croissant factory

It was Saturday night, 3 a.m. Manu and I had eaten dinner at our friends' place and then gone out dancing to some bad progressive house, laughing all the while and making up moves with his friends. Soon it was was time to go, so we said our ciaos and took off in the silver Opel. We were winding down the country road to head back into the city when Manu turned to me and said, "Let's get breakfast."

Music to my ears.

And then he took me to a late-night croissant factory. A secret weapon known to only those awake at 3:30 a.m. 

The smell was enough to knock you out, and the silence jarring - the sheer number of croissants acted like snow that absorbs all sound. Nutella filled, apricot jam filled, cream filled, plain and salty, cherry and cream filled...it was hard to choose at first which one I wanted.

If I look slightly diabolical it's only because I'm trying to savor every last crumb and lick every ounce of fresh apricot jam from the belly of my croissant. We wanted to chat with the only baker, but he was busy with a pastry bag, injecting Nutella into a tray of croissants. We watched him, ate our warm croissants and paid him 80 cents for each one.

Then who knows, maybe it was the sugar, or the pure magic of the croissant factory, but when we got home we sat outside on our front stoop for an hour, giggling and reminiscing about the year we fell in love.