Fortitude Bakehouse
“The only thing worse than human culture is human nature.”
Eugene Thacker
A nice day lurks behind the clouds; but it is reserved for the inhabitants of the stratosphere and only appears in tantalising glimpses to those on the ground.
The squat, almost brutal, exterior of the Fortitude Bakehouse befits the grey world that surrounds it; the tastefully ornamented minimalism of the interior, where disco music plays and gorgeous bohemian creatures greet you, provides a welcome escape from it.
Although there is only room to sit on school benches and spindly-legged tables outside, the beige-scale room disrupted with strong stripes of royal blue is a bread scented solace. As I stand in line, I think that its aroma is precisely what artificially scented supermarkets are attempting to emulate — producing only pale and anaemic imitations in the process.
The bakery’s unique offering is cakes made entirely from sourdough served from an architectural complex that comic book mystic Alan Moore described as “a foundry where futurity is smelted.” There is little that is subtle or apologetic about fortitude’s baked goods — but neither the name, nor it’s location in the morbidly named ‘Horse Hospital’, promised anything different. The descriptor ‘bakehouse’, rather than ‘bakery’, communicates their approach aptly; a rugged, robust establishment void of unnecessary embellishment closer to a home than some oppressively dainty patisserie.
Fortitude’s selection is split into a binary of savouries and sweets — although decoration is minimal, the plooming roles of soft sourdough, gorgeously partitioned pastries and thick crusts are an attractive enough substance to not require cosmetic adornment.
Their cinnamon bun is locally famous — and, although they tend to run out early in the morning (and have on this particularly occasion), its quality warrants the five minute rhapsody of regret that was delivered to me by a soho native when I denied her the indulgence by buying their final one on a previous occasion. Its dough is hearty, its filling sweetly scented but not sickly, and its density welcome in a cake landscape populated by delicate, airy but ultimately unsatisfying offerings.
The muffin I ordered as a consolation is springy and moist — its pleasant thickness disrupted by the acidity of a soft raspberry splash and the sweet granularity of a crumble topping. While a hot drink and a half hour is demanded to lubricate and conquer the ample size, if you have the money and the time to afford you these — as many of the clientele of cyclists and young families do — then there is no better alley in bloomsbury to wander down.
Fortitude bakery is a stop more than it is a snack — a meal not a morsel. This, though, is where its attraction lies; and it remains one of my favourite places for a committed cake encounter — somewhere to sit in sweet, unassuming serenity in an area otherwise populated by squawking students, soulless new builds and charmless chain restaurants.
