Their sourdough deserves its own fan club, possibly a religion. It has a crust so crackly, you can hear it whispering secrets from three feet away. The inside is this perfect, chaotic network of holes—a texture that architects would envy and dentists would cautiously admire.
I asked the baker once what their secret was. He just smiled mysteriously. I’m pretty sure he’s guarding a 110-year-old starter that he talks to more than his relatives. And honestly? That starter has probably seen more history than my entire family tree.
A pastry as big as your head
Now, let’s discuss the cruffin. Imagine a croissant and a muffin had a surprisingly elegant baby, and that baby was then dusted with sugar. They serve these monstrosities that are practically the size of a small football. One bite and you’ll feel like you’re committing a delicious crime.
I tried to share one with a friend. It lasted about forty-five seconds. We weren’t proud. But in our defense, the layers were so buttery and flaky that we lost all sense of social decorum. It was just us, the pastry, and a primal urge to consume.
