The first person through the door arrives at half past four, long before the sun and longer before service. The starter — a jar of flour and water we have kept alive for years — has been fed the night before and is restless by morning, doming over the lip of its tub.
Bread sets the rhythm of the whole kitchen. While it proves, the stocks go on; while it bakes, the mise en place comes together. By the time the rest of the brigade arrives, the room already smells of crust, and that smell is the first thing every cook here learned to trust.
“The bread tells you what kind of day the kitchen is going to have.”
We bake in waves through the day rather than all at once, so what reaches your table has usually cooled for under an hour. A loaf that sat since dawn is a different, sadder thing.
It is not on the menu and it is never charged for. Bread is how we say hello — proof, before the first course, that someone has been here since before light, paying attention.
