Fitness Bread makes itself known as such by featuring—on each and every loaf—a photograph of a Fitness Woman running down the beach, her smug abs grinning away. Why the spring in her step? How is Fitness Woman jogging directly on a body of water when, traditionally, humans have had to run on solid surfaces? Why such jaunty elbows? Is it the Fitness Bread? What is her story? Mestermacher, the company that makes Fitness Bread, has presented a food that comes with a free bonus mystery.
Never one to resist a variant toast opportunity or the lure of an aloof athlete, I decide to acquire a loaf. The search takes me to three wholesome local grocery stores and two wholesome national chains. My determination to know the taste of fitness only increases, and I finally order it online.
Fitness Bread is packaged in a brick shape with a brick-like heft. It's pre-sliced, and vacuum-sealed. As with actual fitness, dealing with this bread is a bit of a pain. I know it’s good for me. Still, when I am enjoying it, I can't shake a suspicion that I have tricked myself.
Mestermacher's tagline is “the lifestyle bakery.” One of the Mestermacher founders was loyal to the Lebensreform movement, a 19th century “lifestyle” movement that encouraged eating "natural" foods and was suspicious of the negative consequences of industrialization. How fun to be fit and suspicious at the same time. In other words, Fitness Bread has been doing the healthyish thing for longer than anyone has been alive. And it has since developed a rabid, fit following. The prepositional phrases “obsessed with” and “in love with,” have been used in a public forum. There are recipes abounding for and by people who want to unlock the secrets of Fitness Bread, to master it for themselves. One recipe I saw is titled, “Worth Its Weight in Gold [Bricks].” That's a joke about how this bread is dense, valuable, and best used sparingly.
I have to work to figure out how to incorporate Fitness Bread into my life. I’m not sure what the Fitness Bread wants on it. I’ve never thought about what bread wanted before. Usually, the bread is subject to whatever I want. In this case, the bread is the alpha. Eventually, I learn that the bread does not want butter or hummus. It does not mind being a vehicle for nut butters. In my experience, it most wants to be a cheese melt.
The texture is dominant as well. The bread doesn’t dissolve into fluff upon interacting with my mouth. It’s like a whole-grain cereal, elongated. It’s neither soft nor crusty nor crunchy. It’s tough and dense. It’s a hard-bodied bread. Like, if it were an athlete (I'm getting creepy; just go with it), I’d say it’s a competitive swimmer. Or the Fitness Woman, suspiciously sweat free, a posture that doesn’t show any sign of exertion. It’s serious and streamlined.
Fitness Bread is absolutely filling. You can take my word for it: I am biking a zillion hours a day because the trains are confusing from my new apartment. After eating a slice of it, I forgot that I had gotten out half an avocado to eat! I never forget an avocado. Fitness Bread contains four grams of protein per slice. It’s rye, oat kernels, and wheat germ, with lots of iron and potassium. It’s also got an intimidatingly long shelf-life without preservatives.
Fitness Bread certainly tastes like it has a mission. It's a try-hard bread, larger than other loafs (by 75% I'd say). This tracks with the bread's tendency to over-compensate. For example, the package indicates it’s “also delicious when toasted.” I find this suspect—most breads don’t need to brag about withstanding heat. And yet, most bread isn’t peddled by a Fitness Woman, who is very clear about her goals, abilities, promises, and personal bests. Her mission might not be enjoyable, but it will certainly be efficient.