The littlest bites

The dough lay on the baking sheet, pale and undressed.
The twisted shapes were waiting for the usual egg
wash and the sprinkling of sugar and cinnamon.
I stood outside the pâtisserie window, my forehead
pressed against the tall, etched glass, wanting one
of these pastries so badly I could nearly die for it.
The aromas from the shop floated through the doorway,
mingling with the street smells. I moved closer to the
door and peered through the crack to see the interior of
the shop. A woman was bent over the baking racks, apron
tied around her ample waist, allowing the world to see
her avoirdupois. The ties cut into her fat middle section
as she carefully slid a huge tray from the ancient oven
and placed it on the grey and white marble counter. The
man, tall and lean in opposition to his wife's heft, stood
behind the counter and, slowly raising the steaming milk
pitcher in his right hand high into the air, with the espresso
pot in his left following suit, poured the perfect café au lait
for a customer, the dual streams of hot liquid mingling
mid-air and frothing into the large white bowl on the counter.


Summoning my courage, I moved through the door and
into the shop, stopping in front of the tall glass counter. I was
only four foot something, and this height brought my eyes
level with a tray of éclairs, long and plump with their crème
filling, the chocolate settling over them like a protective blanket.
The petit fours sat next to the éclairs in neat rows of decorated
squares.I knew the cake inside wasn't what these tidbits were
all about. It was the frosting. The decoration. Delicate. Pastel.
So delicious. And oh! The croissants! These crescents of flaky
dough were so tender that each bite just melted in the mouth. I
remembered when y mother would take hers out of the little
oven at home and, applying the pale yellow, unsalted butter to
their insides, give one to me for breakfast, along with the bit of
fromage — usually a soft Saint-Marcellin that complimented
the croissant so perfectly.

That was a long time ago. My mother had since died and, having
no father, I was left pretty much to my own devices. I had been
taken to live with my ancient grandmother, she being the only
relative alive or dead that would even consider adopting a
ragamuffin, twelve year old girl who was painfully quiet and
quite remote from the usual workings of everyday life.

Grand-mère tried hard to make a good home for me. She
was quite crippled and her movement around the tiny
apartment was very difficult. It was my job to shop, to
cook the meals, to do the scant cleaning that got us through
the week without attracting the rats and roaches that were so
common in these old Parisian buildings that had been turned
into low-rent, tenement-type apartments.

It was a cold winter morning that found me at the pâtisserie.
I had done the meager shopping that would have to last us
through the week. I had been very careful to calculate all the
prices, totaling them up to make sure there would be enough
left to buy two pastries, one for me and one for Grand-mère.
I had been so very careful, but the groceries we needed for
the week had taken all the money I had with me. I was beside
myself with upset and disappointment. My one treat for the
week, the one thing that started out my special weekend
morning, was 3.20that pastry. I would take the two pastries
home and, carefully placing one and then the other on the
cracked, white porcelain plates, sit across from Grand-mère
and together we would savor the delicious warmth of the
sweet, delicate dough. We would laugh as we carefully
portioned out each bite. Little bites make it last longer,
Grand-mère would suggest, and we would each try to take
the littlest, tiniest bite possible. It was a time of closeness
for us, a special few moments of the week where we could
be together, forgetting the hardness of our life, to share this
little,sublime luxury.

“Are you just going to stand there gapping?” The baker
leaned over the counter to talk down at me. “What do you
want? The usual?” I couldn’t speak, for the words that
would tell him I couldn't pay for the usual just wouldn’t
come out of my mouth. I was upset and ashamed.
Embarrassed, I slowly turned to leave the shop. As I
walked over the black and white floor tiles, old, but
sparkling clean, I reached the door with great reluctance.
Sighing, I walked out of the shop and began the trek
up the long boulevard to home.

The hand on my shoulder made me stop with a jerk. I didn’t
move a muscle as the other hand placed a bag in front of my
face, a brown paper bag with beautiful grease spots soaking
through from the inside. I looked up to see the gaunt face
of the baker. No smile. Just the gruff words, “Take these to
your Grand-mère. And don’t you eat them before you get
home!” He turned and went back into the shop. I couldn’t
thank him. I had no voice. I opened the bag and before I
could see the pastries, I smelled their deliciousness.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” I turned and
called out after the baker, who by now had disappeared
into his shop. “Thank you!” One last attempt to let him
know how happy he had made me. I began the walk home,
the string bag of groceries in my left hand, the greasy bag
of heavenly delights in my right. I wouldn’t tell Grand-mère
that I had run out of money. Grand-mère wouldn’t like
taking charity from the baker. But right now, all that
didn’t matter. My steps grew quicker, soon turning into a run.
I flew up the stairs to the dark little apartment.

"Grand-mère! Grand-mère! Who can take the littlest bites?” My
day was perfect. I kissed Grand-mère on her thin, wrinkled cheek
and set the bag in front of her. "Who can take the littlest bites?”