Profiteroles and pacts

I don’t like articles on food. Everyone is a self appointed food lover, gastronomer fantastique or finding ground somewhere between the two. Which then leads to a sludge of mixed up opinions and love songs about food.
I wrote the above paragraph because of guilt and/or as a disclaimer.
I wanted to begin this note by talking about my love for profiteroles.
And as soon as I wrote the first line I thought to myself – ‘I’m that guy. I’m writing about food. I am one of the many millions chattering to the internet about my tastebuds exploding. How average.’
I’ve succumbed. I’m sure I’ll learn to live with it.

I studied food. For three years in college. I got a degree in hotel management, catering technology and applied nutrition. Did I ever care passionately enough about food to take that degree forward? Make my parents feel that they hadn’t set their money on fire while paying my school fee? Nope. I did nothing of the sort. I realised it wasn’t for me and quit at the first chance I got. But the time spent in BTK (basic training kitchen), QFK (quantity food kitchen) and ATK (Advanced training kitchen) made me understand my deep love for certain types of food.
Like profiteroles.
What a perfect dessert.
The beauty lies in the choux pastry which is made up of tiny little poems. I could go on, but profiteroles are an experience, not a recipe.

I had been hankering for profiteroles for a while. I may have even tweeted about it many months ago (because wishes are granted if you rave and rant on the internets)

I landed in New York the day before yesterday and got to my Air bnb apartment in the west village at 5 pm. The owner hadn’t shown up with the keys so I walked across the street to a cafe to get my caffeine on. I wasn’t hungry because British Airways had managed to poison me over the last few hours and the sight of food was disturbing.
I blankly stared at the menu while trying to thaw and I don’t know how it happened because it was all so quick, but suddenly I had a bowl of profiteroles and whipped cream in front of me.
I have rarely eaten food so delicately and with so much respect. Good food deserves that. The lightest Choux pastry with the perfect hint of butter, filled with whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate sauce. Angels sang when I had the first bite.
I’d found the perfect place for my favorite dessert. Tiny little cafe by the name of Cafe Reggio with little wrought iron chairs, leather couches, and a big coffee machine. I was back there the next morning, and that evening, and as soon as I finish writing this, I will head down there and stay for a while.

My best friends and I made a pact. We decided that every time the three of us are in different parts of the world we will write letters to each other. On paper. With a pen. And once we meet we’ll share them. This pact was made yesterday. And I wrote my first letter at cafe Reggio.
I have a feeling that that moment will be tattooed in my mind forever. Good food, great coffee, the threat of snow outside and my friends running around in my head.


Published by therunawayjuiceincident

I write about my travels. Intergalactic and otherwise....

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