Half a croissant, on a plate, with a sign in front of it saying '50c'
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Chateau de Dough

Pastries on the rise.
 
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Marie was not your usual girl - she seemed to like doing things.. well.. a little differently. She wore a gaggle of cheap jewelry, her hair was either unkempt or styled into literally dozens of tiny braids that seemed to sprout from disturbingly equidistant points on her skull. She watched French films and liked them.

Come to think of it, I'm really not sure why I started dating Marie in the first place. But there was a certain flair to her that I admired, especially her preference in eateries. Of course there were a few she brought me to that I can't say left a good taste in my mouth. A filter-feeding restaurant, for example. There was one in particular I still drop by when I have the time, though - from the outside it didn't look like anything besides a bed and breakfast, a tiny little red brick house hidden away in a pine-dotted valley that first frosty November morning I saw it. The wooden sign hanging over the doorway read 'Chateau de Dough' in embossed black lettering, and I'd barely had time to give it a once-over before Marie pulled me inside and the overpowering scent of sweets being baked lured me further.

The small two-storied building had an upper and lower level, both containing several oaken tables for customers. Lush, fuzzy carpeting adorned the floor, and the toasty maw of a fireplace was fed logs by the staff (who, being seldomly busy, were mostly payed to be polite and chatty). But the best part was picking your pastry - you see, this bakery was slightly unorthodox.

So I sauntered up to the cashier, and told her I'd love a cherry turnover, thank-you-very-much. But she only gave me a knowing smirk instead, and gave me what appeared to be the hollowed out shell of my selected sweet. Perplexed, I began to inquire as to whether this was some sort of joke, when she pointed me towards the opposing wall and I took notice of what I had at first thought were a multitude of post-modern coat hangers.

Peeking out from the hardwood panelling were literally dozens of steel nozzles, each with a corresponding lever. Walking closer, I discovered each had been labelled - 'apple', 'banana', 'blueberry', 'cherry', 'lemon' all one after another in alphabetical order. But it wasn't just the standard flavors I saw - among the more mystifying were 'grape', 'rubarb', 'mango'.. they seemed to go on and on. Feeling slightly adventurous, I inserted my pastry-skin - upon which I had already discovered was a proper receptacle orifice for just this purpose - over the nozzle labelled 'mint-chocolate chip' and pressed the level down, watching in fascination as it expanded, balloon-like, with the sugary filling.

Satisfied, I rejoined Marie at our table where she was gobbling down her kiwi long john.

Pseudonym #3, Dec 09 2003

[link]






       I'll have some donut holes w/mocha cream, raspberry, caramel crunch, and apple-banana please.
tchaikovsky, Dec 09 2003
  

       I like the sound of the filter-feeding restaraunt. Is the clientele limited to men with enormous moustaches? Or to guests with gill rakers? Or flamingos?
squeak, Dec 09 2003
  

       I hope the place has a top-notch alarm system with a prominantly-displayed sticker, otherwise I might just have to sneak in one night and stick my mouth under a few of the nozzles...
RayfordSteele, Dec 09 2003
  

       a minute on the lip, a lifetime on the hip. whats your waistline like these days, pseud?
po, Dec 09 2003
  

       Hasn't changed an inch since he had the measurement markings tattooed 10 years ago...
RayfordSteele, Dec 09 2003
  

       But of course, [Rayfo].   

       Hi [po]. :)
Pseudonym #3, Dec 09 2003
  

       I don't think steel nozzels would quite fit in with the place - I recomend brass.
my-nep, Dec 09 2003
  
      
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