6am. A buttery caramel scent had almost picked me up from the corner of the street and carried me to the bakery. Now in the shop, there is a focused hush. Rachel, the shop floor manager, is placing shiny slices of dark chocolate croquant in diagonal rows on the glass display shelf. Next, she gently positions the blueberry tarts, – circular golden pastries with bulging fruit and a light covering of icing sugar – in a symmetrical pattern beside them.
I’m taken over by an aroma of cinnamon and vanilla – crème pat is being piped onto flans in the kitchen. Rachel continues with her invisible rhythm – sliding trays of glistening pain aux raisins onto slanting wooden shelves. On the floor, almond croissants lie in a crate: a snowy landscape. The shop is still except for some music coming from an invisible a radio. Suddenly there is a clanking sound. An array of Danish pastries swings on a tower of shimmering shelves through a trap door from the kitchen, up and out onto the shop floor.
Bethan, the general manager, shows me down a narrow staircase past pillow-case size bags of flour: pink, green turquoise – some marked ‘spelt’, some ‘baguette’ . There are ten different kinds Csaba, the Head Baker, tells me later. In the kitchen, Lee is cutting a Portuguese tart into slices with a wide steel blade and reverential precision. He has been working since 3am. “I like working at night”, he tells me. “It was strange to get used to at first, but now I love it”. In the early hours, cakes and pastries have been glazed and made ready for the shop floor. The dough has been resting overnight in fridges. I watch as he arranges shiny golden triangles of card on a tray like rays of sunshine and gingerly glides segments of baked cheesecake onto them.
Cooking utensils hang from the ceiling in orderly rows, a functional mobile: rubber tipped spatulas, wooden spoons of various sizes and metal ladles. Huge balloon whisks and beaters, piping nozzles and rubber funnels are suspended from hooks on shelves and in the wall. Chrome gleams everywhere.
Macarons appear from the fridge. Today it’s raspberry, mango and white chocolate, lemon with tiny sugar daffodils and chocolate with chocolate topping and filling. As one batch is taken upstairs another is slipped from the fridge, and the jewel-like discs arranged in a colour-coordinated pattern.
Upstairs sandwiches and maple-syrup glazed croque-monsieur are being unloaded from a van from the savoury kitchen and exchanged for loaves of bread for the shop in Queen’s Park.
7 am. A bustle replaces the quiet choreography of the first hour. Someone hovers on the threshold of the shop. Within 10 minutes an orderly queue has started to form on the pavement. The coffee machine grrrs and there’s a tap, tap as the grounds are shaken down and compressed. The first customers enter – builders with the plaster of their trade on their trousers and shoes, followed by joggers and yoga devotees.
Would you like anything else? asks Eleanor, as she glides up and down the length of the machine. The milk fizzes and spits into steam.
Latte one sugar, thank you.
Sandwiches wrapped in paper are cut in half, exposing coloured layers, like a geological section. Coffee cups passed over the counter. Pastries eased from parchment paper. More people arrive
Morning, how are you?