Let’s dispense with the pleasantries: There’s a lot of bullshit masquerading under the name “croissant” these days. I’m looking at you, chain bakery on every corner, and you, burger royalty that tries to make a breakfast sandwich with them. These are abominations; they are mere bread impersonating France’s finest exports. The time and effort required to make the real thing has not gone into producing these monstrosities. Go to Dozen instead, and order a simple, plain croissant. Look at it from the side — you can see where layer upon layer of dough was rolled out and then slathered in butter. And then folded and rolled out again. And again. And again. Every single one of those layers represents flavor, something noticeably absent from mass-produced versions. The croissants at Dozen are essentially rolled triangles with a mohawk of flaky, crusty goodness on top. Peel it back and on the inside you can actually smell the butter in the soft center. The true proof of authenticity comes when you’re through: Your plate is covered in bits of croissant, a remnant of the treat you’ve just enjoyed. It’s no sin to sweep all of those flakes into a pile and lick them up.
