If I could of, I would’ve gone to that bakery every day of the week except for Thursdays because that’s his day off. So instead, I’d go to the Starbucks on the corner of 102nd and Broadway. But I’d never eat there because their KrispyKream donuts pale in comparison to his brioche, croissants and pain au chocolat.

Our relationship was strange. It was based on flour, sugar and butter. Baked goods. It all started with an almond croissant. Light, flaky and honest. It was split crosswise and spread with a perfect layer of orange-scented almond filling and then topped with the thinnest slivers of the roasted nut and a little powdered sugar.

At first, I had bought the croissant more as an afterthought to the coffee than anything else but I noticed him right off through the chaos of the morning rush. He was behind the counter cutting and weighing dough and watched me eat from his perspective, through the baker’s eyes. He had a black-purple face and a white teeth smile. His hands handled the dough with poise and competence. When I finished the last speck of my croissant, he was wiping a smudge of flour off his chin with his apron. And I could’ve jumped over that counter and hugged him right then and there for that pastry because he seemed like the kind of guy who would know exactly why a woman would do such a thing.

I watched Henry a lot in the next few weeks as he baked side by side with his boss. They’re quite a pair. She’s a tall slim woman who used to be a classical musician. She played the harpsichord and traveled through Europe and after feeling too old to tour any more she took on her other passion, baking.

He won’t say, confirm or deny this, but I think he learned the feel of dough from his native West Africa. In 1960 the French granted Burkina Faso with independence but in their wake they left behind skilled bakers and a predilection for good bread. He’s from the outskirts of the capital — Ouagadougou – a refugee from a nation prone to drought, famine and death by AIDS.

The French that these two bakers speak between them has an easy, even cadence that lacks urgency. It’s clear and without pretense despite the commotion and urban confusion that surrounds them. They move around one another in aprons and white caps while they flour the bannetons, knead, stretch and slice the peasant bread and top it with poppy, sesame and fennel seeds. Their relationship appears to be rooted in a mutual respect for yeast.

The only time Henry crossed the line between us – the baker and his customer – was the day he came over to my table and handed me a box that contained a golden brioche – a gift – circular and braided, it was filled with chopped apricots, scented with cardamom and washed with egg. He hadn’t known that it was my last day in the city and seemed genuinely sad to hear that one of his admirers was leaving. So he gave me another gift – he told his real name, taught me how to pronounce it and said he was switching his day off to Wednesday.

Henry's Bread was originally broadcast on May 26, 2004