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Tuesday, October 29, 2013

The Chronicles of Creams

Over the weekend I met a friend at a Vietnamese establishment in Manhattan Valley, an area close to the west side of Central Park.  This place, this Vietnamese place, has been moderately praised, and as I don't have much exposure to the cooking of Vietnam, I was excited.  As it turned out, the place was fine but is not worth going into details about.

After, I walked to the closest French bakery I could find, wanting to drown my Vietnamese disappointment in cream.  Luckily for me, I was not far from a delightful patisserie.  I ordered a Paris brest, a sumptuous treat of tender and flavorful pastry filled with the most luscious, delicate cream.  I ate my Paris brest as I walked down Amsterdam Avenue, and as I munched into the seductive mound, cream squirted everywhere. At one point a dump of cream erupted forth and propelled into an innocent woman, who was quite upset.

"Watch your creams!" she said.

"Ok" I said.

The creams made up for the mediocre Vietnamese; they made up for everything; although an innocent woman was creamed, it was a sacrifice worth making.