Mr. Henderson, retired, is punctual and loyal to a fault.
“Morning, ladies,” he says. “Smells dangerous in here.”
“Good morning, dear,” I say, smiling. “The usual?”
“Would not dream of changing it,” he says. The line behind him is not even there yet, but he glances over his shoulder as if checking his place in it.
Gwen appears at the pass-through like a bakery goblin, sets down his order: coffee, a morning bun, a cardamom twist, and disappears again.
Mr. Henderson takes the bag like it is precious.
“You’re a miracle worker,” he tells me for the thousandth time.
“Tell that to my back,” I say.
He laughs and shuffles out. The bell jingles again.
Two minutes later, the second customer comes in. Then another.
By 6:30, the line starts.
Behind me, I hear Gwen call out times.
“Brioche out in two!”
“Boss, we are low on baguettes. Did you want me to pull the backup?”
“Do it,” I call back without looking.
This is how we talk. Short. Precise. Like we are running a ship.
I do not have to micromanage Gwen. We trust each other. That trust did not happen instantly. It was built the hard way. Over burns and ruined batches, and shifts where we did not speak because we were too tired to be nice. Over late nights scrubbing pans and early mornings, where one of us showed up with a coffee and no questions asked.
It was built when my oven died the first winter, and Gwen stayed until midnight helping me bake everything off in borrowed ovens from a restaurant friend.
It was built when Gwen’s dad got sick. She disappeared for three days, and I covered her shifts without complaining because that is what you do for someone you love.
I smile to myself and ring up the next customer.
Around 9:30, the first problem hits, because there is always a problem.
A delivery guy bangs on the back door, late and irritated. Gwen opens it, and I hear her say, “Buddy, if you throw that milk crate like that again, I will personally stuff you in the proofing cabinet.”
His laugh comes through the door, as if he thinks she is joking. She is not.
At 11:30, the rush starts to fade. The regulars taper off. The tourists wander in and ask which pastry is the most Chicagoan.
I tell them the cardamom twist because it is my favorite, and Chicago is a vibe, not a flavor.
At 12:15, Gwen slides me a half croissant on a napkin like she is feeding a stray cat.
“You should eat,” she says.
“Yes, mom,” I reply, but I do eat.
The butter crackles on my tongue. It is perfect.
Sometimes, in the middle of all this, I forget to be grateful. I get so wrapped up in the scarcity of money, time, staff, and energy that I do not let myself feel the small wins.
