If the bread's worth $6.25 or more, it's a great deal. If it's worth $5.75 or less, you're getting hosed. Value, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. Or in the mouth. It's your call partner.
I remember when I first moved to Berekely in 1972, and was invited to participate in the "Food Conspiracy," which was a co-op of hippies, yipppies and other like minded flotsam and jetsam. One fine rainy day, they asked me to drive down to Watsonville to help pick up some organic produce because the other guy with a Class I had flaked. Happy to oblige and all, we picked up a rig and off we went.
Did I mention that I'd lived on a commune in Watsonville a couple of years before? Well sir, we get there and who should we buying produce from other than the biggest thieves in the central valleys. I knew them personally. They were a couple of lazy-@$$ mofos who stayed too stoned to feed horses they were paid to board. These guys were so nasty R. Crumb, who lived, more or less, in the area, used their caricatures as members of Captain Pissgum's crew. Yar.
These jabonies figured the way to make a million bucks was to buy the distinctly non-organic rejects from the local farmers, and put them in unmarked cardboard boxes, and sell them to poor, miserable sinners who figured anything that looked unattractive was probably healthy. I saw what was in those boxes, and blurted out, "this isn't organic, these are the f**king culls! (Never one to put too fine a point on it.) To be honest, I was not a great judge of produce, but I knew those characters. Fortunately, the maroons started laughing, thus blowing their own gaffe.
Sometimes farmers' markets are like that, and sometimes they're not. Usually a sort of mix. Nice atmosphere though.