Five o’clock in the morning is a deeply private hour. The kitchen smells like butter and patience. Nobody talks above a whisper, even though there is no one else in the building.
The case, left to right
Kouign-amann, because the sugar catches the light first. Then the morning bun, because it pairs with the sound of an espresso steaming. Croissants on the second row, because they look better at eye level. Pain au chocolat last, because that is what children point at.
By eight the kouign-amann is gone. By ten the morning buns are gone. By noon, somebody who walked past in the rain at half past eleven comes in for the last croissant and looks at us as if we have personally saved them.
“The case is empty by two. We start again at five.”
