The Bakery

Some experiences are like the simplest of perfumes. They appear unannounced, breathing gently on your shoulder, till you feel a  quiet calmness pooling in your belly, and only then, do you begin to pay attention to the subtle event that caused it. Some experiences are like simple perfumes you would like to hold captive in closed rooms, fearing that one open window, or a crack in the door, and that precious, fragrant, cloud will waft right out. It will be gone, and you will be left waiting for the same set of circumstances, the right blend of ingredients, atmospheric conditions and mental spaces for it to appear again.

***

She walked by the bakery three times before finally entering it. It had been raining all morning and she had been up since 6am. Given that several hours had passed since then, it was surprising that she hadn’t managed to have her cup of coffee or something to eat yet. She wanted to be sure that this was the right places to break her fast, that the next morsel she put in her mouth would be worth it. It would be her reward for the mornings effort.

An elderly Singaporean lady with short permed hair greeted her with a good morning as she stepped in, pausing only momentarily as she stacked an assortment of freshly baked bread on the shelf, wearing slacks and white polyester top.

Oh no, thought the early riser, it is still too early, they haven’t even stocked the shelves yet. But she was inside already, and it was raining, and there was nowhere else to go. Besides, time was of essence, there were things to do after this as well.  She sought out a plastic tray that was made to look like wood and a pair of tongs. Behind the protective cases in wicker baskets on the shelf were muffins and a few donuts. She picked a chocolate muffin for her daughter, because she had promised; and debated between a chocolate banana and a simple banana muffin for her husband. Knowing he did not care much for walnuts, she settled on a simple banana muffin for him. Now, she thought, if I can just decide what I want.

Sour Cherry. An odd flavor for a muffin, but she liked cherry. The almonds on the top were a bonus. With those three things on her tray she made her way to the cashier to pay. “Do you do take away coffee?” she asked.

“Of course,” replied the lady behind the counter, also Singaporean, nodding her head, the glasses on her nose shaking, making the crystal beads on its safety chain gently tinkle and then sparkle in the yellow shop light which was at complete odds with the grey, rain drenched day.

The order established, she let her attention wander to the back corner of the room. There were supply boxes, a cauliflower, other vegetables, some paper napkins. Three customers sat discussing business over cups of coffee. Across the cashier was the store front; a large glass window covered in ‘peblets’, her daughter's baby words from years ago. Droplets of water that look like pebbles. Enough peblets to have a change of heart. “I think I’ll have my coffee here,” she said, and encouraged by the lady, she left the tray at the cashier’s counter and took a seat in front of a window.

“Today is a day to drink tea and coffee,” said the cashier lady as she dropped off steaming coffee in a white porcelain cup. The bagged muffins were placed on the side, along with the milk and sugar. “You must relax. Sit down. Drink” she said as she walked away.

Automatically she tore open the orange packet of sugar. She added some milk and then added some more. Sipped. Waited. Sipped.

A noise to the right told her the cashier was back. Two plates, one under the other, and one knife. The top plate contained a multi-grain croissant. “I am having my breakfast,” she said, “I share with you. Today is a day to relax. I share with you, ok,” and she promptly cut the buttery croissant down the middle, slid a portion onto the second plate and walked off with the other half, saying, “Use your fingers, ok.”

She waited a bit, unsure if the cashier would come back and join her eat, unsure of what use your fingers meant, unsure if she had even said yes to the croissant, or even a thank you, once it appeared. But nothing more happened. And so she ate it, slowly, with her fingers. First the crunchy tip, next the flaky crust on top and finally the soft, moist, center. The coffee magically disappeared as well. She got up finally and settled her bill with the older aunty, who had finished stocking the bread.

On a table by the door, seated with a folder of accounts, was the cashier, whom she now knew to be the owner of the bakery. She thanked her, complimented her on the quality of her croissant and promised to relax on such a day, as she made her way outside into the rain. A strange warmth had bloomed, a hunger had been satiated, the croissant had become more than just bread, it had become a multi-grained symbol of generosity, of gratitude, and of care. Only later, when she played back the events of the day, did she realize that the second half of the croissant still lay untouched on the owner’s plate, as she poured over her own files, pen in hand, and her glasses with the crystal beads still shimmering with each movement of her head.