At dawn, a brigade of otters inaugurated the first underwater bakery, nestled at the bottom of the big fountain.
A line in flippers, waterproof recipes: breakfast invents a new current.
It was 6:12 a.m. when the first residents, swim caps snug and towels over their shoulders, discovered “La Mie Marine,” a translucent stall where croissants puff their layers on a held breath. Behind the rippling pane, Louna, otter head‑dough‑chef, slides ballasted baguettes into the oven so they won’t float, while a seal barista draws algae in foam atop briny cappuccinos. “Our secret is to knead on a rising tide: the dough listens to the wave, and the city breathes better at daybreak,” confides Louna, as serious as a watchmaker.
The logistics verge on acrobatics. An octopus cashier scans, makes change, stamps loyalty cards, and ties ribbons all at once, while squirrel couriers zipline between the plane trees, hazelnut‑flour sacks on their backs. Beavers erected a watertight counter in twelve flat minutes, swearing that “right angles splash less.” Out front, hedgehog greeters lend one‑size‑fits‑all flip‑flops and remind, with a prickly sign: “Please blow on your flippers before tasting.”
The ripple effect is already catching the neighborhood. Farther on, owls open a reading nook, “shush & choux,” for nibbling in silence, while giraffes offer “turtleneck & treat” workshops to master the art of reaching the top shelf without toppling the pain au chocolat. Rumor has it a sloth is setting up an express pickup: it taps “confirm” on Monday and, miracle of organized slowness, your brioche is ready just in time for Sunday.
At noon, the fountain rings like a liquid carillon. Regulars emerge, foamy cappuccino mustaches on their lips, cloth totes dripping with warm aromas, with the feeling they started the day on the right side of the fin. And if this improbable morning needed a moral, Louna has already kneaded it: “A good croissant holds up under pressure better than a bad mood.”
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