the bakery
There's a fantastic bakery located about a three minute walk from our house. It is one of the two businesses within our 2 km walkshed, which is only one of the reasons that it is significant enough to talk about. When we were considering renting this house, the owners tried to woo us by describing the scenic grandeur, the proximity to gorgeous beaches, the nice drive into the closest town containing essential services like grocery stores and liquor stores and hospitals (set up nicely in just that order), and the fact that there was a terrific bakery within an easy walk of the house. At the time, living where we did, surrounded by bakeries within, well, an easy minivan drive of our wretched suburban McHouse, this seemed an exceptional thing to have mentioned. Before we saw the area for the first time, friends of ours came to do some recon for us. Of the bakery, they said:
"You'll spend a lot of time there."
They were right. Not only does the bakery have every kind of delicious baked food you can imagine stacked up behind steamy glass windows all winter long, but it is the social hub of the village. At any time of the day, you can walk into the place and get the local news, the fishing report, freshly roasted and ground organic coffee, and the most fantastic buttertarts that have ever been made. We've spent a lot of time there.
As we wind down to our last few days here, we find ourselves at the bakery more and more often. Instead of it being the standard Wednesday afternoon treat with the kids, it is now the daily de rigueur lunch stop (pizza with thick chunks of spicy pepperoni whose source the owners won't reveal. We're thinking they're laced with some kind of habit forming narcotic).
Two randomly overheard snippets today.
"So I picked this guy up and I gave him a drive and I asked him where he was from. He said 'small village in Nova Scotia where colinsky lives' and I said 'No way! That's right near where I live' So I asked him what he had done there and he said that he'd worked for the CIA. The CIA? I said. What were the CIA doing in a dinky little place like that? They were running guns down to Central America, he said. I just kinda nodded and humoured him and then he pulled out the pictures. I don't know if it was CIA, but there were sure a lot of guns here."
Two workers were fixing some part of the old bakery building today. They appeared to have opened a small square hole in the wall (no idea why) and they were drilling. They had that dreamy, happy, dirty and unkempt look that I envy in people who do work with their hands. One turned to the other and, instead of asking for the 11 mm socket wrench, or the 1/8" burr bit, he said
"Yeah, I get the feeling that relationship is filled with a lot of oppressive politics."
Now that the tourists are beginning to invade the area, the bakery is a pretty busy place. On Sundays, they even offer a nice brunch (which some of my kids dragged me to on Father's Day, forcing me to choke down a beautiful omelet with huge chunks of freshly baked potato bread and great clots of fresh churned butter -- this is a very big deal living in a house in which eggs and dairy are banned because one of us has deathly allergies). My kids take no end of pleasure in a curious little caste distinction that is recognized by all of the bakery staff. Tourists pay when they order. Locals pay when they leave. They crow with delight as they sit and eat their unpaid-for treats, watching the lineup of people 'from away' forking over their money before they drool over their butter tarts.
"You'll spend a lot of time there."
They were right. Not only does the bakery have every kind of delicious baked food you can imagine stacked up behind steamy glass windows all winter long, but it is the social hub of the village. At any time of the day, you can walk into the place and get the local news, the fishing report, freshly roasted and ground organic coffee, and the most fantastic buttertarts that have ever been made. We've spent a lot of time there.
As we wind down to our last few days here, we find ourselves at the bakery more and more often. Instead of it being the standard Wednesday afternoon treat with the kids, it is now the daily de rigueur lunch stop (pizza with thick chunks of spicy pepperoni whose source the owners won't reveal. We're thinking they're laced with some kind of habit forming narcotic).
Two randomly overheard snippets today.
"So I picked this guy up and I gave him a drive and I asked him where he was from. He said 'small village in Nova Scotia where colinsky lives' and I said 'No way! That's right near where I live' So I asked him what he had done there and he said that he'd worked for the CIA. The CIA? I said. What were the CIA doing in a dinky little place like that? They were running guns down to Central America, he said. I just kinda nodded and humoured him and then he pulled out the pictures. I don't know if it was CIA, but there were sure a lot of guns here."
Two workers were fixing some part of the old bakery building today. They appeared to have opened a small square hole in the wall (no idea why) and they were drilling. They had that dreamy, happy, dirty and unkempt look that I envy in people who do work with their hands. One turned to the other and, instead of asking for the 11 mm socket wrench, or the 1/8" burr bit, he said
"Yeah, I get the feeling that relationship is filled with a lot of oppressive politics."
Now that the tourists are beginning to invade the area, the bakery is a pretty busy place. On Sundays, they even offer a nice brunch (which some of my kids dragged me to on Father's Day, forcing me to choke down a beautiful omelet with huge chunks of freshly baked potato bread and great clots of fresh churned butter -- this is a very big deal living in a house in which eggs and dairy are banned because one of us has deathly allergies). My kids take no end of pleasure in a curious little caste distinction that is recognized by all of the bakery staff. Tourists pay when they order. Locals pay when they leave. They crow with delight as they sit and eat their unpaid-for treats, watching the lineup of people 'from away' forking over their money before they drool over their butter tarts.
posted by Colin at 9:47 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home