Five o'clock
The first to arrive lights the oven. The dough that's been fermenting all night begins to wake up. Outside it's still dark.
Six o'clock
The bread goes into the oven. The smell — that smell of ensaïmades everyone knows but no one can describe — starts to fill the street. There's still no one out to notice it.
Seven o'clock
The pastry-making begins. The ensaïmades, shaped the day before to be baked each morning. Hands form rolls, cocas, formatjades, one by one.
Eight o'clock
The doors open. The first customers are always the same: townsfolk who come for their daily bread or afternoon snack, basket in hand. No rush.
Nine o'clock
The tourists arrive. The oven has already been working for four hours. What they see — the full trays, the ensaïmada just out of the oven, the coca sliced — is only the visible tip of a morning that started before their hotel had served its first cup of coffee.