European Pastry
A truly embarrassing story
My dad had spotted a European bakery that popped up in his neighborhood. He was jazzed about it. It was new. It was European.
As we were getting out of his car after Sunday brunch – a tradition since my sister and I moved to the city for college – Dad dropped his exciting news. He mentioned it as if suddenly remembering he had won a modest lotto prize. It was his typical fashion of ending father-daughter dates. He invariably cast a dramatic lure for the following visit.
“Say girls, you like pastry. What do you say we go try that new Café Mozart sometime? It’s my treat.”
‘Sometime’ meant next time, and soon.
“Sure.”
“It’s European pastry.”
My eyebrows raised involuntarily with the excited pitch of his voice.
European? Not French or Swiss…they would definitely broadcast their national pride. What other pastry is there? Hmmmm… Don’t say anything. Don’t squelch his enthusiasm.
“Yeah, ok. Sounds good.”
“Well, do you expect you will be free next Saturday?”
My sister and I looked at each other – Guess we’ll be drinking lots of coffee next Saturday – then at our father’s imploring boyish look.
“Probably.”
“I guess.”
Visual pre-guilt trip nudge from my sister.
“We’ll see you Saturday.”
“Great! I’ll pick you up at ten.”
My sister and I exchanged glances again, me with a sly smile. Add two hours for lateness and traffic… Noon will be perfect.
“That’s perfect. See you Saturday. You girls are in for a real treat!”
“Bye, Dad.”
He was such a sucker for novelty. And he knew I was, too. I loved to eat as much as he did. Well, as long as it tasted good. Forget about those industrial “baked goods” at the grocery store. Even a half-hearted cannoli from Armanelli’s near my grandparents’ house was worth it for its surreal green tips and a glimpse of my father’s nostalgic glee upon walking into that dusty Italian bakeshop.
My sister? She’d come along out of obligation. Dad knew his darling eldest could be guilted into almost anything if he tuned his voice to the right note. She would come to make him happy. Take a few bites. Think about how she’d have to skip lunch. Drink coffee while she fantasized about smoking away from our parents’ judging gaze and being somewhere else. She would smile more than talk. She wouldn’t want Dad to feel as lonely as she imagined he was.
The big day arrived. It was actually a welcome change from our go-to-class-procrastinate-drink-sleep-cram-celebrate-sleep routine. A field trip from our boring reality. Our adventure would take us to the famous “European bakery” in an undisclosed suburb. Dad knew better than to stoke any of our shameless prejudice about particular towns.
Would it be gross? Would it be good? It will definitely be weird. The promise of weird and new desert was enough for me. European… Italian? There were lots of them my grandparents’ age. Naw, their ruffly sheetcakes would be emblazoned with Italian flags despite being second or third generation American. What other “European” pastry is there?
Dad shocked us by being only an hour and a half late. Our calculations were thrown. When he announced himself at our apartment door, my sister and I were still covering our hangovers with foundation, concealer, blush. He waited for us in the hallway, which was in no way intended to rush us. Dad’s gallantry only heightened the formality of our excursion.The boom of his third gentle reminder knock, however, succeeded in smearing my eyeliner.
“Just a minute, Dad!”
“Just — can you wait for us in the car? We’ll be down in a sec.”
“Very well.”
I finished my toilette and looked at my sister, lagging as usual.
“Hey, Dad must be really pumped.”
“I doubt that. It’s just an excuse to spend time with us.”
“Well, I hope it’s as good as he thinks it’ll be. I hope it’s really European.”
We smooshed ourselves into his little white car. My sister had a hand full of mascara, a brush, and a mirror. She flipped the visor mirror down to continue painting. Her cigarettes were poking out of her jacket. I tucked them in before either of them noticed.
“You girls buckled in?”
Click. Click.
“I hope you’re hungry!”
And we began our journey to Europe via the suburbs.
My sister was still working on her masterpiece.
That left me to give the back end cues to Dad.
“Uh huh…Fine…Oh really?…That’s neat…Wow.”
I tried to stare her down. Hello? Finally, I caught her eye in the tiny vanity mirror she was using to primp.
We’re going out to eat in the suburbs. With Dad.
Her glare met mine. What? I’ll look good if I want to. Who cares where we’re going? Eye roll and shrug.
The anonymously gray sky against the deeper gray pavement and the camouflage of drab beigey gray brown houses and cars was beginning to diminish both my appetite and curiosity. Spring was struggling to get into character that year, which was all the more apparent in this trek through the distant ‘burbs.
My sister continued to put finishing touches on her makeup. She was blind to the environment, deaf to our father’s animated soliloquy about the time in Germany when he visited his first Kaffeehaus.
“…Poppyseed, liqueur-laced rich mokka coffee, blond fraulien…”
Neither of us cared to hear about Dad’s predilection for blondes.
We pulled into a strip mall with plenty of parking available.
Eeegh. It’s here?
“Ok. We made it! There it is…Café Mozart!”
The plucky melody of Mozart’s piano concerto number seventeen greeted us at the door. The two patrons present glanced our way, then resumed their European conversation in the generic chair and table sets. There was a buttery vanilla scent hanging densely in the humid air. It was an aroma more evocative of cookies than cakes. A definite turn-off for me. Steady. Don’t judge until you taste. Then I detected some fruit and nut notes that I couldn’t place. Could be unexpected delights ahead.
A plump middle-aged woman waddled towards us with an aloof smile and a blond hair whipped into a complicated, poofy bun. Signs of European authenticity. Probably Eastern European.
“Gutentag!” Our father spoke fluent German. Twenty years ago.
“Hello. Three?” The baker or baker’s wife more likely, sounded like she was speaking through a few marbles lodged in the back of her throat. The large glass case positioned majestically behind her called out to me. It was generic-looking yet imposing. That must be where the mysterious treasure lies. My feet hesitated between a sneak preview and polite reserve. Dad laid his hand on my shoulder. He was a stickler for manners.
“Why yes, a table for three, please. Thank you.”
Dad had a speech affect straight out of a 1950s film. It was unclear whether this was the result of his penchant for genteelness, his educated middle-class European parents, or his grandiose idiosyncrasy. My sister and I smile-nodded at Olga with quiet embarrassment.
Don’t be an asshole. Dad’s paying. He can butcher German, Romanian, Polish, Croatian, or whatever all through the meal.
Our cold metal chairs scraped unpleasantly across the linoleum as we settled into the table. The piano notes tinkled above us tenaciously in response. It was a generally inoffensive room. Ivory everywhere dotted with pastel in non-descript café art. At least there were real tablecloths and flowers. Paper napkins, though.
My sister and I quickly became engrossed in the menu. There were some recognizable words: mokka, milch, crème but puzzling umlauts, P-shaped double Ss, and carrot accents. Those aren’t Germanic… Hungarian? Croatian? The oriental contours of this Europeanness were coming into focus.
“To drink?” Olga’s “d” came out somewhere between “b” and “z.” The marbles were in tact.
“Coffee.”
“Double espresso.”
“Ein Fiaker.” Dad ordered in an affected German accent.
His effort was rewarded with a puzzled look from Olga, keeper of European coffee and pastry.
He pointed to the menu.
“I’m sorry. Today, we don’t have any liqueur.”
So Dad’s trying to sneak a little sauce, eh?
Dad looked disheartened. “Ein Milchkaffee. Bitte.”
Olga maintained her patient stance and continued to smile, but her smile was growing shabby. Her bun was coming loose on one side.
“Which cakes will you like to try?”
Undaunted, Dad kept up the German routine.
“What do you recommend, Frau?”
Her smile brightened a shade.
“This one is very good.” Olga’s words, though slow and exaggerated, were completely foreign to us all. Dad did not express any confusion out of politeness. She repeated them this time pointing at the menu. “This one…and this one. It’s our specialty.”
“Very well. We’ll try both. Danke schoen.”
Sponge cake, cream, chocolate, strawberry or cherry or raspberry, walnut or hazelnut or almond…and liqueur. The various pastries all started to blur together in decadent mass after the first three descriptions.
The abrupt whining of the milk steamer and clanking of glasses rivaled the classical soundtrack overhead. Someone turned up the music in an attempt to restore the fragile quaintness of the atmosphere. The raised volume distracted me.
It was a moody Chopin prelude.
Ah! Might they be Polish?
Dad asked about our classes (they’re fine), and our boring jobs (same – fine), and our boyfriends (also fine). Everything was going fine.
“How are Grandma and Grandpa?”
“Oh, you know, they are getting older. I take them to the doctor. They’re doing all right. Yesterday, I took Grandpa to the nursery. He is planning his garden…”
My sister was inspecting her nails. No nail implements were allowed at the table. She began a violent attack on her cuticles anyway.
Where’s the effin’ coffee?
“…This year, he wants to try leeks. Leeks? Can you believe that?”
The parachuting of several teacups and saucers onto our small table jostled us out of our small talk. My sister’s poor cuticles were rescued by an impressive sugar assortment and extra cream. Despite the fancy names, all three cups looked like basic cafe lattes.
Our reluctant Frau went to the kitchen for our desserts. She returned with a regular cake with three layers of nuts and cream and fruit fillings.
The march from Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf began to tiptoe towards us from the corners of the room.
“Here is the glöpenfranze torte.”
She set it down. My hand was on my fork.
“And the špičkalikérová.”
We all looked at the second plate. We could not take our eyes off it.The object before us was astonishing. Definitely chocolate. But chocolate what? And the shape… But the shape was… well, disturbing. There on the innocent plate was a small chocolate cone, about three inches in length, and inch and a half in diameter, sitting erectly atop a soft sphere of either chocolate mousse or sponge. It was hard to tell which.
My eyes slowly met my sister’s. Then back to the plate. Then to our father’s face. We cautiously monitored his reaction. A few heartbeats passed in silence. Then, a cofounded “huh” from Dad.
“I don’t mean to seem inappropriate, girls, but…”
“Ok Dad. We don’t have to be inappropriate, right? Let’s change the subject.”
He looked at the cake, frowned, then clocked my sister, then me. His face had gravity of a man unraveling a conspiracy plot.
“It looks kind of like…well, I hate to say it, but…”
“ – Then don’t! Don’t say it, Dad! Just keep it to yourself!”
We were teetering on hysterical laughter (me) and a mortified outcry (my sister).
“…it really does look like –”
“Dad! –” My sister pleaded.
“ – an erection. Exactly like an erection.”
The air in our exhausted lungs gushed out. With mine came a snort. Here we go. He’s started it.
“Huh. Isn’t that bizarre?…Now why on Earth would they make something that resembles an erect penis?”
Oh dear God, please make him stop.
My sister and I exchanged a quick visual acknowledgement of the door slamming closed on this verbal torture chamber. How could he be so formal yet vulgar at the same time? Good question. As long as he used clinical terms, our father felt his shared meditation was strictly philosophical. He was wringing his hands out of discomfort.
I noticed a bit of dirt under his nails, which was unusual because our father was such a well-kempt man.
“Hey, Dad – did you wash your hands? I don’t think we can use a fork with that, uh, pastry.”
“Oh, gosh, you know? I forgot. Thank you for reminding me.” He got up to find the restroom.
“You girls go ahead.”
He nodded at the desserts. But reencountering the chocolate protrusion, he jerked back with a dazed sort of revulsion. He shot us a gleaming smile as if to divert his attention, and walked towards the kitchen, shaking his head softly.
“What the fuck? Is this a practical joke?”
My sister let out a chuckle.
“No, I’m serious. Is this a joke? Two girls and their dad…and she’s gonna recommend that?” She was snorting now.
She was flabbergasted but also so embarrassed she could hardly talk through her soundless, aspirated laughter. Then I caught the silent hysteria.
“Wait, wait!,” I protested, trying to regain composure. “We have to do something, open it, or whatever. We can’t just leave it like that.”
“I know. Dad would never waste food no matter how obscene it looks.”
“We have to hurry!”
“You do it!”
“No, you!”
“We’ll both do it.” We raised our tiny four-tined swords.
“Ready? GO!”
The wolf was gaining on Peter. We had to strike.
Crack. Gasp. Gasp.
Our merciful blow revealed another layer of vulgarity. Inside the chocolate shell was tan-colored sponge cake. Innocent enough. But inside that was a thin stream of beige, creamy liquid.
“Oh my god! Disgusting!” My sister yelled as quietly as she could. We giggled and shook our heads in incredulity. We heard our father’s footsteps approaching.
Uh oh. Hurry, destroy it! He can’t see that!
We mooshed around the cake so that the mysterious jet of Baileys was undetectable. Dad took a seat and picked up his coffee. He smiled at us and then gazed around the room. The whole scene would have fascinated Freud. Dad’s gaze landed on the phallic massacre. He snorted. Lizst’s Liebestraum gave us all much needed respite.
Hmm, could indeed be Hungarian. Terse people but tasty pastries.
“That cake, or whatever it is, is obscene,” Dad opined.
“And you only saw the outside!” I couldn’t help myself.
“What’s that?”
“Nevermind! She’s messing with you.”
Daggers flew at me from my sister’s eyes.
“This one, the frügleschomptel is good.” I clinked my fork against the plate of the normal layer cake.
“And it has a much more, um, wholesome shape,” my sister added.
Finally, after a few quick shrill gasps, my sister and I exploded into a great cascade of laughter. Dad’s deep chuckle drowned our soprano shrieks of hysteria.
“Everything is good,” asked Olga.
“Very good, Frau. Just fine. I believe we will take the check now. Bitte.”
She nodded and turned away.
We bit our lips respectfully until Olga was out of sight. A small chortle returned us all to a level of calm befitting our European space.
Dad paid. We finished our coffee, and bundled up.
“I am not convinced that this cafe is Austrian, as the name implies.” Dad was thinking aloud. The drizzle had turned to rain. I walked behind my sister and father, dragging my feet. What was that thing? Spick – span? Spanakopita? No –
“Guys, I have to check something. Be right back!” I ducked back inside.
Pretending to be browsing through the pile of fliers and special interest suburban rags I stalled for time while Olga cleared our table.
Did she notice the wreckage of the špičkalikérová lying there flaccidly?
“Hm hm hm,” I whistled a jaunty imaginary tune. When Olga disappeared once more, I raced over to the glass case. I quickly scanned the desserts for our phallic pastry. There was only one left. Two actually, but one had been knocked over and cracked a bit.
The emasculation continues!
Two cards inside of the case placed side by side read “špička koňaková” and “špička likérová.” I grabbed a pen on the counter and scribbled the first word on my hand. Was that licorice or liquor?
Olga reemerged, spotted me, and started to come my way. She would have made an excellent guard at Checkpoint Charlie, uptight Aryan hair and all. I could only manage to get the first word down before chucking the pen back on the counter.
“Oh, I was just leaving. Thank you! Danke schoen!” I released an avalanche of giggles. I could not resist one last jab at the preposterously named Café Mozart.
As I pulled the door to leave, I heard a tune I recognized in an instant. It was hauntingly Slavic. Dvořák’s cello concerto.
Aha: Czech!
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