Euphorium Bakery, Islington
202 Upper St
N1 1RQ (Map)
020 7704 6905
by Henrietta Crumpet
Darling, I will never forget that day, that breakfast. The smell of musk in your hair, so sensuous, so… manly. I wore deep red lipstick. You recalled your days as a gigolo in Paris.
I had a strawberry tart. Staring deep into your eyes I bit into the fruit. I got custard on my nose and you licked it off. How playful. How delicious. The strawberries were sweet and fresh, the pastry crumbled and melted in my mouth, the custard danced past my sumptuous lips. It was all a bit much for you was it not, my darling? When I partook of a second pastry (an exquisite pain raisin), and peeled off the layers, dipping them into my coffee and sucking the ends, you started to tremble and had to content yourself with an egg mayonnaise sandwich on thick brown bread.
It would have been an eggy, creamy delight, I think, if there had been any filling to delight in. But alas, a mere smear across the bread, a hint of a yolk and a whiff of white was all that was present. We wept. I craved a sympathetic glance from the staff. They were oblivious to our pain and announced that "that was how they made their sandwiches". How they let themselves down. How they let us down. The pastries so perfect. The sandwiches so disappointing. My fan dropped to the floor, you rose from your chair, nearly careering into one of the many mothers with babies as you hastened to exit.
"Pierre!" I shouted, "Don’t leave me! I will make you an egg sandwich wearing nothing but a silk negligee whilst I recite passages from Voltaire!"
But you were gone. My mascara ran down my cheeks. And all I had left was cake.