If there’s such a thing as bakery porn, it resides at El Globo

Lola, the woman who does our housekeeping, told me last week that if I ever wanted a “trocito de pan,” they’re delicious at El Globo. It’s a French bakery chain that originally opened in el D.F. in 1884. There’s one in my neighborhood, a few blocks away.

Since we really don’t eat much bread — “Hmmm,” you say, “what about the bisquets?” — okay, since we, I mean I, TRY not to eat much bread, I thought I’d pop in and check it out from a cultural perspective. Also, I kind of adore bakeries, and the smell of baking bread turns me into one of those cartoon characters levitating with her nose in the air.

I’ve been inside Mexican panaderias before, but El Globo took things to a whole new level.

Rows of sweets sat neatly on trays: Glazed donuts, maple and chocolate donuts, donuts low in calories. There were fluffy, eggy mounds of Mexican sweet bread, flat rectangles of sugared dough called “corbatas” (literally “ties”), wheat bisquets, wheat croissants. Loaves of artisanal-style bread spilled out of brown baskets: Walnut and raisin (mmm… perfect toasted and smeared with butter); ciabatta, baguettes, boules.

My eyes were about to lift off my head, and I hadn’t even gotten to the empanada section. Blocks of Spanish-style empanadas begged me to take them home for lunch, at the very least to find out what an “empanada de pollo estilo Hindu” tastes like.

The pastries came at the end, lined up like beauty pageant contestants. Cups of thick custards topped with cream, eclairs drizzled in chocolate, cakes flecked with chocolate curls. On the top shelf, drunken, fat cream puffs tilted to one side. It took me a minute to realized I’d been staring at the puffs, my mouth watering.

I blinked a few times, swallowed, and said “no” to the lady who asked if she could help me. Then I high-tailed it out of there before I did something dangerous.

By the way, we joined a gym this weekend.

Photo credit: Rough Guides