L'Erable Effroyable

-or-
Éclair sans chocolat? Je pense que non!

(Dahlia Bakery, Part II)

It is the middle of the afternoon on a winter Friday, and First Street is deserted. No crowds spilling out from Pike's market, no one out on a casual stroll to enjoy the day, indeed, not even a single car is to be seen in motion on this normally bustling thoroughfare.

Perhaps it is because of the rain. The rain, while not very heavy, and hardly unusual for a Seattle winter, is nonetheless particularly unpleasant on this day. The temperature is perhaps a degree or two below normal, and the wind conspires with the rain to lend each falling droplet of water a fierce sting sure to keep the weak (and perhaps the wise) indoors.

A solitary man, replete from a fine little meal at Le Pichet, gazes out at the street, envisioning with some trepidation the quarter mile journey back to his car. Indeed, his final destination is perhaps half a mile past his car, but Ramsey (the man in question) has already decided that any environment so intent on abusing a man of his stature is unworthy of the consideration he might show it by eschewing his automobile for the latter part of his journey.

Resigned, he enters the solitary street, turning up his collar and hunching his shoulders in a vain effort to reduce the abuse he suffers at the wind's wet and clammy hands.

The collar which he has turned up is attached to a trench coat purchased far too many years ago on Savile Row. The style of the coat is somewhat dated, and it shows some signs of wear, yet it carries for him too many memories to be left behind. Much like the tweed jacket, grey flannel pants, and indeed the man, beneath it; the trench coat speaks more of tradition than trend; more of quality than of style.

Ramsey has, however, made some concessions to his adopted setting, and he rues the day he stopped carrying his umbrella, deciding that it would mark him as a tourist. He might also bemoan his lack of a hat, except that the wind would make a mockery of any attempts to keep such a thing on his head. No, he trudges stolidly forward, raising his head only when a curbside enters his view, telling him that he is one block closer to his destination.

At last, somewhat bedraggled, he enters into his car, finally free from the rain. Now he can complete his mission. Now he can drive the five blocks to the Dahlia Bakery and see if their éclairs have truly been "spruced up", as he has been promised.

The rain has indeed kept most indoors, and the man is able to park directly in front of the door to the bakery. He enters, and discovers to his surprise that the shop is actually rather busy.

From whence did all these people come, if not from the empty streets outside? Dahlia bakery is a tiny storefront with no place to sit, so it is unlikely that any of the patrons of the shop have been here for any length of time. It is indeed a mystery, and one unlikely to be solved today.

The small crowd in the shop at first hides the main display case from his view, so Ramsey turns instead to view the many varieties of cookies and tarts arrayed on the shelves to one side. He decides immediately to buy some of the ginger snaps and chocolate pecan cream cookies he has quickly come to adore.

Shortly, the crowd clears enough that he gets his first clear view of the display case. He scans greedily for the promised éclairs.

Odd. there are no éclairs in the case. Have the new éclairs proved so popular as to be gone already? Then he notices some distressingly éclair-shaped objects with golden-brown icing. Said icing looks remarkably like maple glaze. A sense of dread falls upon poor Ramsey as he contemplates the dire concept of what he may in fact be seeing.

Denial is, of course, his first reaction. He looks further, hoping to catch a glimpse of some proper chocolate topping somewhere. He sees none. A sense of deep foreboding come upon him as he approaches the counter, and yet he cannot yet bring himself to face the awful truth.

He takes a moment to focus on the young woman behind the counter. She seems pleasant enough; young, personable. She smiles as she asks him what he would like.

"I'll have four of the chocolate pecan cookie sandwiches, two gingersnaps, and a pear tart with caramel, please." Ramsey's eyes search behind the counter as he conveys this portion of his order. He looks high and low, around the corner back into the kitchen, everywhere in search of the éclairs he still hopes might be somewhere in the establishment as the assistant gathers the items he has requested.

He sees no éclairs. Naught but the maple-covered monstrosities in the far corner of the case.

"Will there be anything else?"

"Pardon me, but do you have any éclairs?"

"Sure! Right over there!" She indicates far end of the display case, devoid of éclairs but veritably bursting with those... things.

Ramsey pauses for a moment, already knowing in his heart that all is lost. Still, perhaps it is simply an oddly-colored, light-brown chocolate that only looks like maple.

"Ehm, what is that substance on top of them?"

"Maple! It's yummy!"

Quite.

Ramsey is uncertain how to proceed. Confronted with a person so clearly disconnected from reality, he finds himself inspecting the woman's eyes, looking for the telltale signs of illicit drug use or mental instability. Seeing none, he decides to charitably assume that perhaps she is the innocent victim of some mental disorder. He chooses to speak slowly, using only small words.

"Do you have any chocolate éclairs?" He suppresses a wince at the redundancy of this phrasing.

"No! We have maple éclairs! They're gooooood!" She smiles broadly. Obliviously. She clearly expects Ramsey to be pleased at her appalling pronouncement.

Denial is no longer an option.

"You don't understand. Tom Douglas himself promised that he had 'spruced up' his éclairs. I have his e-mail!"

"Yeah! This is what he did! They're great!" Chipper little monster.

"Fetch him here! Now!"

"Ummmm..."

"I must speak with Mr. Douglas this instant. Where is he?"

"Ummmm..."

"He promised! Do you understand me? He promised me! And I trusted him! Bring that miscreant to me this instant!"

"Ummmm, he's not here right now..."

At this point, Ramsey realizes that the entire staff and all of his fellow patrons are staring at him in mounting alarm. Carefully he marshals his anger. It should not be directed at this ignorant shop girl misled by someone who should have known better. No, one man is deserving of his ire, and that man is not present.

With visible effort, Ramsey banks his rage away for future use.

"Mr. Douglas shall hear from me."

And so he has. Some months late, but there it is.

- Ram