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I thought I had timed it perfectly. At 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, I weaved through the crowds at the Ferry Building on my way to the hotter-than-hot Parachute Bakery, which routinely has had people threading out the door since it opened in September. It’s the kind of place where savvy line-preppers have shown up with chairs and umbrellas.

My goal was to rendezvous with Liz Prueitt, the cofounder of Tartine — and arguably the original queen of bakery lines — and do what so many people have done in the name of her orange-flecked morning bun: stand there and wait for it.

As someone who has long thought lines are for suckers, I wanted to dissect the psychology of a person who, in this era of attention deficit, is willing to linger. I imagined that — while Prueitt and I snaked our way toward an $11 croissant filled with fennel jam, whipped sheep’s milk ricotta, ramp pesto, and asparagus grilled over a wood fire — I’d hear stories of her customers’ unchecked croissant emotions and 86ed-bread-pudding rage. Maybe she could provide a word of wisdom for up-and-coming bakery owners.

But when we finally arrived in front of Parachute’s brick facade, there was not a single customer to be found. Just a lonely stanchion, full of promise. Like a nightclub after the rush.

Stepping effortlessly up to the cashier, I realized I was actually a little sad. Without a line full of people brimming with anticipation, the pastries suddenly seemed like, well, just pastries. It was a reminder of the addictive tension created by supply and demand. When Prueitt, who was clear on my curmudgeonly agenda, showed up a minute later, she saw my disappointment and laughed. Her line-hater friend was found wanting.

Lines are nothing new in San Francisco. For years, people have waited hours for bivalves at Swan Oyster Depot and Anchor Oyster Bar. Before the post-pandemic era of reservations, there were waits for pies at Pizzeria Delfina. And for some reason, people will put their lives on hold for pancakes in perpetuity; brunch spots including Plow and Mama’s on Washington will have a line until the day they shutter.

It’s hard to fathom now, but Tartine did not have a line when it opened in 2002 in the Mission. It took a couple of years to begin, Prueitt told me as I sat eating a canelé, dark with Okinawan sugar. “We didn’t know if we’d stay in business,” she recalled. Today, like a barista transforming Straus milk into an $8 latte, social media froths every opening into a spectacle — and San Franciscans dutifully line up to partake. 

Especially when it comes to bakeries. In San Francisco, the alchemy of flour and butter has given rise to relentless pastry pilgrims.

The minute a bakery starts slinging its goods — like the new (opens in new tab)Sol Bakery (opens in new tab), with its now-famous guava tart, or Astranda Bakery, with its hefty cinnamon rolls — people camp out with the devotion of Phish fans. The enthusiasm can rankle neighbors who are trying to park and cause competitive customers to cut the line. 

To curtail this, Sophie Smith, the pastry chef and owner of Butter & Crumble, the bakery that lays claim to one of the longest lines in SF, (opens in new tab)hired a croissant bouncer (opens in new tab) to “advocate for our neighbors and improve the customer experience” — before those customers even enter the hallowed doors. Familiar with mitigating meltdowns, one mother commented on the post (opens in new tab) announcing the change: “As a former project manager and a mom to a toddler, I feel especially qualified for his job.” 

Parachute pastry chef and co-owner Nasir Armar, who shares my distaste for waiting, has mixed emotions about the lines that form outside his own bakery (I had apparently come on a unusually slow day). “It makes me happy-sad,” he said. “Happy, like, ‘Oh, they want my food.’ And sad because ‘Oh, man, they have to wait two hours.’” He does his best to keep service snappy. About eight people, selected specifically for their friendly natures, work the front of the house so customers are placated, orders aren’t messed up, and coffee doesn’t get cold.

Beware, however, the bakery that intentionally does the opposite: “I know a bakery in London,” he said. “They have one cashier on purpose, to create the line and create that buzz.”

Armando Lacayo, pastry chef and owner of Arsicault Bakery — one of the city’s more famous lines — thinks the drive to wait for his laminated creations is in part because a croissant is “an everyday luxury.” Also, “it’s a nice way to become part of the community.” 

Prueitt agrees. “You see the same people over and over, and you strike up conversations,” she said. “It’s so different from going into a busy restaurant, where you’re suddenly separate from people.” In fact, lines might be more effective than Hinge. One couple met in line at Arsicault and, later, got engaged there, Lacayo says. Prueitt, too, says Tartine’s line has resulted in more than one wedding. 

In a city that optimizes everything, lines might be our last bastion of inefficiency — a place where friction-maxxing (opens in new tab) meets the culture of “little treats (opens in new tab).” Some people gravitate toward long lines on purpose. The Standard’s sports editor Kerry Crowley is that guy: a downright line connoisseur. “My favorite one is the Arsicault line,” he said after waiting 30 minutes for a breakfast burrito at Lucho’s on Ocean Avenue. “It’s really communal.” 

Crowley, a fifth-generation SF native, says he’s coded to queue. “I was born in line,” he laughed. “Every Sunday, my family would go to La Taqueria and wait. Then we’d go get dessert at Mitchell’s and wait there too.” He loves the ritual of it and makes it a social event, asking friends to join him for the wait to grab a pastry so they can hang. Like Lacayo, Crowley sees the value proposition. “It’s so expensive to go to dinner in SF,” he said. “If you want to spend some time with your friends, a line is a good place to catch up. Plus, any place where people are waiting — you know it’s good.”

When I left Parachute that day, a little line had started to form. People peered hungrily at the displays of gochujang pimento cheese twists and croissant cubes filled with cream and strawberries. It felt like the world was back in order again. Without a line, there had been an absence of energy and commotion.

Cities are supposed to be vital, and I realized lines are proof that a city has a pulse. Maybe I don’t want to stand in one myself (there’s TaskRabbit (opens in new tab) for that, or I’ll call up Crowley), but I wouldn’t want to live in a San Francisco with nothing worth waiting for. Or, more important, in a city devoid of obsessive people willing to stand for something delicious.