French Cup: A Neighborhood Story

Chapter 3: -Kazuya- That's a Wild Karen, Children

As I went around the kitchen, I tugged at the apron's ties around my waist, making sure they were tightly in place. I wandered this way and that way, putting finishing touches on things. The thin waffle in the waffle maker smelled right, and my finger went up as I spun around to it, and the iron dinged right after. I lifted up the top and took it out, folding it in a conical shape quickly and sealing it with water, and placed it delicately with the others. 

I'd decided to theme today's menu with ice cream. Profiteroles, ice cream filled macarons, fresh waffle cones with three kinds of ice cream to choose from. The secret best combination would be a fresh mini fruit tart with a vanilla scoop. The way the flavors would combine, each one melting in your mouth. My own filled with water just thinking about it. Our customers would be delighted.

I twirled around and went into a squat, turning on the oven light to peek at some cake pans inside. These cakes would be our signature sandwich cakes, which are cakes with a lot of cream or frosting inside. Kind of an inside out cupcake, a more grown up version, maybe. I'd be cutting them out into small circles and filling them, assembling them in a line. Today's included glazed strawberries and cream, a dark chocolate with fresh raspberries inside with even darker and somewhat bittersweet ganache on top, and a special apple and cinnamon combination which was nice for breakfast. There were tarts that went with these flavors, so you could have a tart or a cake. I thought it was perfect.

As I gazed at this light, watching the still wet batter be beautiful, coaxing it to rise, I heard the bell chime above our front door. It had to be Nikki coming in, starting to prepare our coffee. 

Nikki was very particular about our coffee, and that was the biggest understatement. He found and adored coffee like museum curators collected fine art. The beans were his babies, taking as much care for it as I did with our sweets. Knowing that my cakes had some minutes on them left, I got up, taking off my apron and throwing it on my metal table, and my arms went out toward the kitchen door, eager to see my best friend. 

I burst through the kitchen door just as he made his way behind the counter. My arms were outstretched, trying to grab him as he froze in his tracks, his eyes huge and his mouth open.

"What is that on your head?" He pointed at me, a disapproving tone in his voice, but not unfriendly. "You look like you're going to a gay wedding."

"I wish," I laughed. I touched my head, which was wearing a pale pink beret on top of my textured, short blonde hair. I flicked my head, my long bangs going with it and back into place in their sweep over my forehead, going into a flip to the side, staying with hairspray. I patted down the rest of my outfit, which was carefully chosen to honor my transgender friends. I inspected a sleeve of my light blue, pink, and white plaid button up. Tapped my gray vest and matching pants, and poked my darker gray tie which was tucked inside my vest. I tapped my black shoe on the black and white tiles impatiently. "You don't like it? I bought this beret the other day online. I thought it screamed 'French Cup'. Doesn't it?" 

"It certainly screams."

The bell chimed again, and both of us instinctively spun around. 

"Welcome to French Cup!" We shouted, grinning together.

The rest was a whirlwind.

"I want to order a cake."

The woman in front of me looked to be middle aged, an expensive purse on her arm. She was losing her patience, and I wasn't used to this. 

"Ma'am, as I told you, we aren't that kind of shop. We're more like a Starbucks." My head was bowed, but I wanted to be anything but polite.