The short menu,
on paper.

Twenty-four-hour bulk ferment, open crumb, crackling crust. One bake a day — usually gone by noon.

Tall, oil-drenched, pressed with whole kalamatas and rosemary sprigs. Cut by the slab.

Sunflower, pumpkin, flax. Long rye ferment — cuts clean for open sandwiches.

Butter-rich, fine crumb. For French toast, or for a side of foie on special nights.

Twisted, butter-layered, finished with cracked cardamom and pearl sugar. The one that disappears first.

The test everything else is measured against. Thirty-six-hour dough.

Praline frangipane, whole hazelnuts, shaved dark chocolate, flaky base.

Fig when there's fig. Quince in winter. Stone fruit when it's stone fruit season. One bake every other day.

Charred halloumi, citrus, leaves, toasted seeds. The kick-off.

Roasted pumpkin, brown butter, sage, a generous hand of pecorino.

Brioche roll, spiced mayo, little gem, lemon. A nod to the French side of the family.

Beer-battered, fresh sourdough bun, lemon mayo. A reminder we're a bakery first.

The floor's choice. One plate, one tray, one afternoon.

The classics, pulled slow. The barista will tell you what's in the hopper today.

Weekly single-origin on the filter. Brewed to order, served black.

Ceremonial-grade matcha; house cold brew steeped 18 hours, over clear ice.

Seasonal juices pressed at the bar. House-made sodas — currently: lime-cardamom, hibiscus, ginger.