The Good, the Bad and the Somewhat Sad

So the good news is We Won!  We Won!  No, not the lotto, you silly donkey.  If I'd won the lotto would I still be writing this blog?  Well, yes, probably.  But okay, no, we didn't win the lotto.  Sorry about the donkey crack.  I'm a little testy these days. 

We did, however, win a FastPass to the Big Apple Barbecue Block Party.  I say "we" sort of loosely.  Technically it's G that entered and won.  In actuality, the winning entry was a limerick that we co-wrote.  Of course he came up with the imagery noted by the judges for its "priceless" quality.  But the limerick rhythm and rhyme scheme, well, folks, that was yours truly.  What a team we are.  Good thing, too, since I must needs have my share of that BBQ.

In other, not-so-good news, I had a run-in at a bakery today. God, I hope I don't make a habit of this, since I really don't have a lot of time to do my own baking these days.  Anyway, here's what happened. 

My colleague Paul showed up outside the Silver Moon Bakery, where we'd planned to sit and have beverages and start planning the summer technology institute we're co-teaching next month.  I was waiting for him.  "We can't stay here," I said.  "I've been burning and pillaging, and we need to go find a Starbucks."  

It was just such a fate I'd been hoping to avoid, since I'd rather patronize a homey little  neighborhood bakery than a StarBorg.   It was I who'd suggested Silver Moon as a meeting place.  It's a place that I've always liked, and so I probably shouldn't be outing them on my blog, since I'll never again be permitted to purchase another of their yummy (and pricey) chocolate brioche sprinkled with crystal sugar, a treat that definitely aided in my recuperation from surgery when I was staying at my cousin's home on the West side some eight years ago.  Said cousin (and I won't tell her name, for fear that she'll get cut off from her baguette supply) introduced me to her local bakery, and once I had tasted the wonder of their chocolate brioche,  a luscious envelope of brioche dough folded over a treasure of dark chocolate chips and then sprinkled with crystal sugar -- well, I was hooked. 

Not so hooked that I would make a special trip or anything.  But certainly hooked enough that if I had time to kill in that neighborhood, there would be a bag of brioche coming home with me from my West side travels.  You can imagine my joy when I got there early for my meeting with Paul, quite early, and found that there were still plenty of chocolate brioche.  You know what I'm having for breakfast tomorrow, yes you do.  And not only that, they had apple raisin brioche.  And I live with a lover of apple pastries, so a few of those had to go in the bag too.  And they had one more apricot brioche that looked lonely all by itself, so I figured I'd let that one come home with me as well.  A cup of iced tea and $25 later, I took everything outside to a cafe table.  I wasn't going to eat any of the brioche, but I felt nice and cozy knowing that after my planning meeting was over, I would take them home and save them for tomorrow's breakfast, and surprise G with apple raisin brioche, and put some in the freezer since who knows when I'll be on the West side again.

I sighed with contentment as I waited for Paul.  Whereupon I was told by a server that I couldn't sit at the table, since it was waitservice only and I had purchased my goods inside.  I looked around at the people sitting happily at tables and eating their $3 muffins, drinking their $4 worth of coffee, and I explained to her that I had just spent $25 dollars inside. 

She didn't care.  Rules, you see, is rules.  And they did have signs up that said tables were for table service only.  Considering the sort of temper I've been in for, oh, the past several months, I behaved very well.  I picked up my bag o' brioche and my books, and went and sat on one of those overly sunny benches in the middle of the traffic island that separates the uptown stream from the downtown stream, and I courted skin cancer and wrote a nice diatribe in my notebook about the perfidy of human beings.  It's all material, you see, and will undoubtedly find its way into my roman á clef, never fear.

Then Paul showed up, and I explained to him that we were persona non grata at the Silver Moon.  He told me the story of the Pie Lady in the Berkshires, whence he and his wife could never return because once, whilst in the domain of the Pie Lady, their small sons had behaved like, you know, children.  They probably mind more than I do, because maybe they don't bake their own pies.  Although you never know.  But bakeries, well, if bakeries snub me, I just say "The hell with you, I'll bake my own frikkin' chocolate brioche."  Which, if I'm truthful,  is pretty unlikely as well, since I don't fool much with rich yeasted pastry and laminated doughs and whatnot.  But it sounds like a good retort, doesn't it, 'specially when you're wandering around, searching for a Starbucks, since somehow or other you've hit the only two-block radius in Manhattan that doesn't seem to have one. 

There'll be brioche for breakfast tomorrow, and for some other times to come.  But once this stash is gone, will I ever want to go back to the Silver Moon?  Would you? 

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