Semmelknödel (Austrian Bread Dumplings)

In my grandmother Eva's kitchen in Kent, nothing was ever wasted. Least of all bread. If the Semmeln went stale, and they always did because Gretel and Eva bought more than two people could eat, they became Knödel by the next evening. I remember watching Eva cut the rolls into cubes with a bread knife while Gretel warmed the milk and argued about how much parsley was the right amount. It was always more parsley than you'd think.

Semmelknödel are the most fundamental side dish in Austrian cooking. They're the thing you learn before almost anything else, because once you can make a good Knödel you understand something important about how this cuisine works. It's not about expensive ingredients or complicated technique. It's about treating simple things with respect. Stale bread, an egg, some milk, an onion cooked soft in butter, a handful of parsley. That's it. The skill is in your hands, literally, because you shape these by feel and you learn the right texture by making them a few times until your palms know when the mass is ready.

What makes a great Semmelknödel is the interior. Cut one open and it should be soft, slightly springy, porous enough that when you set it next to a Schweinsbraten or a bowl of goulash, it drinks up the sauce like a sponge. Dense, heavy dumplings that sit on the plate like paperweights are the sign of too much flour or too little courage. You have to trust the bread to hold itself together. It will. Austrians have been trusting day-old Semmeln to become dinner for centuries, and the bread hasn't let them down yet.