I propose a new weekend edict – all Saturday mornings shall henceforth begin with hot tea and French pastries.
My boyfriend and I decided to give this idea a whirl today and it took us to a local, bakery called The Bread Peddler. I like to think that the owner is a kind little man who rides around town on a bright red bicycle. He would be like the ice cream man; only instead of fudgesicles and shortcake bars he would sell almond croissants and mini baguettes.
Inside this modest corner store is a butter-scented wonderland full of baked treats and other French delicacies. Close your eye and you can practically hear the crackle of fresh bread. Olympia continues to surprise me with its tucked away little food oases.
You can get a good view of this cafés popularity while you stand in the never-diminishing line. The cue winds through intimate tables before ending in front of the display case, or altar to my breakfast soul as I now consider it. It’s a beautiful sight to behold, filled with joy upon joy of sugar filled delights.
But I wasn’t here for the baked goodies as tempting as they were. The shop’s website heralded a February special and I’d been waiting to try it all week; bourbon-citrus challah bread French toast. But alas, our pixie perfect baker informed me that it was not one of today’s specials. Which meant, dear readers, that I was forced to eat a delectable vanilla bean morning bun instead. Oh the injustice!
The boyfriend opted for a small feast that included the day’s frittata (lox, salmon, capers, ham and potatoes), a slice of blueberry tart and hot cider. Luckily, sharing is one of his many talents.
Watching the goings-on of a busy bakery is nearly as satisfying as eating at one. We sat tucked away near the window and were lucky enough to have front row seats for the show that is a French bakery on a Saturday morning. First, there’s the opening act featuring bakery goddesses and their magic pastry bags, then a round of applause erupts as apron clad gentlemen swoop in with trays of fresh baguette sandwiches.
An intermission allows you to jump back in line for second helpings of roasted red pepper quiche. Act II features table after table of happy regulars sipping away at their cafe au laits. They wave and shout hello’s when other familiar faces show up. All the while girls with flour in their hair rush behind the counter, somehow keeping track of the dozen or so orders they handle at once. A hot tea here a croissant there. They twirl and dip, never missing a beat or a baguette.
Though my favorite part happens as the curtain drops. The breakfasters have had there fill. They pause contentedly, sighing in a blissful haze of fresh-baked joy before continuing on with their day. I like to think they are a little happier thanks to the bit of France the bakery has put on their plate.