The Best Bakeries in France

Tapisserie is a small bakery in the 11th from the Septime crowd, where the stubby croissants vanish early and the bar for oversleeping is low. If you get one, there's a ledge out front to eat it on, and the maple syrup tart is on offer for consolation. The palmiers wear a crisp caramel coat, and the pastry case turns over with the seasons. Come early or come to terms with it.

A small Jewish bakery in the 9th that does babka as individual rolls, which is a rare thing to find in a city that otherwise considers the baguette a complete personality. Flavors run past chocolate into halvah, cinnamon, and pistachio, and the rugelach comes in chocolate-cinnamon or maple-pecan. At lunch there are challah sandwiches with pastrami, tuna, or sabich. Bring a few euros and an appetite you're willing to defend.

This is a no-frills organic bakery with no baguettes and no Art Deco charm, which in Paris counts as a statement. The sourdough pain de campagne has a treacly crust, and the seedy German-style loaf is a dense little brick built for Roquefort. Everything is sold by weight, so you can assemble a bread flight and carry it to the Seine a few steps away, where the pigeons will take an interest. There's a separate window for gluten-free.

A neighborhood bakery in the 11th where the baguette once took Paris's top prize and the croissant dough gets folded into flowers. Sesame turns up in nearly everything, including a charcoal-black sourdough baguette that looks great next to a candle. Weekends bring a rotating cast of stunts, like a madeleine baked inside a croissant, so check Instagram before you queue. Nothing here needs a reservation or a jacket.

This is a neighborhood pâtisserie on rue Censier that's easy to mistake for a jeweler's, with pastries set out like they've been insured. The cakes lean classic, with a violet-scented Saint-Honoré made for the founder's florist wife as the one real flight of fancy. Expect a short line of locals buying a single éclair and treating it like a major purchase. Pick two things, because you'll want six.

Diamande is a small Algerian pâtisserie in the 11th where the cookies come in colors you'd normally associate with highlighters. The classic shapes stay put, but the flavors wander: pear and ginger in one, blackcurrant and lime in another, and a chile-shaped almond-hazelnut number with a slow peppery burn. The staff will steer you if you freeze at the counter, and a few tiny tables mean you can sit, though not for long.

It's a pastry shop on Rue Montorgueil that works like a group show, with cakes from a rotating cast of famous bakers, several of them holders of the Meilleur Ouvrier de France title that bakeries like to frame in the window. The case changes often, so you're ordering from whatever the guest chefs left behind, which is a nice excuse to stop in more than once. It's a grab-a-box, eat-it-on-a-bench kind of place.

This is a neighborhood bakery in the 14th that leans Alsatian, which in Paris means soft salted pretzels and a strudel with more cinnamon than the locals strictly approve of. There are also sourdough loaves the size of a toddler, tiny cream puffs, and quiches with nut-brown crusts. A line of regulars forms at the counter, and the women running it keep it moving without losing their good humor.

Mille Et Un is a small Franco-Korean bakery in the 6th, where French technique takes on sesame, matcha, and ginger. The Paris-Seoul is a Paris-Brest with a black sesame paste hiding inside, and the flans have a crisp puff pastry shell and a middle set just firmly enough to count as solid. A few tables let you sit down with a ginger tea, and the baguette is a straight-ahead French one, which feels almost rebellious here.

Panade is a bakery out in the 15th, far enough south that making the trip counts as a personal statement for the Left-Bank-averse. The viennoiseries wander off from French tradition, including a cinnamon croissant spiced almost enough for American palates and a leftover-croissant pastry with peanuts and sweet coffee fondant that reads as an artisanal Pop-Tart. The line stays short, and one table overlooks the open kitchen.

Petite Ile is a small Franco-Taiwanese bakery in the Marais where French croissants share a counter with fluffy pineapple buns, and nobody seems to be arguing about it. The black sesame pain au chocolat is the one that sells out, and the sourdough boule keeps for days, in case you're the type to plan ahead. Everything is a few euros, and the line forms early. Named among The Infatuation's best bakeries in Paris.

This is a bakery on a Left Bank street, and it sells enormous round sourdough miches stacked in tight rows behind the counter, with a mild tang and a dense crumb that suits a grilled cheese. The branded tote bags and bread knives make it look like a souvenir stop, but people queue for the loaves. The apple chaussons look like turnovers and aren't too sweet. A bread chandelier hangs in the back, which is a lot to ask of flour.

A neighborhood boulangerie in the 5th that you may recognize from a certain Netflix show, which explains the selfie line and the branded shopping bags. The croissant is shatteringly flaky with a browned-butter edge and a light, airy middle, and it's been written up by The Infatuation among the city's top croissants. The apple tart, slow-cooked compote under thin caramelized slices, is the other thing people order. Pay at the counter, eat on the sidewalk.

Le Boulanger De La Tour is a neighborhood bakery in the Latin Quarter, and its croissants are puffed up like the Michelin man, minus the hot air. The crust tastes of buttered toast with a faint bitter edge, and the apple chausson is long enough to need its own seat, filled with compote caramelized to roughly the color of the Eiffel Tower. It's a pastry-and-pavement breakfast, cheap and quick, with the Seine nearby.

A neighborhood boulangerie in the 15th that's near enough to the Eiffel Tower to be tempting, and boring enough to be ignored by everyone holding a selfie stick. The classic croissant smells of hot butter even cold, and you can eat it on-site with a coffee. The women behind the counter are friendly, which quietly dismantles a whole genre of Paris warnings. The cinnamon roll has more cinnamon than Paris usually allows.