Concha Protocol

I marched straight into the corner panadería right as the aroma of warm vanilla and baked butter hit the morning air. Onto the flour-dusted wooden counter I sprang, flanking a giant wicker basket piled high with fresh pink and chocolate conchas. One of the chrome pastry tongs had slipped halfway off its wire holder, rattling precariously near the edge. Planting my boots firmly, I leaned forward and gave the metal handle a swift tap with the blunt flat of my blade, knocking the tongs squarely back into their groove with a sharp clink. The morning rush can roll in now; this counter is under proper boss supervision.