Blue jazz drifts from the scratching of a cheap record player nestled in the corner of a cool apartment on a winter’s morning. A woman stands with her hip resting against the tiled counter. Blearily watching 2 cracked eggs, cradled around sizzling tomatos and garlic, cook until the transparent whites firm. Resting next to her is a brown paper bag, a bag who’s logo reflects the old bakery outside. A comforting bakery one story down and across the street. It’s an old cafe that’s stood strong amongst the modern apartments and stores slowly creeping it’s way in to take space. The pastry’s there are baked fresh every morning with steam rising from there crust once hit with the chill of room temperature. There’s practically a fight every morning amongst regulars to get their share of freshly baked sweets. All for ehe humid steam that rises from a freshly torn pastry. A heavenly smell that entices any and all.