Today's shelves
Every photo was shot by the baker at close and went live when their shop opened. Nothing is held and nothing can be reserved. Check the photo, then walk.
Right now in Doughville
Next shelf: checking the clock
Flour St · shelf 7:30-noon
“Sourdough came out flat this morning. Tastes exactly the same, looks like a frisbee.”
Crumb Park · shelf 8-noon
“Everything we bake leans. It's the oven, not me. Best toast you'll have all week.”
Flour St · shelf 7-noon
“Over-baked a whole tray of danishes. Dark, sticky, honestly better that way.”
Butter Row · shelf 8:30-11
“The cardamom knots unravelled in the proof. Still cardamom. Still knots, technically.”
Butter Row · shelf Mon only, 8-noon
“We only bake Saturday and Sunday, so Monday's shelf is everything the weekend didn't take.”
West end · shelf 7:30-10:30
“Gone by twenty to ten. Sorry. Tomorrow we'll put out more.”
Rye River · shelf 8-noon
“Half the batch unrolled in the oven. They looked like croissants at the start.”
Rye River · evening shelf 7:30-9:30pm · same-day bakes
“We bake at four for the evening rush. Whatever the rush leaves goes on the shelf at half seven, same day, dry bakes only.”
Nothing matches right now. The shelves refill tomorrow morning.
A sold-out shelf is a bakery that binned nothing and a queue of new faces before the regulars arrived. So we keep the times, and we tell you when the next one goes out instead of counting down at you.
Next shelf:
Every crate carries a QR stamp card. Scan it at the counter and the stamp lands in your passport on this phone; here, “Been today?” on a shelf stands in for the scan. No streaks, no nagging, nothing expires except the bread. All eight and you get the Street Sweeper stamp, which is worth nothing and everything.
0 of 8 this week
Street Sweeper. Every shelf on the map, in one week. The bakeries have been told.
Shelf etiquette
If you keep missing it, the fix is earlier, not a reservation: follow the shelf, take the calendar reminder, get the nudge at open. The moment we let people reserve, the shelf stops being a reason to walk in, and we become a shop answering for food we have never seen.