Okay. So… I spent $40 on a croissant.
Yes.
Forty. American. Dollars.
And before you say anything, let me just start by saying: fashion is a commitment, and so is flaky, artisanal pastry made by someone named Jules who pronounces “butter” like “boo-tair.”
But let me back up.
A Morning in SoHo That Turned Into a Whole Thing
It started like any perfect New York morning: I was wearing cashmere (sweater, not pants—I’ve made that mistake once and never again), the air was crisp in that very cinematic “fall in the city” kind of way, and I had exactly 45 minutes before my pilates class in Nolita. Naturally, I was in the perfect frame of mind for a little indulgence.
I’d heard whispers—okay, Instagram DMs and one slightly aggressive tweet—about this tiny French bakery tucked away on Crosby Street. People said things like, “It changed my relationship with breakfast,” and “You haven’t lived until you’ve had the laminated pastry from here.” So obviously, I had to go.
The Bakery
It’s called “Miette & Fils,” which I’m 90% sure translates to something aggressively adorable like “Crumbs & Sons.” There was a line (of course), which in New York usually means two things:
- It's going to be overpriced.
- It’s probably worth it.
It smelled like Paris and brown butter had a baby.
The place was minimal. One marble-topped counter. One barista who looked like the love child of Timothée Chalamet and an espresso machine. And four items on the menu, three of which I didn’t recognize because they sounded like rejected Chanel perfumes.
But there it was. The “Golden Hour Croissant.”
Underneath a tiny glass dome that basically said “DO NOT TOUCH UNLESS YOU’RE COOL.”
My instincts told me no. My heart said “yaaaas.” My wallet didn’t get a vote.
What Makes a Croissant $40?
So glad you asked. Here’s what I learned from the barista (whose name I kid you not was Julien with a silent "n"):
- It’s made with European cultured butter shipped in weekly from Normandy (that’s the region, not the discount wine store on 9th).
- The flour is stone-milled by hand in upstate New York by someone named Claire. Of course it is.
- It’s laminated with 256 layers of dough and butter—standard croissants have around 81. Excuse me, but do I now have abs?
- They brush it with saffron-infused honey that literally sparkles in the sunlight.
Also, some of the proceeds go to an artist collective that makes sustainable ceramics for “emotional espresso rituals.” I don’t know what that means but I want one.
So… Was It Good?
Imagine everything you’ve ever loved about pastry. Then imagine kissing that feeling on a cobblestone street in the Marais while a string quartet plays Vivaldi’s Spring from someone’s fire escape.
It was flaky without being messy. Buttery without being greasy. The inside was soft, like chiffon. CHIFFON. It didn't feel like breakfast. It felt like an event.
Here’s what I wrote in my Notes app five bites in:
“I think this croissant just winked at me.”
Not even kidding.
Okay Rachel, But Was It Worth $40?
Let’s be real. That’s concert-ticket money. That’s a candle-at-Diptyque-that-I-pretend-I’ll-actually-light money.
But sometimes New York gives you a moment. A “you’re doing it” moment. A “this is why you paid too much in rent and said goodbye to your doorman in exchange for commercial loft chic” moment.
That croissant was mine.
Would I do it every week? No. I’m not completely insane.
Would I do it again on a day when I’m wearing vintage Céline and need to believe in a little magic? Absolutely.
Final Thoughts from a Girl With Crumbs on Her Silk Blouse
This city never stops. It never apologizes. And just when you think you’ve seen everything, it hands you a tiny golden pastry that changes your whole morning.
So maybe $40 is the price of a little joy. And maybe that’s… okay.
But also. Let’s just maybe not tell my dad.
🥐
Xoxo,
Rachel
P.S. If you go, tell Julien (with the silent "n") that I said hi. And that I’m still thinking about the croissant. But like… in a cool, very unattached way.
