bakery - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The bakery was a converted cow barn, rustic on the outside and perfection on the inside. The breads were all local grain and the variation was amazing. There were plaits and cobs, buns and cakes, soda breads and flat breads... so much. We would ride our bikes there on a Saturday, early in the day as the sun was rising, and spend the rest of it at the river with a bounty of baked goods and the fruits of the season.
The bakery was a galley of a shop. So much of the space had been taken up by the ovens and the mouth-watering displays that the customers were left to squeeze in and out. From the cracking chess board tile River could only imagine the store to be older than himself, though the sign above the display window was freshly painted in black and white. The cakes beckoned him in and the aroma of fresh baked cookies and bread took his by the hand and lead him inside. He stood there, his empty pockets so heavy in his empty jeans. When the assistant caught his eye, an expectant eyebrow raised he hurries out to the winter cold. With every step over the frosty stones he vowed to learn how to bake. If it was the last thing he did he'd do it; if those idiots could do it so could he.
The bakery huddled between the bank and the furniture merchant, both of them towering over the one storey shop. It wasn't the kind of place that did forty kinds of everything, the baker just did a few things to perfection and stuck to them. He made the most perfect wholegrain loaves and white bloomers and baked cookies so good they made regular customers from the grimmest curmudgeon. So on the day the store should have opened but didn't, about half the town became concerned for the baker.
In the bakery the air is more delicious than any flavour. Somehow the aroma captures everything good in there: the filter coffee, the various cakes, the danish pastries. The blend is perfection, but as a mixture of flavours they would be terrible- “coffee-cake-pastry”, I don't think so somehow. It's the kind of place I can sit in for hours, the air so perfumed without chemicals. I wish I could eat it, that my palate was as sophisticated as my sense of smell.
The high-street bakery was quintessentially English. The sign above the window was peeling somewhat; gold lettering was generously curled on a midnight blue background. The floor inside was a black and white checkerboard of tiles that showed the wear of three decades worth of boots, trainers and high heels. The counter-tops had a dated look and the server uniforms likely hadn't changed in my lifetime. White bloomers and iced belgian buns dominated the display, but my favourite were the eccles cakes; sugared puff pastry with sweet currants packed inside.
The bakery was in one of those little stores in the run down part of town. It looked like a shack with a hand painted sign. But once you stepped inside you were greeted by the most enthusiastic baker with a smile as warm as his loaves. Each one was lovingly hand made in the Romanian style; heavy, dense, hearty and nutritious. It smelled so good in there I wanted to bottle the scent and take it home, but at least I got to take the bread with me; wrapped in parchment paper and cradled in my arm. My friends scoffed at the $10 price tag, but once they tasted it they were reaching for a pen to take down directions to the store.
The bakery looked like a cow shed from the outside all wooden with a corrugated roof. When it rained on that tin we pretty much resorted to a crude mixture of sign language, pointing and mouthing words to make our purchases, but it was worth it! The floor was no longer the dirt of the barn it had been, but was now grey flag stone, albeit with some straw spread around for rustic effect. The benches were weathered raw timber and the bread was hearty grains and seeds, wholewheats and rye breads. But if you had a sweet tooth they sold the best cinnamon buns money could buy.
At first I was a bit peeved that it wasn't a Starbucks. I'm so used to their menu and I can sit there using my laptop, plugged in, all connected and away you go. But once I stepped inside it was so airy and bright, the front of the shop was all glass with potted plants. The feel of the place was modern yet had some rustic charm at the same time. The cafe tables were chic and almost everything was white or mid-grey. The coffee was rich and full-bodied, the pastries and baked goods were a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. Behind the server I could see fancy cakes being iced, workers moving in harmony.
I peaked through the see the glass door, pressing my face to the glass and cupping my hand around my eyes.
Waiters dressed in white elegantly moved around the place, plates filled delights in their hands. From the marble tiled floor the red velvet draped and the beautiful glowing chandeliers, everything about the place screamed class.
The counter top were well polished, with not more than a bowl of mints on top. The display racks though were what caught my eye. A single glance would have left anyone's mouth waters. From the chocolate drizzled cakes to the sugar lace pastries, the blueberry muffins and steaming puffs, everything was a feast to the eyes.
I breaths a mesmerized sigh, unintentionally fogging up the glass and breaking my routine of day dreaming.
Laughing at my childishness i pressed my back to the door releasing i could never afford to eat at such a place.