an institution in Mexico. Without it, the national cuisine would literally fall apart. Torta sandwiches, molletes, stews served with it... nothing is the same without that bread you find in any bakery.

But what’s interesting is that this bolillo bread, which feels so ours, has a quite mestizo history. Wheat arrived with the Spaniards, of course, but the technique for that soft crumb and crispy crust that characterizes it comes from France. There’s a legend about Camille Pirotte, a French baker who arrived in Guadalajara in the 19th century with Maximiliano’s troops. When he couldn’t find the yeast he used in France, he had to improvise with natural ferments and long resting times. The result was what they called "birote"—a distortion of the Pirotte surname—and eventually it became our bolillo.

What fascinates me is the origin of the name. It doesn’t come from the kitchen but from the seamstress’s tool. Bolillos were those wooden sticks women used to make lace, and the shape of the bread with its rounded belly in the center and knots at the ends looked exactly like those tools. Moreover, in the baking community, there’s a whole jargon around the bolillo. "Hilar bolillo" means working with rhythm and flow, when the bread comes out of the oven and sells so quickly it doesn’t even touch the cold shelf. It’s almost poetic if you think about it.

The bolillo is popular because it’s versatile. It’s neither sweet nor salty, it’s neutral. Its firm crust withstands the moisture of a tamale or the sauce of chilaquiles without falling apart. And well, there’s also that myth of comfort. Grandmothers say that eating bolillo bread helps settle the stomach when stress takes our breath away, and it turns out there’s chemistry behind that. The carbohydrates in the bolillo help stabilize gastric juices and blood sugar. It’s basically a hug in the shape of bread.