patisserie
a mid-week treat
Sometimes, all you want to do is pull a sick day. Any reason to avoid being hunched at your desk completing mindless tasks for nine hours.
This was how the day began. We decided we’d go to the gym at lunch and use the morning for a coffee walk. I will give up almost anything for a coffee walk, albeit having B to myself on a workday made it something special. To match the special occasion, a special destination: A couple of weeks ago, I discovered that Milk London — a bougie cafe in Balham — has a sister bakery called Milk Run that is nestled in the neighbourhood beside a park. It’s a thirty-minute walk, and so, on a particularly early Wednesday morning, I dragged B out with me.
The sky was clear, the light unfettered by morning. The roads were surprisingly busy with morning runners and dog walkers. We did what we always do when we go for a walk: we imagined the life we would live. We pointed at houses, thinking about what we liked and didn’t like about them. We pointed at dogs, deciding which breed we might get, too.
By the time we arrived, it was just after 8 a.m. The bakery was at the far end, where the road intersected with another busy street leading into town. It’s lined opposite a set of houses and beside another two cafes. On this morning, they left the door ajar, letting the scent of fresh croissants spill onto the pavement, an unspoken invitation. Inside, the glass counter was arrayed with culinary classics and confections, savoury bites, and indulgences crowned with chocolate and swirls of toasted meringue. A chalkboard sign listed the toasties of the day, each promising something golden, crisp and warm to fend off the morning chill.
The queue was short, which was just as well—we needed time to decide. It was a careful debate, a tug-of-war between sweet and savoury. I usually lean toward sugar or the week’s special, but today, savoury won: a caramelised onion and rosemary mascarpone galette. Indulgent? Absolutely.
B, ever the classicist, chose the almond croissant—simple, perfect, no fuss. We tucked ourselves into a quiet corner, tearing into our pastries, buttery flakes falling onto plates, onto the table. A necessary mess. Part of the joy.
I wouldn’t call myself indulgent, not in the day-to-day, but when it comes to coffee and pastry, I surrender. The craftsmanship gets me every time. Take a simple pain au chocolat—store-bought ones are forgettable, too chewy, too dull. But from a bakery? It’s something else entirely. A crisp, golden shell gives way to airy layers, light yet rich. At the centre, two bars of dark chocolate, still gently melted. A quiet masterpiece.
I don’t have to worry about when I’ll next be back. It could be next Sunday if the sun is out and the morning feels slow and golden. Or maybe tomorrow, just because I can. Some things—like a simple pastry run—are always worth returning to.
We eat our pastries in the quiet hum of the café, the morning shifting as school drop-offs end and runners slip in for quick coffees and well-earned croissants.