Appetite Delight

Corinne stared at the tantalizing display in the bakery window. On the left, savoury meat pies posed in bawdy lusciousness, their flaky, bronzed crusts straining at crimped edges. On the right, a jaunty assortment of sweet pastries strutted—butter tarts bursting with currants, napoleons gushing with custard, and eclairs trumpeting forth dollops of creaminess.

“I can’t give in. I’ve come too far,” she told herself, closing her eyes against their lure.

But her nose seized control. Inhalations brought enticing wisps of fresh-baked fragrance up through her questing nostrils and down the length of her windpipe, tickling and teasing all the way. When a rosy-cheeked shopper, swaddled against the cold, opened the door on her way out of the store, the delicious scent intensified, screaming:  fresh-baked bread! chicken pot pie! chocolate truffle cake!

“I am stronger than this. I can resist.” If she rebuked herself in a stern enough manner, she’d be able to walk away, zero calories ingested.

Corinne opened her eyes and felt saliva pooling in her mouth. She was like a schnauzer that dribbled at the gills whenever a can opener started up.

“Get a grip,” she muttered.

She clasped her mittened hands in front of her chest in a prayerful gesture. Temptation would not get the better of her. She’d recently lost fifteen pounds by renouncing carbohydrates. Those weeks had been miserable—almost not worth living—but she was proud of her new svelte figure. She’d bought smaller clothes and her office mates had taken notice.

Especially, Charles, the man she’d had her eye on for a year. The minute she’d first seen him she’d been struck by his resemblance to Prince Perfecto, a dashing character in her favourite childhood picture book. Prince Perfecto was as well-mannered as he was handsome. As for Charles, he hadn’t noticed her when she’d been tubby. But last week, they’d had coffee together, and that had gone so well she had high hopes for a real date. Was he really her Prince Perfecto, as nice as he was good-looking?  

She needed to stay blade thin. Carbohydrates must be shunned.

But it was bitter and grey outside. And Corinne had had a bad morning at work, dealing with irate customers. And the tuna salad in her lunch bag was soggy and smelly and just so darned depressing.

She hovered, trying to will her feet to walk away, but the door swung open again and a waft of buttery sweetness gusted forth. As if borne on bewitched palmier wings, she entered, removing her mitts so that she could place her hands on the polished surface of the display case. She stretched her fingers and imagined stroking the puffiness of the pastry through the glass.

A silver-haired woman on the other side of the counter drew near.  She was brisk and cheery—round in a becoming way, from her smooth, dimpled cheeks to her trim yet comfortable figure.  Corinne would be happy to look like that in thirty years or so.

“May I help you, dear?” the woman asked. Her alto voice was sweet. A badge on the bib of her starched apron indicated that her name was Dora.

“Oh, I don’t know. I really shouldn’t eat pastry,” Corinne said. But her eyes flicked away from Dora’s and roved up and down the ranks of exquisite confections.

“Nonsense,” Dora replied, still in soothing tones. “The world would be a better place if everyone ate pastries. Each and every single day, pastry makes the pain go 'way.”

The silly rhyme made Corinne smile. She pulled her eyes away from the tempting display and looked up at Dora’s face. For a moment, Corinne thought she saw something sparkly in Dora’s guileless blue eyes—like fairy dust shimmering on sugar-kissed cherry pie—but then the older woman blinked and the illusion was gone.

Dora was right. This grey, dreary day would be made better by pastry. And this little shop was cozy and warm. Bentwood chairs at round café tables looked inviting. The fragrance was soul-stirring and, despite Corinne’s best intentions, irresistible.

“I’ll have just one,” she said, scanning the offerings. “But I can’t choose. I love savoury but sweet is so tempting.”

“Savoury treats fascinate, sweet treats exhilarate.”

“Do you always do that? Rhyme, I mean?” Corinne asked, momentarily diverted from the choice at hand.

“Oh, no, dear; not intentionally,” Dora looked away, but before she did Corinne once again saw something magical in the woman’s eyes, something that glittered like superfine sugar and comforted like oven-fresh bread.

“Sorry. I just thought—well, never mind. I think I’d like to fascinate so I’ll go with savoury. What do you recommend?”

Without hesitating, Dora responded, “Sausage roll. Just out of the oven. Heaven in your mouth. Afterwards, well, trust me, you will fascinate.”

Corinne handed over some coins and accepted a silver fork and a white china plate bearing one perfect sausage roll. Conveying it with reverential care, she took a seat at a tiny café table in the corner, her back to the shop entrance. She intended to enjoy this treat to its fullest and that meant blocking out other clients and even helpful Dora.

The sausage roll’s outer shell was exuberant, flaunting a finish that ranged from pale golden to toasted bronze. Diagonal slashes across the top gave it a sporty, daring look.  Inside, the meat was dark and seductive, poking out just enough to entice. Corinne took time to appreciate it with her eyes, then raised the dish closer to her face and took a deep breath. Yes, there it was. The gorgeous blending of puff pastry and intelligently spiced sausage. One prevailing herb, now what was it? Ah, yes, thyme, of course. Subtle, aromatic.

Now for a taste. Corinne cut into the roll with her fork, feeling resistance and then a satisfying scrunch. She watched, as if in slow motion, flakes of puffed perfection poof up and cascade, most hitting the plate but several scattering onto the tabletop.  And then, as she relished the indescribable union of ethereal pastry with dense sausage meat, she was transported to a place where time did not exist.

When she came back to earth and looked at her plate, it was empty, except for a few errant golden crumbs. Corinne gave a sigh of gratitude. She’d wait a moment longer enjoying the afterglow before braving the winter weather again.

A whoosh of cold air gusted as the door opened behind her and a jumble of conversation filled the small space. Corinne thought she could make out a familiar voice or two. Surely it couldn’t be the office gang? She froze, not wanting to be caught in the pastry shop, after struggling so publicly and for such a long time with her weight.

“So, what d’you suppose your chances with our Former Fatty are?” came one voice, strident and cruel.

“Slam dunk. She’s desperate.  At least now she’s not a total cow,” came another. It was horribly familiar; in fact it belonged to her crush, Charles, who went on to demand in an imperious voice, “Give me two of those mincemeat tarts, won’t you, doll?”

Corinne sat, stiff-backed, and waited until the door had once more closed, leaving her the sole customer. Then, in jagged, unsure movements, she began bundling herself up, redoing buttons, pulling on mittens, adjusting her woolly cap. As she stood to leave, she caught Dora’s gaze. Serious, no-nonsense. Not a trace of magic shone out from those blue eyes now.

“You said my savoury roll would fascinate,” Corinne said. As she spoke, she realized her words were ridiculous. Dora had just been making up meaningless rhymes. Even so, Corinne couldn’t suppress her feelings of disappointment and betrayal.

“Did you enjoy the pastry, dear?”

“Yes. It was delicious. Heavenly, in fact.”

Tears of self-loathing gathered in Corinne’s eyes. That was the whole problem. Pastry was her paradise. She’d been overweight, and her officemates would always remember her like that, and if she weren’t careful she’d gain back those excess pounds. Worse, she had horrible judgment when it came to men. Charles was no Prince Perfecto. He was a jerk who’d never found her attractive, fat or thin.

“My dear, don’t worry. At any weight you’ll fascinate. And soon,” Dora said.

Through her tears, Corinne met Dora’s gaze. Once again, she caught a glimpse of something alluring—a twinkle of spun sugar—before it disappeared.

Enough was enough. This was ludicrous. Corinne picked up her handbag and moved toward the door, which opened before she reached it. A tall young man entered. He was swathed in scarves, but as he de-mummified himself she saw that he had dark hair that shone like tempered chocolate, and the kindest of velvety brown eyes. He looked nothing like Prince Perfecto, but maybe that was a good thing.

“It’s nasty out there!” he exclaimed, walking toward the bakery counter with his arms outstretched.  “Mom, what d’you have that’s good to ward off this crazy weather?”

“Perhaps a crème brûlée on an awful day, Ed?” Dora said, coming out from behind the counter for a moment to give her son a hug.

“You bet. Your special one, with Dad’s old brandy?”

“Naturally.” Dora bustled away to fulfill the request.

“And,” Ed said, becoming aware of Corinne and beaming at her, “these things shouldn’t be eaten alone. Won’t you join me?”

“Well …”

“Of course. You must! Mom makes the world’s finest crème brûlée. You won’t regret it.”

Ed was right. Damn the calories; this was the best thing Corinne had ever eaten. The robust crunch of the caramelized topping yielded to her spoon, surrendering up the silken enchantment of custard.  She let it linger on her tongue, and blushed when she saw Ed looking at her, his brown eyes twinkling in approval. He dipped his own spoon in, and, as the two young people enjoyed their delectable treat, relishing every mouthful, they moved closer together, bit by bit.

Unnoticed from behind the counter, Dora’s eyes flashed the happiness of sugar cookies, the goodness of whole wheat bread, and the stamina of hearty meat pies.

“Sweet treats exhilarate,” she whispered.

But Corinne didn’t hear. She marvelled at the overtones of smooth vanilla and bracing brandy in the crème brûlée. And, when Ed smiled and reached for her free hand, giving it a squeeze, she felt her heartbeat accelerate.