Mr potato bread was rolling down Bourke St. when he bumped into the neighbourhood’s infamous tarts, Crème Brulee and Frangipane.

His rosemary eyes twinkled as he caught sight of luscious Crème Brulee. “We’re off to the party at Olive Oil’s,” she purred. “All the loaves will be there – Fig and Barberry, Soy and Linseed, even Ms Spelt will come. Look, there’s Rye with Caraway up ahead.”

Mr Potato Bread couldn’t believe his luck. He’d always had a sweet crush on Crème Brulee. When they arrived at Olive Oil’s, the line snaked around the corner.

The Pies and Pizzas were posing as usual, but Baguette, the bouncer, let the tarts jump the queue. Poor Mr Potato Bread was left behind. Inside, the croissants were causing a commotion on stage, and the muffins were making mayhem behind the bar.

Pork and Fennel Sausage rolled around the dance floor while Praline twisted herself into yogic contortions.

When Mr Potato Bread made it inside, he spotted Chocolate Ganache seducing Crème Brulee. Mr Potato Bread’s large, round and wholesome body panged for her. She was just so perfectly delectable — he didn’t stand a chance.

Sourdough, the ancient earth mother, was dancing around the fire. She took one look at Mr Potato Bread, gave him a potent starter shot and a dose of wisdom: “You are humble, hearty, solid loaf. Rise up. We come from the artisan tribe, growing every day.”

Slowly, organically and harmoniously, Mr Potato Bread started to come back down to earth and feel himself again.

Carrot Cake came up with a lovely cream dress on and murmured hello. “Hmmmm,” she looks tasty too… “All in all, it was a regular Surry Hills affair — a mix of flavours, familiar and exotic, heartbreaking and tantalising. As the last stars faded, a delicious aroma wafted through the air.”

Everyone was well and truly baked. Olive Oil slipped away and in walked the Bourke Street bakers, ready to start another day.