The Sweetest Sacrifice

Not many people can tell when they have gone overboard, added too much, or left a bitter taste in your mouth; it's for this very reason that La Petite surpasses the bakery fronts on Main Street, because divinity wretches out spoils, even the smallest of inconsistencies.

It's disapproving to speak so highly of your own business, especially in a tall-poppy syndromed country like Aotearoa. Of course it is, and I wouldn't say anything out loud. But to just know it, to understand your hard work is reaping the love (and also the heartache) that went into it, it's just heart-warming.

As my mind raffles through all the glorious 'nows' that I've kept in my heart, doughy, sticky love warms in my chest as I see our regular, Mrs Salisbury. Like me, Mrs Salisbury clings onto the 'nows' with our fresh éclairs she picks up every Tuesday. Her late husband, Mr Salisbury, always used to come with her around 4pm to pick them up on their dates together. Now, all she has is the warmth of the staff and her favourite pastry.

Walking through the glass doors, she shuffles in, still dressed in her lovely attire of her velvet coat; she is just precious. Although I'm pre-making the batch for tomorrow's doughnuts, I can see her smiling at me through the corner of her eye as she talks to my co-partner, Cherie, picking out today's éclair. Although she would never say it, she prefers her and I's chit chats about her week, the ladies' at her bowling club, but she doesn't need to tell me that now because the twinkle in her gaze says so; I hear her say her goodbyes to Cherie and leave the shop.

Cherie then comes over to watch how I'm doing the dough. Of course, it's just for appearances' sake, customers get put off if they see staff standing around.

"How's it going with the dough?" Cherie asks, not as if she is going to help, but just in general.

"The same as it has been going since we first opened 5 years ago", I say, with a sprinkle of sarcasm.

"And look at how far we've come," Cherie sighs. "At this rate, we need to keep staying open. I don't know how Mrs Salisbury would spend her Tuesdays any other way." She says as if the old woman is charity. She's not, but I don't think Cherie has gathered much humility for that foresight.

After I stop talking, Cherie eventually saunters off to clear the till and oversees our night-shift baker, Adrian. He doesn't see many customers but is lovely and deserves more recognition. Half our delicate pastries wouldn't have the quintessence they do without him – I wouldn't be surprised if he has the same sentiments towards Cherie as I did sometimes.

The next day

The sunrise is the best part of the 5am shift. Today it's an orange-pink hue, bursting with energy. Adrian is making the sugar-tops for the crème brûlée doughs, and I'm dusting the almond croissants. I have a feeling it's going to be a good day.

Cherie stumbles in around 8:30 am, her blonde-brown hair bob tussles as she balances an iced coffee, her keys and her purse. Even though we make coffees, she insists on going to the coffee 2-go drive-through a few roads down, probably to assert her dominance or to gloat about La Petite.

As she continues to drop her arsenal of purse insides onto the staff room table. I finish setting out the mochi-macrons (our latest popular fusion). Today's special is match and red bean, which Adrain and I whipped up last minute.

A few customers order bacon-egg croissants, chocolatines, and a few crème brûlée doughs as the regulars know they're gone by lunch time. A few ask about the mochi-macrons, which are crisp on the outside yet fluffier than macrons because of the blended mochi dough.

I haven't even told Cherie about the new macron flavour before she cuts off my conversation, talking about the development of the flavours and the sprinkling of infusion our bakery strives for. Her general obnoxiousness is dutifully covered by the flavours that Adrian and I manage to make at unsavoury hours in the morning, and I know the customers can tell; everyone just seems to tolerate her now.

At 9am, while I'm bringing out the next batch of mochi-macrons, a new light pours in, unlike anything I've seen. A halo appears around something of a Grecian-like woman, with red tendrils down on her navy slip dress. She looks familiar.

"Wow, are these mochi-macrons?" She asks while peering at the mochi-biscuits, she takes a picture of the ones in front and marvels at them.

She begins telling me how she is a dessert-food blogger, with a modest following of 4 million followers across all platforms. Her name is Jenna, she travels internationally to try the newest and innovative desserts, and she's been in the business for 5 years.

"Just as long as La Petite has been open!" Cherie gawks, now polluting the conversation.

Jenna and Cherie chatter about their similarities, like running a business, their admiration for pastries, and their allergies to all nuts, peanuts, almonds, pecans..

"So nothing in here has nuts, totally nut-free?" Jenna asks, taking pictures of our cabinet.

"Of course, we couldn't have it any other way!" Cherie says.

Jenna tells us she would love a weekly review on our new mochi-macrons and a short cameo interview with the owner. Cherie doesn't bother to correct this to 'owners', but she doesn't need to; Jenna seems to have a silent understanding, like many of the customers, that I'm not all talk and no show, that the café is successful because of the dedication poured into it by the one who doesn't boast about everything. Jenna says her assistant will text and email us to RSVP at her apartment for a cameo interview, including some of our goods.

Cherie says something about me fronting the store, but I can see in Jenna's expression that she wants us both to feature in her cameo, and with a blink, it's a promise that I'll be there.

That evening

Jenna's assistant sent an invite to our general email system – a call to not only to hear about the innovation of our bakery but a small cry for help, that I may come alongside Cherie for the interview.

Clearly, both Jenna and Cherie have forgotten my necessity. Outside Jenna's front door, a beautiful, modern villa on the rural edge of West-Auckland, most likely an Airbnb, I hear Cherie's laugh against the alty-pop music inside. I'm only half an hour late, 7:30pm, but I can see from the door's window that the interview is in full swing: the ring light is cast on them, a whole plate of my mochi-macrons that I created, as well as many sweets that I crafted from hours of sleep deprivation. Perfection on a plate, adulterated by a woman who looks at them all day, talks about them all day, and yet knows more about cuticle care than anything about La Petite.

I ring Cherie for at least the 30th time, and she looks into her purse, still ignoring my calls. It's starting to rain too, and they are both acting like I was never even invited. Anger seethes through me; even though Jenna didn't speak to me directly, I knew she was implying I should arrive, the assistant sent it through the general email. This is my craft. Cherie has a high school diploma and the ability to read and count money! But nothing overrides me more than my overwhelming compassion for Jenna, who has to witness a spoiled array of what are perfect pastries, ones that are poorly displayed and falsely represented, such a thing that will spread like a virus on social media.

The following day

It's 5am on Tuesday. The skies are murmuring, undecided on rain or overcast; I guess some decisions are easier to make than others.

Adrian's gone home sick after having a coffee this morning, most likely due to the new coffee machine cleaner we got this morning. With half of the doughs made and the mochi-macrons not even started, we'll probably need to close today.

Cherie's not answering her phone at all, most likely because she's tending to her overfed cats.

Like clockwork, she stumbles in at 8:30, coffee in hand, everything tumbling to the staff room.

"Why is the shop closed?" She asks as she unloads all her gear onto the staff room, I follow behind her, picking up a warmed almond-croissant with me.

"Adrain went home sick. Nothing is baked. We should close." I say, handing her the croissant. She sends me a grateful look as I offer to take her purse and coat for her and hang them on the hook behind her.

She takes a massive bite of the croissant, and her face instantly swells like a choked strawberry. She claws at her neck and then for her purse with her EpiPen inside, which I already have on my shoulder as I walk out of the staff room door. I lock her in from the outside, her wheezing bringing irritation to my ears.

I put some alty-pop music on the stereo as I stroll to the office, a new song inside me. I refocus on prying open the old-office door out back, bringing to life the PC and to the email server. I search for the email chain from between Cherie and Jenna's assistant.

It's not unlike Cherie to go on a Sabbatical for a few months. Or a year, impulsively and leave the rest of us to it. I craft an email from Cherie stating she is going away for a Sabbatical and will spend much-needed time with family, and send it to Jenna's assistant. I then craft my own email (changing my title to co-director, of course) and signal to continue the cameos and promotional l material with Jenna until Cherie returns. I hit send.

Even though I've never been the owner, I've always been the best baker, running this place and achieving absolute perfection that this craft demanded. And this all couldn't end in failure, not unless it ended with me. There are some things that need to be done to let true craftsmanship be appreciated - for La Petite to become uncalcified.

The email dings Jenna's assistant has already replied.

She says today is perfect.