My Polish grandfather spoke at least four languages when he came to this country from Cuba, but English was not among them. He had no idea how to get to the bakery where he’d continue the trade for which he’d apprenticed in Germany 20 years earlier, before either he or the decade were in their teens.

All he had to get him there was "PILAPA" printed on a slip of paper and trolley tracks. So he set off on foot, followed the tracks into Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and, for the next 50 years, baked the best bread I’ve ever tasted.