Panera optimism
Thoughts on the Kingdom of Bread Bowls
Hello hello!
It has been three weeks since the last Disco Diaries. I’ll keep the explanation short and say that the disco angel needed to trade self-discipline for self-care.
This little newsletter is coming up on its one-year anniversary so I’ve been thinking of what it’s meant to me, what it’s meant to you, and how it can keep getting better. If you have any feedback, favorite issues, or disco dreams, I welcome your input. You can either leave a comment, or reply directly to this email. Thanks friends!
Lady bread and the baker’s dozen
Before the city of Springfield, Ohio got its first Panera, Bechtle Avenue was a bleak sight for the midwestern bruncher. Bechtle would become one of those neon necklaces of chain stores and restaurants that wrap around the necks of the American highways, but when I was young the selection was comparatively small. There was just a handful of essentials: Texas Road House, Dairy Queen, TGI Fridays, Arby’s, and the like.
It would be years before we upgraded to quality Italian dining (Olive Garden) and burrito bars (Chipotle). Instead, the population had to make do with the chains it had, and that meant slim pickings for breakfast and brunch. Most relied on Bob Evans, which bustled with crowds of church goers after service every Sunday. Although fat, fluffy pancakes, layered biscuit bowls, pot roast sandwiches, and thick slices of silky banana cream pie were just right for many occasions, the people of Springfield wanted something for the lighter days.
It seems to me that Panera hit its stride in the early 2000s. The company entered the collective conscious with a vaguely foreign sounding name and a logo that made you think a pretty lady was about to serve you the most beloved homemade loaf of sourdough ever to have been baked in her rustic dutch oven. The menu filled a niche that was untouched by the homey diner chains and half-price appetizers offered along the rest of the Bechtle strip. It promised fresh café sandwiches on bakery bread, and triggered the imagination with terms like “carmelized,” “sun dried,” and “turkey bravo.”
When construction began for a Panera at what was then the far end of the Bechtle sprawl, book clubs and study groups everywhere were buzzing with anticipation. Once it opened, it immediately became the new hot spot for post-Sunday service hangs, a casual date night destination, and a mom-approved space for grabbing frozen mochas with your friends.
Panera settled upon Springfield like an old Hollywood celebrity moving into a downtown loft. Its presence was constantly on the mind, and it lived its graceful an modest life even when you weren’t looking. Residents were always waiting for the next excuse to run into her.
The appeal was obvious. There was no other place in town where you could grab a bear claw pastry with a cup of tea and sit by a fireplace with the newspaper, and then meet your pals later for some afternoon gossip over half a salad, half a roast beef sandwich, and extra bread on the side. The full pastry case greeted early birds with a display of sugar and optimism. There were big chocolate chip cookies catching the light with their modern sea salt sprinkles, sturdy loaves of bread, and multiple treats made of the same shiny folds of somewhat flakey pastry.
To order your bakery treat, you would stand on the other side of the glass display while an employee in a pastel colored polo shirt and a Panera visor took your order. Many of these employees shared something in addition to the polo: a sightly sing-song vocal inflection delivered through a straight face that seemed to reach for the brand’s joie de vivre energy.
Behind the oft unenthused employee was an iconic wall of bagels. As a 13 year old bound to Clark County, Ohio, I had never seen anything like it.
I was surprised when, after I took a very official survey on my Instagram page, I found that there are some parents who were not aboard the Panera party train. It seemed to me that the café spirit was winning over moms and dads across the nation. Families everywhere were going out to Sunday lunches and weeknight dinners to indulge in a spread of salads in sugary dressings and cheesy soups in bread bowls.
The Panera baker’s dozen of bagels were and are a treat for many. We welcomed them often into our household, and kept them in rotation for special occasions. For a few years, I lived on a parade route and each Memorial Day my family would come to sit on my lawn and wait for the morning parade. My mom would bring a cardboard bucket of 13 Panera bagels with two tubs of cream cheese for breakfast. We would feast on their sweet chewiness and watch as each of the high school marching bands went by, sweating in their wool uniforms as the late May sun intensified. We have our scattered differences, but one thing I think we’ll always have in common is our love of Panera bagels.
Whenever it was time to suggest a place for a casual lunch meeting or a quick dinner, Panera was always on the tip of the tongue. It was the site of many meals, many afternoon pick me ups, and many shifts for my brother, who worked there for some time and now knows all the top-secret, behind-the-scene bagel information.
Next time you see a Panera (which will probably be very close to a Chipotle) stop in for an Asiago bagel and a green iced tea and try to see the chain restaurant from the perspective of a 13 year old midwest dreamer. You will be impressed, and with tea and bagel in hand, you will be satiated.
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Thanks for reading,
Katya
You really need to send a copy of this to the Springfield Panera. I think they would love this, and you might get free food from it!