During these cold winter months, in which – thanks to that pinnacle of British construction, breathable walls – I wake up in a freezing room, I find great solace in hiding beneath my blanket. Very much aware of my spatially limited happiness. Beyond the edge of my bed, however, I have found another place of naïve joy, one that offers a time-out from some nuisances of everyday life: a tiny hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in Jericho called Broche.
The moments of concentrated happiness sold at Broche take the form of unbelievably good pastries. Here is my ranking of those I have tried, from great to most incredible: Danish Three Cheese (£4.80), Croissant (£3.50), Pain au Pastrami (£5.60), Bostock (£4.40), Cinnamon Bun (£3.80), Chocolate & Cherry Croissant (£5.60), Pain au Chocolat (£4.00). But it is the Vanilla & Raspberry Croissant (£5.40) which stands out as my favourite. The crisp outside, the illegal quantities of butter folded into its dough, the luscious vanilla custard, the sweet-acidic raspberry jam with seeds: any Frenchman would be happy to claim Broche’s pâtissier as one of their own. Knowing that they must have worked relentlessly to learn the craft – and then to make these pastries daily before sunrise – the brazen price might very well be justified. But I don’t think we’re paying £5.40 for the croissant; rather, we are paying for the luxury of engaging in that luxury. This may be a little cynical, but it puts the Vanilla & Raspberry croissant into a different perspective, and perhaps a more honest appreciation. At least, I hope so.
The pastries at Broche are not only damn good; they are also highly aestheticized objects of status through which customers define themselves. The evidence I have of this is some unprofessional observational ethnography I attempted, from which I can report that the ‘posh croissant’ functions as an accessory for the following: middle-aged women in knee-length down parkas (extra points if they are walking a dog; additional extra points if it’s a Chihuahua in designer dog-wear); elderly men in colourful trainers, sometimes accompanied by their sons in Japanese denim, beanies, French workwear, and the last remaining hipster beards; young professionals in body-toned kits with sleek £10k carbon racing bikes, who order V60 pour-over coffee. It is also a place where people who would ordinarily meet their future partners on LinkedIn meet them in person, I’m told. If Notting Hill had an official outpost, it would be the five square-meters making up the tiny shack that is Broche.
None of this is to say that you shouldn’t go. You should. If it happens to be sunny, cross the street and lean against the neighbour’s garden wall, as I usually do – Broche, unfortunately, sits in its own shade. Be cheap; get a plain croissant. Have a matcha latte. Enjoy a brief, luxurious moment of immunity from all things troubling. Like a retired man in a Minneapolis mall, vegetating on a vending massage chair while US politics unfolds outside. It’s awfully nice under the warm blanket, isn’t it?
