By: Liza Chernobay
Illustration by: Sylvain Chan
Earlier this month, an artisanal bakery Pophams announced a special cross-laminated bun filled with Adzuki bean paste jam and matcha-flavored chocolate ganache, crafted in collaboration with matcha bar chain, JENKI. This criminally-mouthwatering creation was available for one week only, promptly replaced by an Irish-coffee inspired danish in time for St Patrick’s Day. Both pastries have been extensively paraded on their Instagram page, in cross-section and bird-eye view, tempting the viewers with videos of bakers’ hands professionally squeezing crémeux into the crusty rings of buttery dough.
(Un)luckily, I live too far away from Pophams, so in place of taste-testing their sensational bakes, I had to make do with a sense of hungry longing at the sight of their delicious social media posts. With no choice but to exist in a state of mild dissatisfaction, I brooded over the worldliest of matters: where does the current obsession with artisanal pastries come from?
Growing up in Ukraine, I couldn’t care less about pastries. You could not entice my ten-year-old self with a croissant or pain au raisin—they did exist in French boulangeries popping up in my hometown, but could not compare to a trusty piece of chocolate. Fast forward twelve years, I find myself in London, surrounded by independent bakeries, each offering their own spin on a rhubarb-filled bowtie, honey butter brioche, or pistachio crème swirl—and I can’t look away. What happened to my taste buds (and self-control)? And why does everyone rave about sweet, laminated, extravagantly-shaped dough?
The good life
As students know best, London is abominably expensive, and the category of luxurious pastries I’m referring to embody its riches. For example, a simple croissant from Layla Bakery in Notting Hill costs £3.20, while a more ‘sophisticated’ pistachio dark chocolate pain suisse is priced at £5.50 – certainly out of most students’ daily snack budget. Perhaps, it is only fitting that the fashion for such delicacies is most prominent in big cities, where wealth is most concentrated, itching to be invested into minute pleasures.
The growth of visually-focused social media platforms in the past decade has also been instrumental in spreading the pastry trend. Instagram and TikTok provide the platform to showcase the glowy glazes and vibrant jellies to prospective consumers, and the popular video format allows viewers to watch the dough being performatively torn and listen to the sounds of crumbs hitting the plate.
Circulation of digitalised pastries on social media therefore constructs a covetable aesthetic of pleasure associated with both eating this food, and a lifestyle where such foods are the norm. An object of desire, the artisan pastry therefore symbolises one version of the good life: a slow, luxurious and sweet, just like salted caramel trickling out of a freshly-baked puff.
.
Equally, we can interpret the turn to exquisite pastries as an act of resistance to the ‘clean eating’ culture populating social media spaces since the 2010s by fitness influencers and wellness enthusiasts. While taking care of your body is a noble pursuit, a compulsive approach to food and exercise can become restrictive and toxic, leading to exhaustion, health imbalances and a sense of malaise about life in general.
In this light, perhaps choosing to eat an almond croissant all by yourself is a way to create balance which has been skewed towards the ‘cleaner’, ‘healthier’ foods? To some of us, a treat can be more than mere indulgence, but an act of liberation and self-love, where all foods are welcome and enjoyed as part of a diverse, unrestrictive diet.
Shared pleasures
Price tags aside, there is certainly something romantic about a weekend bakery run with your bestie, or even a solo-date, culminating in a shared experience of tasting something special. Observing sleepy Londoners rolling out of bed to walk their dog and grab a coffee, catching a whiff of browned butter, and overhearing snippets of conversations in the queue are somehow grounding, and remind me of what it means to be human. That is, to exist in the world surrounded by other people, whose lives might intertwine with yours for just a second—in a shared space of your neighborhood bakery.
Consuming expensive dough and documenting the experience on social media is evidently performative, not quite student-friendly, and perhaps slightly unnecessary. Does the attractive appearance of food, a trendy location, and memories of their taste ultimately translate into genuine happiness?
Upon reflection, the pastries themselves, despite their lucrative shapes and creative names, are only illusions of joy. However, the sense of anticipation during your bakery walk, sun rays illuminating your path, and strikingly intimate conversations you hold with your partner-in-crime as you share your chosen delicacy are not. Perhaps, this artisan pastry trend is not about pastries at all, but about who you share them with? In which case, a high price tag can be split, which makes this utopian lifestyle a tad more affordable.
