Why bakers start at 3 a.m.

The alarm goes at ten to three. I don't snooze it. If I snooze it, the whole day is late, and you can't make a day up once the oven is behind.

This is Room Tone. I'm Ada Lindqvist, and today I'm with Mina Haddad, who runs a small sourdough bakery on a corner where, she tells me, nobody walks before six.

Nobody. It's me, the street sweeper, and one fox.

So why three? People assume it's tradition.

It's arithmetic. The oven takes fifty minutes to come up to heat. The first loaves need forty minutes inside it. Then they have to cool for an hour, or the crumb is gummy when you cut it. If the shop opens at seven, you count backwards, and you land at three.

And the dough is already made by then?

The dough was mixed the afternoon before. It sleeps in the fridge overnight. That slow, cold rise is where the flavour comes from. So when I walk in, the bread is mostly done. My job at three is shaping, scoring, and loading. The oven decides the rest.

You keep saying the oven decides.

Because it does. It's a deck oven, older than me. The back left corner runs hot, so the loaves there get turned halfway. On humid days the crust colours slower. You learn its moods the way you learn a person. You don't get a vote, honestly. You just get good at listening.

What does a good morning sound like?

Quiet. The fan, the timer, and the crust crackling as it cools. Bakers call that singing. When the racks are singing at half past five, I know it's going to be fine.

What goes wrong, on a bad morning?

The starter sulks. If the kitchen was cold the day before, the dough rises slowly, and at three in the morning it's flat. You can't hurry it. I've learned to bake whatever is ready and put a sign on the door that says fewer loaves today. People are kind about it.

You close at two, but you're often sold out by ten.

Most days, yes. People think that's a sign I should bake more. It isn't. I bake one hundred and twenty loaves, because that's what one oven and one person can do properly.

And if you made two hundred?

I'd need a second shift, a second oven, a bigger lease. And the bread would get worse while I learned to manage people instead of dough. Selling out is not a failure. It tells me the number is right.

What happens at ten past ten, when the shelves are empty?

I clean. I feed the starter. I mix tomorrow's dough. Customers who come late get a note on the door that says what time we open. Most of them come back at seven the next day, which is the best compliment I know.

If you could change one thing about the job, what would it be?

I'd change nothing about the hours. I'd change how people price bread. A good loaf takes two days and costs less than a coffee. I've stopped apologising for charging what it costs.

And sleep?

I go to bed at eight. My friends have accepted it. Dinner parties are a lost cause.

Mina Haddad, thank you for getting up for this.

It was lunchtime for me. Thank you.

That's Room Tone for this week. The show notes have links to everything Mina mentioned. Next Thursday, Tomás talks to a bike mechanic about pricing a repair.