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Twisted DesireAn eater's field guide to pretzels.

By Sara Dickerman
Posted Wednesday, Oct. 3, 2007, at 12:43 PM ET

(Continued from page 1)

Like pasta, a pretzel's shape has a surprising effect on its character. A thin pretzel is almost entirely crust, but with little interior to contrast with that crust, it lacks interest. Pretzels that are too thick, like Snyder's (Hanover, Pa.) sourdough boxed hard pretzels, do not possess enough nut-brown crust to balance the dryness of the crunchy interior. Straight pretzels and nuggets are boring, lacking the nooks and crannies of the knotted ones. It is the traditional medium-thick looped pretzel that holds your mouth's interest, with its curves and straightaways, offering the best balance of crust and crunchy interior.

Even this classic pretzel form has qualitative differences. Traditionally, the woven pattern was done by hand-twisting. You can still find some hand-twisted pretzels today, from companies like Martin's (Akron, Pa., and famously sold in NYC Greenmarkets), Uncle Henry's (Bowmansville, Pa.), Happy Herbert's Penn Dutch (the company's in Jersey, but the pretzels are made in Lancaster County, Pa.), and Hammond (Lancaster, Pa.). And it's this method that generates the best pretzels—the slight variation in thickness throughout the pretzel offers toasty, brown nubbins in one place and thicker, crispier curves in others. In hand-twisted pretzels, form becomes flavor. Depending on your geography, you might never see these pretzels in your supermarket, but each brand is fully equipped to send you, as they did me, pounds of pretzels wrapped in cellophane or sealed in a decorative tin.

Most pretzels today are made in industrial plants, however, and their loops are created by an extruder and a wire die stamp that cuts the dough into pretzel shape. (Examine your pretzel to see if there are any seams in the central crisscross. If not, you've got an extruded pretzel.) Without a doubt, the richest pretzel experience comes from the handcrafted, hearth-fired pretzels. But I do have some fondness for slightly less intensively crafted pretzels and feel a couple of outliers are worth mentioning. I have a not entirely justifiable fondness for Keystone (Lititz, Pa.) Oatzels, a sweeter, lower-salt, maltier pretzel flecked with oat bran. Unique (Reading, Pa.) Splits pretzels are not hand-twisted, either, but they approximate some handwork with a scored, nubby surface, and they have a distinctive, addictive taste that's heavy with baking soda.

Pretzel manufacturers always seem to be looking for ways to expand the market—pressing pretzel dough into chips and crackers or spray-coating them with cinnamon sugar, honey mustard, or cheese powders (Hershey's has even built its Take Five bar around a pretzel base). Such coatings are anathema to real pretzels, but there is one trend that seems a natural outgrowth of the pretzel-baking process itself: Some bakeries like Unique have been pushing extra-dark varieties, or somewhat-burned pretzels. I generally like a softer finish—more cherry wood than wengé—but I can imagine the appeal of this style to char-hounds. For those, like me, not truly committed to the dark side, the large but still respectable snack-food firm Utz (Hanover, Pa.) makes an Extra Dark pretzel that is not quite as carbonified as Unique's.

In the end, factors as simple as baking time and hand-twisting determine one's personal pretzel ideal—do you look for something blond and mild, or something darker, with a more shattering texture? This simplicity is why I love them. To compare snack food to the wine industry, pretzels are like table wines: They both make up for their lack of flash with the constant pleasure they provide.

Thanks to Jim Leff, co-founder of Chowhound, who's written eloquently on his own pretzel affinities.

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Sara Dickerman has written about food for the New York Times Magazine, Food and Wine, Bon Appetit, and Seattle magazine.
Illustration by Mark Alan Stamaty. Photograph of pretzel on Slate's home by Peter Ardito/Index Stock Imagery.
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