The Bakery | La Panadería
"A morning pastry habit turns into something sweeter when she keeps coming back for more than the conchas"
The Bakery
La Panadería
Every morning at 6 AM, she came in for conchas.
"Uno de chocolate, por favor," she'd say, and I'd have it ready before she finished speaking.
She'd been coming for three months. I'd been in love for two and a half.
"You know my order," she said one morning, surprised.
"I know all my regulars."
"But you have it ready before I ask."
"You're reliable." I handed her the bag. "Same time, same concha."
"Maybe I should switch it up." She smiled. "Keep you guessing."
Her name was Elena. I learned it from her credit card, then from the conversation she had on the phone one morning about a meeting.
Elena worked at the bank down the street. She wore heels that clicked on my tile floor and blouses that made my mouth dry.
"Paola," she said one day, reading my name tag. "Pretty name."
"Thank you."
"How long have you been here?"
"Six years. Since my mother retired."
"Your mother started this place?"
"My grandmother." I gestured at the photo behind me. "Three generations of pan dulce."
She started staying longer after that. Asking questions about the recipes, the history, the art of making bread that tastes like home.
"Can I watch sometime?" she asked. "I've always wanted to learn."
"We start at 4 AM."
"I'll be here."
I didn't believe her. But the next morning, there she was—4 AM, no makeup, wearing jeans I'd never seen, looking more beautiful than any dawn.
"Teach me," she said.
I taught her to mix masa, to shape conchas, to press the sweet crust with practiced hands. She was terrible at first—her conchas lopsided, her technique rough.
But she kept coming back.
"You're getting better," I said after her tenth lesson.
"I have a good teacher." Her flour-covered hand found mine. "And good motivation."
"The bread?"
"Something sweeter."
She kissed me over the rolling table, tasting of sugar and possibility.
"I've been wanting to do that since month one," she admitted.
"Why did you wait?"
"I was scared." She laughed. "A corporate lawyer scared of a baker. Ridiculous."
"Not ridiculous." I pulled her closer. "Feelings are terrifying."
"Are you terrified?"
"Petrified." I kissed her again. "But I'm not stopping."
We made love in the back room, on flour sacks that would need replacing, while the conchas rose in the proofer.
"This is insane," she breathed.
"Best kind of insane."
"What if someone comes in?"
"No one comes in at 5 AM except you." I traced patterns on her skin. "And you're already here."
"I'm never leaving."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She kept her promise. Morning lessons became breakfast together, then dinner, then every moment we could steal.
"Move in with me," I said after six months.
"To the apartment above the bakery?"
"It's charming."
"It smells like bread 24/7."
"Is that a complaint?"
"It's the most wonderful smell in the world." She kissed me. "Yes. Yes, I'll move in."
Now she wakes up beside me at 4 AM. She helps with the conchas before she puts on her heels and goes to the bank. She comes back at 6 for her coffee and her chocolate concha, still ordering like she's a customer.
"Uno de chocolate, por favor," she says every morning.
"Coming right up, mi amor."
The regulars smile. They've watched our story unfold, one pastry at a time.
"Best love story in the neighborhood," old Señora Martinez says.
She's not wrong.
Some love stories need grand gestures.
Ours just needed good bread and better timing.