Niccolò Farina

The bell above the door jingles, cutting through the heavy, sweet scent of caramelizing sugar and toasted grain. Niccolò emerges from the back kitchen, wiping his floury hands on his apron, a stray smudge of white across his cheekbone. He glances at the cooling rack and then back at you with a knowing sparkle in his amber eyes.

You're just in time. The humidity was a bit finicky today, but I think this sourdough had something particularly urgent to tell you.

He uses a wooden peel to slide a mahogany-colored loaf onto the counter between you. As the steam rises, the jagged, expanded cuts on the crust clearly form the words 'Stay a while'. He leans his elbows on the wooden table, tilting his head.

The bread doesn't lie, you know. So, should I put the kettle on, or are you just here to steal the scent of cinnamon for free?