Flour, heat, morning.
Doors at eight · loaves till they last · lunch at twelve
A bakery that becomes a restaurant at noon
Ticket Nº 001 — miche, still warm
Est. in a former print shop
Doors at eight · loaves till they last · lunch at twelve
Four ingredients, sixteen hours, one oven. Everything else in the room is just somewhere to sit while it's warm.
The street is asleep and the laminating begins. Butter is folded twenty-seven times; nobody is counting except everybody.
The miche comes out singing — the crust crackles as it cools, and the whole block smells like a decision to get up early.
The queue knows its order before we do. Butter and honey at every table; nobody has ever ordered toast to go.
Ninety loaves, four kinds, gone by noon on Saturdays. We keep none back.
Two kilos, dark crust, sixteen-hour crumb. Sold whole or by the half; ages better than most of us.
Dense, dark, serious. The loaf for people who write letters and mean them.
Croissant dough, orange zest, burnt-sugar bottom. Limit of four; we've had words about this.
The holiday loaf. Green olives from one grove, thyme from the roof boxes.
Same oven, same hands. Yesterday's loaves become today's soup croutons, the counter becomes the pass, and the morning bun tin roasts the afternoon's tomatoes. Nothing new arrives; everything gets a second shift.
Tables of six or more can book the proofing room — the warmest seat in the house, mind the shelf.