How Machiavelli’s Became Medellín’s Finest Pastry Shop
Written by: Mariah Shanice “Shan” Basa
When I first met Charles Douglas, owner of Machiavelli’s, the restaurant was so full the air inside was buzzing. Bodies shuffled between tables, voices layered over the hiss of espresso machines and the gentle clink of metal on ceramic.
The interior is simple—white walls, floral cushioned seats. The eyes drift automatically toward the lit-up pastry case with all sorts of baked goods, all flaky and glistening under the warm light.
He walked out of the kitchen to say hi—understandably busy, but outwardly unshaken. With 35,000 Instagram followers and the week of Feria de las Flores drawing crowds, the pastry shop was packed, but Charles has the demeanor of a man who’s hard to freak out.
He sat with us and started to tell the beginnings of Machiavelli’s—his eyes darted around the cafe, however, to and fro, noticing everything that needed to be done.
“It’s a busy day today,” he said with a smile, before standing up and going back into the kitchen.
The almond croissant I had ordered made its way to me. I cut it crosswise and took a big bite of one half. The crust cracked, sending a rain of flaky dough onto the white plate below. The taste of butter flooded in first—rich and deeply creamy—followed by the sensation of a soft, velvet interior. The last thing—a sugary-almond aftertaste that lingered.
Just a day ago, I had tasted Charles’ pain au chocolat—that same perfect balance of textures, but with chocolate that tasted dark and earthy. That was when I asked MDE Community founder Mayan Benedicto for a chance to interview the man.
Walking on Carrera 73, one would notice Machiavelli’s through a poster: a cross-section of a freshly baked pain au chocolat, and the line “La pasteleria mas fina de Medellín.” The image is architectural in its precision, each honeycomb arched like a cathedral rib vault.
Alta pastelería. High-end pastries.
I walked in.
Charles arrived a few minutes late, apologizing and explaining the circumstances with the same matter-of-fact precision, the same kind of straightforward honesty, that would carry through our entire conversation.
My first question—out of all the pastries on display, what was his favorite?
Without missing a beat, he said, “the cheese danishes.”
“Can you remember the first time you tasted this pastry? Where was it?”
“At a Starbucks. In Parkview.”
Not the answer I was expecting.
He smiled while thinking about those afternoon Starbucks trips, even as he admitted the danishes weren’t that good. School had never been his strong suit, and his father was often sick while growing up, but even then, those simple pastries gave him an appreciation for the texture of bread, the interplay of savory and sweet, and the potential of what pastry could be.
It took more than those afternoon treats to make him realize his calling, but the seeds were already there: that same eye for potential would follow him from military barracks to retail floors, where he met a mentor who pulled strings to get him into Le Cordon Bleu in France.
After two and a half months in Paris, he still struggled. But upon encountering entremets—complex, multi-layered cakes with five different textures requiring razor-sharp precision and exact execution of multiple French pastry techniques—it finally clicked: pastry was his calling.
That’s how a kid who almost managed to burn down his apartment complex trying to fry canned dough turned into a passionate pastry chef.
Thirty minutes in, Charles asked me if I’d ever had a canelé. I told him I hadn’t.
“Give me a minute.”
He walked back into the kitchen and came out with a small glistening pastry on a small plate. Dark amber, almost black at the ridges. I ate it in one go. It was glassy and caramelized on the outside, both a custard and soft bread at the same time.
“It’s essentially a baked pudding,” he said, watching my face for the moment of recognition.
Baked pudding. That’s exactly what it was. A perfect description that somehow doesn’t do justice to how it has textures from the opposite ends of the spectrum: chewy and crunchy, spongy and pudding-like, dense and airy.
I wanted another one, but that was the last one he had, so I settled for just continuing the conversation.
Charles returned to the US after Le Cordon Bleu, head full of French techniques. But with an hourly rate of $9.25 per hour in pastry kitchens, he was pragmatic—he switched careers and found more lucrative work as a political organizer.
He was good at it, learning to navigate the particular rhythms of American politics and eventually getting promoted to director level. By the time he climbed the ladder, however, he was disillusioned with the endless cycles of compromise.
“You have to be a little delusional to think you can move the needle.”
Remote work offered him the freedom to reconsider everything from anywhere.
So he flew to Colombia to visit.
Like most remote workers in Colombia, Charles frequented cafes. While good coffee was everywhere, proper pastry was a bit harder to come by. Croissants were treated like bread.
That’s what eventually inspired him to return to pastry. He started as a pastry chef in a bakery, where he first discovered what would eventually be the biggest challenge when he opened his own—sourcing the right ingredients.
Butter was a recurring issue. Most butters that arrived on his doorstep were mixed with margarine. He needed proper beurre—higher percentage of fat, deeper flavor.
This, plus the lack of proper machinery, made the first five months of opening Machiavelli’s way harder than he expected. He grappled with dough that rose differently in Colombia’s heat and humidity, suppliers who promised one thing and delivered another, the constant negotiation between what he knew was possible and what was available.
But instead of quitting, he decided to go back to the US, where he worked three jobs in order to purchase and ship the proper equipment to Colombia. All so he could do things right.
When he returned, he came back with a single-minded resolve: basic pastry done right. No cutting corners, no gimmicks, no compromises. He found a proper butter supplier and focused on the fundamentals: sweet and savory croissants, pain au chocolat, and of course, cheese danishes.
Off the cuff, I asked him, “What’s the difference between a baker and a pastry chef?”
“A baker is committed to a product,” he answered. “A pastry chef is committed to precision.”
The interview was wrapping up, and Mayan asked me for a good question she could shoot for social media, something that would capture what Charles was about in a single moment.
I knew immediately.
“What makes for a good croissant?”
His eyes lit up.
“A little bit crunchy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside, where you can taste the butter.” He closed his eyes, savoring an imaginary croissant, hands moving slightly as if shaping the words into pastry.
One final word, smiling like a kid who has just discovered that the thing he loves most is also the thing he does best:
“Un bon croissant—it’s not bread. It’s un croissant. You taste good butter when you eat it.”
About the Writer:
Shan is a location-independent writer who believes the best stories happen when you actually talk to people. She likes digging beneath the surface to find what makes places and people tick.
Her approach is simple: ask the right questions, and listen carefully.
She specializes in profiles, city guides, and travel writing that goes beyond the Instagram spots. Available for freelance projects worldwide.
Contact: mariahshanicebasa@gmail.com
Medellin Community 
