The sign says we open at seven, but the café’s real day starts at six, in the dark, with the click of the ovens and the first batch of beans rattling into the hopper.
What happens before the door unlocks
Croissants come out. Chairs come down. The first espresso of the day gets dialed in and, by tradition, drunk standing up at the counter with nobody watching.
A café is made in the hour nobody sees.
By five to seven the windows are glowing and the street starts to slow down as it walks past. That is the whole reward.