Midnight Snack

Here's a short piece I had to write for my food writing class...

           It felt like we had been walking for hours and I was growing tired.  The cobble stone was drilling through my boots making my feet raw with every step.   On either side of me the buildings kept repeating themselves with each slow curve and turn.  I was thankful for the Italian boy leading our group of six. This new city was overwhelming during the day, let alone at three in the morning. Hadn’t we already seen that street?  Didn’t we pass that sign?  My feet were throbbing. This better be worth it.

            The smell reached me first.  The aroma of sweet and buttery bread engulfed me and warmed my whole body.  Although I had not been here before, my feet pulled me closer and closer to the irresistible sent, leading me down a side street.  There was less light on this road and I could barely make out the clouded window on the small door we walked through. My heart was racing as my head tried to wrap around the enchanted feeling of where we were and what we were doing.

            The smell was now overwhelming and made my mouth yearn in desire for some of the sugary dough I could only picture in my head. An older man appeared at the doorway of the little area we were squished into, no bigger than my apartment bathroom.  A few Italian words were exchanged and he disappeared, returning quickly with two small white bags.  I heard the crackle of the paper and then something was placed in my hand.

            Under the low light of the small room its buttery top was glistening and I eagerly welcomed its warmth.  Bringing it slowly to my lips I bit down directly in the center, ruining the half moon shape.  My teeth sunk slowly into the chewy dough, the top layer flaking off effortlessly.   I was taken by surprise at the cream also hitting my lips, a cool contrast to the doughy blanket.  The second bite was even better than the first.  I tried to savor the gift but was soon left with only one piece that melted in my mouth.

            I do not remember leaving the small room or walking back down to the main street.  All I remember is thinking about what I had just eaten and what I would give to have another one.  Lying in bed that night I was thankful to be living in Florence and dreamt of the opportunity to return to the secret bakery.  After all, I heard there were eight.