Sunday mornings at the bakery are no longer about simply buying bread. They have turned into a strange social ritual where people behave as if they’ve booked a private one-on-one consultation with the baker. It feels like a cross between a personal shopping session and a quiet moment in a therapist’s office. These customers arrive with empty eyes and empty plans. They stand at the counter as if they’ve never seen food before. Then the interrogation begins:
“What is this?”
“And that one?”
“And is that sweet?”
“And what’s in that one?”
And the poor bakery saleswoman — who signed up to sell bread, not provide emotional support — suddenly finds herself playing the role of pastry psychotherapist. Every answer is absorbed with a soft “mhm” or a fascinated “aha,” as if they’ve just discovered a deep truth about themselves through a croissant. Every piece of information is absorbed slowly and with a philosophical weight usually reserved for life decisions. The conversation drifts on and on… Meanwhile behind them, a line forms. A long, irritated, sleep-deprived, caffeine-starved line of people who actually know what they want. People who came for a bread, some croissants or a neat loaf of Zopf, and go home. They did not sign up to watch an emotional tasting seminar at 9 a.m. But the consultation at the counter continues uninterrupted, because these shoppers see only themselves. The world behind them doesn’t exist. The thirty humans silently aging in the queue? Background noise. Abstract shapes. Irrelevant.
And once this therapeutic bakery session finally concludes — once every crumb in the display case has been explained, interpreted, emotionally validated, and spiritually categorized — the true madness begins: The show-off purchase. The trophy haul. The Sunday Brunch Flex.
Because these people don’t just buy one or two things. Oh no. They buy everything! 👹
One of each pastry. Two of every sweet. Three of every “regional speciality.” A pile of rolls high enough to survive an apocalypse. Enough croissants to open a small café. They practically vacuum the bakery clean. Why? Because Sunday brunch isn’t about eating. Sunday brunch is about performing prosperity. They’re not feeding their family: They’re curating an exhibition.
At home, they will theatrically arrange all the pastries on oversized wooden boards with little linen napkins, and then parade it before guests like priests presenting holy relics.
“Oh, look at the variety we brought!”
“Oh, we thought it would be nice to have a little selection!“
Translation:
“Please admire how well things are going for us.”
It’s culinary peacocking.
It’s edible boasting.
It’s the pastry version of revving a sports car so the neighbors can hear it.
Never mind that half of the haul will be left untouched, slowly hardening until it is scraped off plates and thrown into the bin by Monday morning. Waste? Who cares. The important part is that guests briefly gasp, “Oh wow, what a selection!” before choosing the same two pastries people always choose anyway.
And if this weren’t enough, there is the Family Edition™ of the bakery consultation, where Dad decides he must prove his weekend usefulness in front of his offspring and the general public. This is Dad in “weekend hero” mode who barges in with the whole circus: kids, backpack, stroller, dog…. A full expedition team. A shop meant for six people suddenly hosts a family reunion. The children spread through the shop like a swarm, poking the glass, jamming their fingerprints everywhere, shouting “Papa, was ist DAS?!” and pointing at everything like it’s a zoo. And then Dad begins his own personal consultation. Slow, proud, thorough — as if he’s selecting jewelry rather than carbohydrates.
By this point the line behind them isn’t a queue anymore. It’s a hostage situation.
And yes — I’ll admit it openly — sometimes I feel such violent irritation bubbling inside me that I could strangle these people (metaphorically… mostly). Because what they are doing is inconsiderate, narcissistic, time-wasting, and entirely avoidable.
- If you want therapy, book a therapist.
- If you want advising, book a consultant.
- If you want to show off, do it somewhere that doesn’t smell like yeast at 9 a.m.
- A bakery is not a stage.
- A bakery is not a showroom.
- A bakery is not your personal psychotherapist.
- A bakery is a place where normal humans simply want to buy bread and go home.
So for the love of humanity, croissants, and my blood pressure:
- Stop turning your Sunday shopping into a theatrical event.
- Stop buying half the shop just to flaunt abundance.
- Stop needing a private consultation to choose a roll.
And for God’s sake:
LET THE REST OF US BUY OUR DAMN BREAD IN PEACE.
Just my 5 Cents.
//Alex
alexreusch 