The cult of the pastry

There are myriad reasons for wanting to visit Quince, a new bakery in Islington, north London. The pedigree of baker Anna Higham is one. Having started out at Gordon Ramsay’s Pétrus, she moved to Gramercy Tavern in New York, and Lyle’s and Flor in London before taking charge of the pastry section at the River Café. Among the produce-led bakes that line her shelves, the seasonal fruit pies are a big draw, as are the oat cookies (made from pinhead oats) and bread loaves (with heritage and modern wheat). But the hero product is surely the brown butter bun, made using a mix of wholemeal and white flour from dough shaped with a craquelin top. “A mix of butter, sugar and flour made into a paste, rolled out, cut into sheets and draped over and melted into the bun,” Higham explains. “I’ve added twice the amount of butter you normally would and another knob of butter with sugar in the middle.” The bun is made, she says, “so enough bites come with some of the edge and some of that delicious squidgy bit in the middle.”

Quince has opened at an extraordinary time for independent bakeries. Some are having a moment. Others are verging on cults. People wait in line for hours to purchase their freshly baked goods, sunk on the promise that an exceptional pain au chocolat or coffee cream beignet represents. Quince joins a pastry run that already includes local hotspots Jolene, Pophams and The Dusty Knuckle.

Pastries at Lune were sold on a ticketing system, with a maximum of six each

But why the fervour? We could trace it back to the rise of sourdough culture more than a decade ago and the growing appreciation for small-scale producers. Pioneers such as Lune in Melbourne elevated the status of viennoiserie more broadly. Founder Kate Reid trained as an aerospace engineer and did a stage at the legendary 19th-century bakery Du Pain et des Idées in Paris, where there are daily queues for pastry escargots and loaves of pain des amis. At Lune, her meticulous pastries became so desirable they were sold on a ticketing system, with customers permitted a maximum of six each. “Is the World’s Best Croissant Made in Australia?” The New York Times was prompted to ask in 2016.

Lockdown burnished our relationship. And shifts in spending habits turned artisanal bakes – and pastries in general – into the ultimate accessible luxury. Going in search of the finest brioche or Bostock became domestic tourism. And the quest is endless and culturally diverse, from Scandi buns at Landrace bakery in Bath to honey butter toast at French-Asian Arôme in London. And how about the Middle Eastern-inspired bakes (including za’atar and gruyère knots) at Chestnut Bakery, which originated in Kuwait, opened stores in Belgravia and Covent Garden, and recently won the UK’s best croissant prize?

A trip to Layla in Notting Hill for a blackberry and almond Danish or banana tahini loaf has become an expression of self-care and lifestyle – pastry as a form of hygge. Meanwhile for a younger, social-media-savvy crowd, posting “if you know, you know” content about salted honey buns or Korean milk donuts is, says Max Tobias of The Dusty Knuckle, “a way for them to express their indulgences, humour and membership of the in-crowd without guilt as these are independent bakeries [not corporations]”.

In terms of artistry, the bar continues to rise. “Bakeries are getting so creative,” says Helen Evans of Eric’s, in East Dulwich, where items routinely sell out by midday. “Pushing boundaries, inventing flavour combinations and new ways of laminating.” At Lannan in Edinburgh, Darcie Maher’s creations include Kissabel apple pies with crème fraîche custard and pains suisses so expertly laminated you gasp in wonder. Just as exquisite is her Wes Andersonian store, which, she says, has been “directly translated from my mind when I was little. Each element has been considered for years.”

For the bakers concerned, these places can be realisations of a dream, made possible through crowdfunding and small teams working long hours. Reports that small bakeries are restricting the numbers of pastries made in order to sell out, generate hype and manufacture queues may be true in some cases. But for many, this fails to take into account the reality of operating with limited space and resources. The Dusty Knuckle hit back at criticism from frustrated customers in October: “We’re an independent bakery, not a soulless factory… We simply cannot make more of certain products.”

Still, there’s a feeling among neighbourhood bakeries that they become community assets. “People make friends and exchange phone numbers in our line,” says Evans. Tobias mentions the youth training programme at The Dusty Knuckle, open to 18- to 25-year-olds facing significant barriers to employment. For individual punters, there’s the communion that comes with each delicious purchase. “Yes, we’ve created this almost fetishistic hype around the croissant,” says Tobias. “But we’re also creating moments of pleasure and respite in a challenging world through beautifully flaky pastry.” Amen.

@ajesh34