Paris patisserie

I’ve been watching you, lady.

You’ve had that raspberry pistachio tart in front of you for 57 minutes. All you’ve eaten is one spoon of that divine creation. What’s the problem? Is the cutlery not working well enough to transport the cake to your mouth in a satisfactory manner? I don’t think so. Because I used the very same cutlery to liquidate my slice of black forest in 27 seconds.

There was possibly the faintest of smirks on your face as you witnessed the demolition in your peripheral vision. The amusing spectacle of a lesser human helplessly acting on his cravings. Enslaved by his own flesh.

Does the treat fall short of your expectations? If you cared to look at your tart, you would notice that the crumbles of pistachio garnish were delicately toasted to a golden brown. That the breaking of the tart shell indicates a crust that is neither too soft nor too dry. You would notice that the drizzle of raspberry sauce threatening to run down the side is the perfect density. I’m going to propose that the tart is not the problem. This is great. We’re making progress here.

So why exactly did you order that?

Two theories come to mind.

The first one is generous to you. This is an experiment. You’ve deliberately placed yourself in the way of temptation to rise above your corporeal desires and ruminate on the nature of existence. Descartes asserted that we must understand our passions in order that we may control them and not be controlled by them. This theory would make you a latter-day rationalist seeking the triumph of reason over desire. Bollocks. Because all we need to do is look at your laptop screen to establish that you’re shopping for shoes. Let’s move on then.

Theory number two is less generous. You don’t much care for raspberry pistachio tarts. In fact, you don’t care for any desserts. Here’s the deal. You didn’t order it for you. You ordered it for me. Not just me, but everybody here. I’m on to your nakedly obvious power game. You have taken a magnificent creation and weaponised it. A pre-emptive strike on peace loving patrons who just want to be left alone to enjoy their harmless indulgences. Well, guess what. I’m going to raise you.

Here comes that double ginger sticky toffee pudding I ordered. Watch me, you joyless bitch, as I pour the delectably gooey toffee onto the steaming pudding. Watch me as I close my eyes to savour the impossibly moist texture of the pudding, and know that this is the kind of pleasure you will never experience.

Well that was fun, but I’m out of here. Good luck walking through life in those shitty shoes you’re about to buy. They don’t look very comfortable.


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