A secret in Florence

“So, where are we?”, asks my friend. We had been in Florence for 3 days and tonight was the first time we were gloriously tipsy.
We studied our surrounds. The thing about Florence the history crammed in every street corner made it hard to tell where we were sometimes. The richness of the past spoilt us and we were already taking for granted the views of the Duomo as we walked by it every day.
“I think that’s the Santa Croce Basilica, “ I say.” And, I hear there’s a secret bakery in the area.”
My friend perks up at the word secret. “What’s a secret bakery?” she asks, intrigued.
The secret bakeries of Florence were perhaps one of the worst kept secrets in the city. While I had heard about them from someone at University, the bakeries have been well-documented over the internet. Hidden in the alcoves of residential streets dotted all over Florence, these bakeries were wholesalers who made pastries for restaurants and cafes.
2am was the magic hour where they started work. They had started a long tradition of selling pastries slyly under the counter. So to speak.
We walked towards the church which looked hauntingly beautiful at night, when I stop suddenly and say “Can you smell that?”
They dutifully lifted our nose and inhaled. There was the old smell of left-over alcohol, summer air and then this: A faint waft of baking pastries.
“This way,” I say decisively and strode forward towards an alley. We walk under the shadow of a looming statute of Dante who winks at us as we pass.
Finally, the scent of baked goods was unmistakable. There is a hushed reverence the first time you approach the bakery. Partly because you have actually found it simply by the scent of it, partly because we had been warned that sleeping Italians did not like to be woken up by raucous pastry pilgrims.
Behind the small lit store was a beehive of activity with the hum of ovens and the piping of cream into fresh pastry. As I approached the front of the line, the chef looked at me expectantly
“Chocolate? “ I ask. He bustles off and returns with small warm paper bag which I exchange for a euro. My friend and I trek back to the basilica and made ourselves home on the steps.
Maybe it’s the summer air in Florence or maybe it was just a damned good piece of croissant. Biting into the warm crunchy croissant, the flake is perfect and the chocolate cream gushes out somewhere in the middle. I look over to my friend and she grinned back, mouths flecks with bits of cream and pastry crumbs.