Hidden behind the aroma of slow-fermented sourdough is a crew obsessed with one thing: giving carbs a comeback tour. We mill regional grains in-house, fold butter like it owes us money, and pull loaves from a stone deck oven that still thinks it lives in Paris, 1932.

Our shelves rotate daily—kouign-amann today, miso-banana bread tomorrow—because routine is the enemy of flavor. Swing by before noon or risk watching someone else snag the last almond croissant; regret pairs poorly with coffee.