When the shutters went up on the corner of Elm and Third this spring, few expected the queue that now forms before eight. The room seats thirty-four; the waiting list, on a good Saturday, runs closer to eighty. Regulars have learned to arrive with the bread, which leaves the oven at seven sharp.

The proprietors — two sisters who spent a decade cooking in other people’s kitchens — keep the operation deliberately small. One menu, changed with the market. No reservations for parties under six. A chalkboard that lists the farms by name, updated in a looping hand every Tuesday.

Neighbours have taken note. The hardware store next door now stocks the house hot sauce; the florist trades stems for day-old loaves. "We wanted a place that felt like it had always been here," the elder sister says, wiping flour from the counter. "Turns out the street wanted one too."

The kitchen closes at three. By four the tables are stacked, the floor swept, and the sourdough for tomorrow is already proving in the back — a quiet promise that the corner will smell the same again in the morning.