Jen and I are ebullient. Already in our “day of” jerseys, Thomas and Bryant, we walk from our hotel to my favorite bakery in New York, Sullivan Street, on West 47th. They have such delicate pastries. I like the Cannotto, tasty pillows of brioche dough, which today come in a selection of sweet and savory. I go for the Dolce (seasonal fruit, Mascarpone, and toasted pecans),cheap jerseys and Jen picks the Salato (prosciutto and Gruyere cheese).
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A steady stream of New Yorkers enter the small space to see what’s behind the glass. We sit at a counter lining the shop window and watch the city. Crumbs grease the postcards I’m writing. As I take my last bite, a fire truck pulls in diagonally. The red engine blocks most of the street, and firemen unfold themselves one after another from the truck. I count seven of them. All here for what I describe to Jen as a bread emergency.