I read the book, instead, as an anticipation of Henri Lefebvre‘s project of “rhythmanalysis,” an effort to perceive the order that reveals itself only in time. What the trained mind apprehends in the daily cycling of neighborhood noise and activity, Lefebvre claims, is nothing less than “social organization manifesting itself.”

Perhaps because it’s far from the madding crowds, prices at blé sucré are very reasonable but the quality is unquestionably high. I’m not going to tell you about the deeply-dark homemade caramels with salted butter or the shatteringly-flaky croissants they coincidentally seem to be coming out of the oven whenever I walk in the door. Nor will I mention the little sacks full of tender little almond financiers or the freezer full of housemade ice creams that made its début appearance just last week.

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in the 12e

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