From first light to last fold
Flour before the city wakes.
The buckwheat is sifted twice. Sea salt, a single egg, cold milk drawn the night before. The batter rests for thirty minutes while the van is loaded — copper griddle first, then the wooden-handled spreader worn smooth by ten thousand mornings.
The van doors swing open.
Canvas awning unfurled, the first batter hits the griddle at exactly the temperature that makes it sing. The smell reaches the market entrance before the sign goes up. The first customer is always already waiting.
The rush arrives in waves.
Wedding planners in linen blazers. Office managers on reconnaissance. Parents lifting children to see the griddle. Each crêpe is folded to order — never held, never reheated, never rushed enough to skip the second fold.
One crêpe, just for us.
After the queue clears, the griddle gets one last pour. Dark chocolate and a smear of tahini. Eaten standing at the back of the van while the market empties and the light goes amber. This one isn't on the menu.
