Salt and Sugar – Part 1: The Bakery at Dawn

The bakery in Alfama opened its oven at four in the morning, and by half past, the street outside smelled of cinnamon, burnt sugar and warm dough. Inês had been up since three, rolling pastry in the cold kitchen with the radio playing softly and the city still asleep beyond the window.

She was on her third tray of custard tarts when the knock came at the back door.

It was not the flour delivery. It was a young man in a faded blue jacket, holding a clipboard in one hand and a paper bag in the other, his cheeks pink from the cold.

"Bom dia," he said. "I'm Rui. I'm the new driver for the dairy. I was told to drop off the cream, but the sign on the door says 'Fresh tarts before the first tram,' and I'm very curious."

"The sign is a lie," said Inês. "The tarts come out at the first tram, not before."

"Then I'll wait," said Rui cheerfully, and sat on the step before she could tell him not to.

She watched him through the doorway for a long moment. He had untidy brown hair, a crooked smile and the easy patience of a man who was used to waiting for things that were worth it.

"You'll freeze," she said finally, and brought him a tart on a paper napkin.

He bit into it. His eyes closed. "Oh," he said, reverently. "That is the best thing I've eaten since I moved to Lisbon."

"You've been here two weeks."

"Then it's the best thing in two weeks," said Rui, opening his eyes. "Do you make all of these?"

"Every morning," said Inês. "For nine years. My grandmother taught me the recipe, and then she told me it was too dangerous to leave to anyone else."

"Dangerous?"

"Too much sugar, too much salt. Everything is a balance. You can ruin the whole batch with one careless gram."

Rui considered this. "Then I'd like to be a very careful customer," he said, and took another bite.

She laughed, quickly, before she could stop herself.

Over the next weeks, he came every morning, delivery or not. He arrived at the back door with his clipboard and his paper bag, sat on the step, and waited for the first tray of tarts. He told her about the dairy farm in Sintra where he had grown up, the cows who had names and bad tempers, the father who had wanted him to take over the farm and the summer he had decided to see the city instead. She told him about the grandmother who had taught her to measure flour by feel, and the bakery's cranky old owner who insisted on being called the Admiral.

"Can I ask you something?" said Rui one morning, while the sky over the castle was turning pink.

"Yes."

"Why do you always give me the first tart? Even when you're busy."

Inês paused, the knife in her hand suspended over the tray.

"Because the first one is always the one you remember," she said honestly. "And because you're the only person who waits for it."

Rui's face softened, slowly. He set down the napkin on the step beside him, carefully.

"Can I ask you something else?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you let me take you to breakfast, somewhere that isn't the back step of your bakery, and let me see what you're like when you're not covered in flour?"

Inês laughed, and felt the warmth bloom in her chest. "Yes," she said. "But you're choosing the place, and you're paying, and you have to promise not to eat my tarts while I'm not looking."

"Deal," said Rui, grinning. "Green?"

"Green," said Inês, and pushed a warm tart into his hand. "Very green. Taste this one, Rui. It's the first of the day, and I made it for you."