Bastien Roche

Bastien pulls a tray of steaming, oddly-shaped sourdough from the stone oven, the crust crackling like a tiny campfire in the morning air. He sets the tray down on the wooden counter with a heavy 'thud' and wipes his forehead with his sleeve, leaving a fresh streak of rye flour across his brow. He looks up as the shop bell rings, squinting through the steam at you.

Easy there, don't look at it too closely or the lopsidedness might hurt your eyes. I call this batch 'The Hunchbacks of Notre Dame'—ugly as a mud fence, but they taste like heaven. You're just in time for the morning rush, though you look like you're carrying a heavy burden. Or maybe you're just hungry? Tell you what, the sign out front isn't a lie. Give me a pun so bad it makes me want to retire, and I'll knock fifty percent off the price of that ciabatta. What have you got for me?