March arrived without asking.
One morning the February gray was simply gone, replaced by something thinner and more tentative, the kind of light that wasn't quite spring but had stopped being winter, the city shifting in the specific way it shifted when the season was considering its options. The trees on Court Street had the faint suggestion of something coming. The morning air had lost its serious cold and replaced it with something that merely required a jacket rather than demanding one.
I noticed these things the way I noticed most things, while doing something else.
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The bakeries were good.
Both of them, simultaneously, which was the thing I had been most afraid of that the West Village location would succeed at the cost of the Cobble Hill one, that spreading the attention wou
