Sceenes From The Hollyweird Cafe: Let Them Name Cake

“Let me get a piece of Cheesecake?”
“What kind?”

Welcome to the two most frustrating questions in the house of the star-lined griddle and they always follow each other. The cafe is split into the three sections, the restaurant where waiters work the floor, the deli where they hawk pounds of meat with thick thumbs pressed on scales, and the Bakery where your sweet tooth is decayed. The bakery has sweets in every shape and form with over 1000 styles of cheesecake. There is strawberry cheesecake, blueberry cheesecake, lemon cheesecake, ext. Each different variation of cheesecake comes on the base of creamy cheesecake and the topping of it’s name.

The complications begins with my own suborn sense. It is my believe that if each of the 1000 different kinds of cheesecake come with the base of creamy cheese cake, then the creamy cheesecake should go by the sole title of Cheesecake and drop the creamy. Of all the cheesecake, creamy is the one to sell the most and deserves a Moniker of it’s status. It is not any cheesecake in need of a fruit biased front name, it is the cheesecake from which all cheesecakes are born. If pop stars would adopt this same principle, we would call Brittany Spears, Lemon Madonna, while Madonna would remain Madonna, not Creamy Madonna.

The Bakers disagrees with my line of logic. He meets my request with a upturned waxed eyebrow. He looks puzzled as to which of the 1000 cheesecakes I could mean. He waits for the full title as if I am presenting attendees at a royal precession. I resist the urge to adopt a big bravado and give my requested cheesecake a grand introduction.

My grandest wish, in moments like these, is for the baker to smile and hand me a multi-layered cube of cheesecake glory unmarred by fruit topping. He would give me a nod, as a fellow service soldier in the service trenches, a bright shot of brotherly love to ignite a restaurant revolution. Yet, here in the star light, we carry out lives upon our shoulders.

Our eyes lock in a battle of will and I issue defeat with the word creamy upon my lips. He retrieves a piece of white sugar bliss. I watch him and listen to the next customer ask for a cheesecake but they meant strawberry cheesecake. I realize, the Baker spends his day serving people, who don’t know a key lime cheesecake from Hungarian cheesecake. I feel as If I should get a pass, armed with the company logo on my shirt and am hep to the world of sweet tooth snacks. For customers, I am a guide into the sweet tooth snack world. I visit the Baker’s world 20 times a day for the creamy cheesecake. But like a members of the Peace Core, I am not a part of their world and try impose my line of logic onto him.

He is the Baker and king of his domain. I walk into his world as the gypsies come into mine. And I realise I am no better than them. I have lived long enough to see myself as the enemy with no right to dictate my action. We are all a grim product of the Me generation. For good or ill, my interlude with the Baker is further proof we, Americans, are center of our own universes. A trickle down theory to infest every moral we project onto others, from our two cents on Same-sex marriage to ourself naming of cheesecake. We are all flawed.