Florence's Illegal Bakeries are the Sweetest Taboo

At the end of late, boozy nights in Florence, it's not kebab shops that people follow their noses to. No. There's something far sweeter, yeastier, and satisfying on offer.

Every night, as Florentines turn their bedside lights off and roll over to sleep, the secret bakeries tucked away across the city turn on theirs, along with their ovens, and get down to business. The existence of these bakeries isn't a secret, per say—they mix, knead, glaze, and bake throughout the night to stock the city's restaurants and cafés by morning—but their nocturnal, money-under-the-table practices are. Not only are they secret, though. They're also illegal.

Bakers aren't technically allowed to sell pastries directly to the public, but as the bakeries remain unmarked, they can make a killing in the wee small hours selling pastries to hungry revellers. The bakeries can be hard to find—usually hidden down tiny side streets and alleyways—especially if your vision is a little squiffy. But attune your nostrils finely enough and the secret pastry underworld will reveal itself.

Once you find one, be prepared for a brusque exchange. These bakers aren't fucking around. You knock on a window, wait for someone to pop his or her head round, hand them a euro, and get what you're given. It's as simple as that. And while eating a pastry doesn't exactly make one look badass—no one has swagger with puff pastry flakes and icing sugar tumbling down their shirt—the whole thing feels about as close to a taste of mafia business as I will ever get. It might only be cakes, but it's exciting.

The bakers—who appear to wear their aprons with the same pride and bullishness as a gang tattoo or a mouth full of glinting gold grills—take it seriously. Really fucking seriously. Yes, their pastries might have near-narcotic qualities when eaten straight out the oven, but it's like they're selling something far shadier than moulded dough. Last weekend, I asked one through the crack in his window if he minded having to conduct his business in such surreptitious fashion. "No," he replied. I asked if he'd ever had any problems. "No," he said, shaking his head and eyeballing me suspiciously, like Silvio Dante might were I to rock up at Bada Bing alone of an evening without a big wadge of green to stuff down the dancers' garters. I grabbed my pastry and legged it, having never expected to be terrified of someone who was plying me with refined carbs and chocolate.

Some were more responsive than others to the chirping questions of a curious English girl, and all rejected my camera with the swift raising of the hand, as if they were stopping traffic. One baker I spoke to (entirely faceless behind the barred door—I was merely working with a voice) admitted that he did appreciate the extra income—up to a hundred euros an evening—that came from selling to people during the night, and that the only problems they ever encountered (stings on these bakeries, I'm told, are few and far between—they're obviously doing a good job keeping their cover) were with drunk customers. Idiots.

If there is one rule when buying these illegal pastries, it's to keep your drunken mouth shut. If you're loud and disruptive, not only will the bakers not serve you, they'll shut their doors (or windows) to everyone else. One friend had been waiting for 20 minutes last weekend hoping for a few precious warm mouthfuls of hot dough when a group of sozzled tourists started chanting at the tops of their voices in the line. This chanting—the kind only acceptable at football matches—meant the entire line left empty handed. So she had to slum it with a kebab, the poor bastard.

Another rule of thumb is not to question what you're given. In fact, questions of any kind—as I learned—are frowned upon. Once your money is handed over, you are at the mercy of these floury-fingered gangsters. The range of pastries on offer will vary according to what the bakery's clients—the neighborhood restaurants and cafés—have requested. That said, you can pretty much guarantee that a the Italian equivalent of a croissant filled with apricot jam, Nutella, or fresh cream, will be on offer, alongside the sublime, doughnut-like bombolones. I did speak to an American student, though, who said he was once given a rogue apple and pear tart that "rocked my socks off." So there you go. He also said that he favored an after-hours pastry over more traditional drunken food because it "energized" him for the walk home. I can see the logic: fries slicked with ketchup and mayonnaise only gives you indigestion.

To ensure a pleasant, hassle-free pastry transaction, the safest bet is to head outside the city centre. One located in the Campo di Marte area has become a hangout for teenagers. Only, instead of swigging cheap cider and getting felt up on park swings, Florence's teenagers sit on their mopeds and quietly chomp their way through Nutella pastries. They know what's what. I also met a group of Italian students, who said they tend to go to the bakeries—which are open most nights of the week until five AM—for a pick-me-up during late-night revision sessions.

Favoring pastry over Ritalin can't be a bad thing.