I just walked to the bakery for some focaccia bread. The kids love it, and I’m an addict. I’ve joked with Gene, the European baker, that he ought to put an addiction notice on all his baked goods. He’s such an endearing man, always covered head to toe in flour and bliss, always chatting with his customers in his broken English. Bellowing at them as if they were across the room. “TODAY, HAH-NAH, I HAVE JUST MADE DE CHOGOLATE-STRAWBERRY DANISH FOR YOU!”He actually does that clichéd Italian gesture of kissing his fingers and flicking them away from his mouth when he boasts about something culinary: “MOAW!” He is reason enough to shop there. He knows the girls, Callie’s sweet tooth. He gives me little treats free of charge to bring her. She makes him little crafts that he tacks up on the wall in the back room: drawings of bakers with giant chef hats, or chocolate chip cookies made out of brown foam and black pipe cleaners. There were couples everywhere as I walked back home.
