Story
La Première Fois
It was five forty-five in the morning when Camille Poulin pushed open the door of the Boulangerie Roux. Outside, the streets of Lyon were still dark. There were no cars, no pedestrians. Only the light of the streetlamps illuminated the damp cobblestones. Inside, everything was calm. A smell of flour and yesterday's bread floated in the air.
Madame Roux was already there.
She was behind the counter, preparing the first trays. She didn't look up when Camille entered. She wore a white apron, slightly worn, and her hands moved with remarkable efficiency. Fifty years in the trade, at least. Maybe more. Camille didn't know her exact age, but her face bore the traces of hard work.
"Good morning, madame," said Camille.
Madame Roux finally raised her eyes. Her gaze was direct, without hostility but without warmth either.
"Good morning. You're on time. That's good."
She pointed to a corner of the room.
"Your apron is there. Put it on and come near the display counter. I'll show you what you need to do."
Camille crossed the room with slow steps. The walls were white, the floor tiled in gray. A large window faced the street, but at this hour, only the black of night could be seen. The silence of the bakery felt heavy. Camille could already feel the heat from the oven, but it wasn't a comfortable warmth. It was a heat that imposed a question: *will I be able to work properly?*
The apron hung on a hook. Camille took it. His hands were trembling slightly. There was a knot to tie, a simple knot, but his fingers wouldn't obey. Once, twice. Camille pulled on the fabric. Finally, the apron was in place.
Madame Roux wasn't waiting. She was already near the display counter, where croissants waited on metal trays.
"Here, we start early," she said without turning. "The first customers arrive around six-thirty. Everything must be ready."
Camille approached. The croissants were already shaped, perfectly aligned. The dough glistened slightly under the light.
"What should I do?" asked Camille.
Madame Roux pointed to the nearest tray.
"You're going to put the croissants on the baking sheet. Three per row, well spaced. Not too close to the edge. I'll set the oven. You watch the clock. In the morning, everything goes fast. You have to be ready."
Her voice was calm, but the words carried weight. *In the morning, everything goes fast.* Camille looked at the wall clock. The seconds passed. Five fifty. In less than an hour, customers would arrive. In less than an hour, everything had to be ready.
Madame Roux placed a hand on the table.
"Show me how you do it."
Camille picked up the first croissant. The dough was soft under the fingers, almost alive. It had to be handled with care, without pressing too hard. Camille placed it on the metal baking sheet, aligned with the others. Then a second. Then a third.
Madame Roux was watching.
"Not bad," she said. "But faster. You have a hundred twenty croissants to place, and the first tray must come out of the oven at six o'clock sharp."
A hundred twenty.
Camille counted the croissants on the tray. Ten per row, six rows. Sixty per tray. Two trays. His head was starting to spin slightly. No panic. Just had to keep going.
Outside, a dog barked. Then silence returned, only punctured by the regular noise of the oven and the movement of Madame Roux's hands, which never stopped.
The clock continued its course. The hands moved forward, relentless. And somewhere, in the street that was beginning to wake, the first customer was already walking toward the bakery.
A quarter past six.
The first customer arrived, then a second, then a third. Madame Roux stood near the oven, a long peel in her hand. She took out the golden trays, placed them on the counter, and the croissants glistened under the light. A smell of hot butter filled the bakery.
"Two croissants and a baguette, please," said the first customer.
Madame Roux grabbed the croissants without looking. Her hands knew the gestures by heart. The customer paid, took her bag, and left. Already, the next one was waiting.
Camille was working near the display counter. The croissants had to be placed on the baking sheets, one by one, perfectly aligned. But his hands wouldn't move fast enough. Each croissant demanded full attention. The dough was delicate. If you pressed too hard, the shape was lost.
"Faster," said Madame Roux without turning. "The customers aren't waiting."
Camille sped up. But faster meant less precise. The croissants were no longer perfectly aligned. Would Madame Roux notice? The wall clock showed six twenty. Time was passing too quickly. Customers kept coming in. A line was forming near the door.
"Pay attention," continued Madame Roux. "There's a tray that needs to come out in two minutes. Watch the clock. Not just the oven."
Camille looked up at the clock. Six twenty-two. The tray. Which tray? The one in oven number two or the one in oven number one?
Madame Roux was busy with a customer asking for walnut bread. Camille looked at oven number one. The window was dark, hard to see inside. He had to open it to check.
The seconds passed. The line grew. A man waited, his eyes on his phone. A woman held a child by the hand. The door opened and closed, letting in the morning cold.
Six twenty-five.
Madame Roux called from the counter: "The tray! It's for now."
Camille opened oven number two. The croissants were golden, perfect. Taken out on time. But it wasn't the right oven. Oven number one. The one that should have been taken out thirty seconds ago.
Camille opened oven number one. A stronger smell, almost burnt, came out with the heat. The croissants on the edge of the tray were too dark. The border had blackened.
Madame Roux finished with the customer. She approached the oven, looked at the tray, and her face became serious.
"Look," she said calmly. "You burned the edge."
The customers in line were waiting. No one spoke. The silence was heavy. Camille felt their gazes, or maybe it was just an impression. His hands were trembling again.
Madame Roux took the tray. She examined the croissants one by one. Seven were too burnt. The rest were acceptable.
"Those ones, we can't sell them," she said, separating the burnt croissants. "It's a loss."
She wasn't yelling. Her voice was calm, professional. But the words touched Camille like a condemnation. *A loss.* So that was it, failing. It was wasting time, money, trust.
Madame Roux set the tray aside. Then she turned toward Camille.
"The first time I made bread," she said, "I forgot the salt."
Camille looked up. Madame Roux was looking at the croissants remaining on the tray.
"My father had to throw away the whole batch. Thirty kilos of flour. All lost."
Her face showed no anger. Just a memory.
"I was eighteen," continued Madame Roux. "I thought I wasn't made for this trade."
She took another tray of uncooked croissants and held it out to Camille.
"We learn by making mistakes," she said. "But we don't make them twice. Go on. Oven number two. The next tray."
Camille took the tray. His hands were trembling less now. Madame Roux wasn't going to fire anyone. She had done worse, too. Thirty kilos of flour.
The line continued. Customers were waiting. And somewhere, behind this line, an elderly gentleman had just entered. He wore a gray coat and walked with a cane. He positioned himself at the end of the line without saying a word, patient, without looking at his phone, as if he were part of the bakery's décor.
Six fifty.
The line had diminished. The busiest part of the morning was over. Madame Roux was wiping the counter with a quick gesture when the gentleman in the gray coat stepped forward.
"Monsieur Bertrand," said Madame Roux. "Always at the same time."
She nodded toward Camille. It was barely a movement of the chin, but the meaning was clear: *your turn.*
Camille approached the counter. His hands were more stable now. Not completely calm, but less trembling than earlier. The gentleman — Monsieur Bertrand — stood before the counter. His face was wrinkled, his eyes calm behind glasses.
"Good morning," said Camille. The voice was a bit hesitant, but the word came out clearly.
"Good morning," replied Monsieur Bertrand. "The same as yesterday."
Camille looked at the display. The same as yesterday. What was that? The golden croissants, the baguette on the side, the chocolate croissants a bit further. But how many?
"Two croissants and a baguette," said Madame Roux without lifting her eyes from her work.
Camille picked up the two croissants with care. The paper wrapper between his fingers. Then the baguette, long and golden. Everything in a bag.
"Three euros forty," said Camille.
Monsieur Bertrand took out a worn wallet. He handed over a five-euro bill. Camille opened the register, counted the change, and handed it to the gentleman.
"Thank you," said Monsieur Bertrand.
He took his bag. For a moment, his eyes met Camille's. Then he made a small nod — not a smile, not warmth. Just a brief movement, like a confirmation. And he went out into the morning.
Camille remained behind the counter. His heart was beating less quickly. The transaction was complete. There had been no mistake. No burnt pastry, no delay. Just a customer served, change given, a nod received.
Behind the counter, Madame Roux continued cleaning. She looked at Camille for a second. Then she made an almost invisible gesture — a blink, a slight movement of the lips. Something that resembled approval. Or perhaps just the absence of disapproval.
That was enough.
A quarter past seven.
The morning had finally settled in. The bakery was calmer now. The last customers were having their breakfast at the counter, and the line had completely disappeared.
Madame Roux had turned on the radio. A soft voice was talking about the news, but Camille wasn't really listening. There was a cloth to fold, surfaces to clean. The work wasn't finished.
"You can clean the display counter," said Madame Roux. She was wiping the counter with efficient, regular gestures. "And after, you put away the trays."
Camille took the cloth. The surface was covered with flour, small traces of dough, crumbs. He passed the cloth, slowly, paying attention to the corners. The movement was repetitive, reassuring. His hands were no longer trembling.
For a few minutes, there was no conversation. Just the sound of the cloth, the humming of the radio, the light noise of Madame Roux putting away the last breads.
When Camille finished, Madame Roux put down her scissors and looked at the counter. She checked the surfaces with her gaze, then made a sign.
"It's good," she said.
She added, without turning her head:
"Tomorrow, you arrive at the same time. And you watch the clock. Not just the oven. The clock."
"Yes, madame," said Camille.
There was no other word. No congratulations, no grand speech. Just an instruction and a confirmation.
Camille finished folding the last cloth. His hands were stable now, firm on the fabric. No more trembling. No more hesitation. Just the end of the first morning of work. The beginning of something.
The morning light passed through the large window. Outside, Lyon was beginning its day. Cars passed, pedestrians headed to their jobs. And inside the Boulangerie Roux, everything was calm.
For the first time since morning, Camille looked at the clock. Seven twenty.
Time had passed, but the day was only beginning.
Tomorrow, there would be another tray of croissants. And Camille would be there, at the same time. With steady hands.