Page 1 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
CHAPTER ONE
My name isWillow Schofield, I’m five foot nothing– which jars a bit with my parents’ calling me after a tall, elegant tree– and I’m a custard tart addict.
There’s no known cure for my affliction, not in a pharmacy nor on a psychologist’s couch. And I intend to spread it over Somerset and beyond, like the cheeky little enchantress that I am; ensnaring adults, teens, and children in my gastronomic web. I know this makes me sound like the Wicked Witch of the (south) West (of England), but once you’ve tasted arealcustard tart, you have a duty to share that joy far and wide. Too many secrets are selfishly stockpiled for the enjoyment of the select few. In the history books and in our fast-paced modern society. Here, in my little dot on the map, I’m just doing my bit to help humanity.
I stand back to admire the cornucopia of golden pastries twinkling their glossy middles in front of me. I peer closer to the counter to consider each sweet stack of heaven in turn with my heterochromic eyes– one green and one blue. I’ve created a veritable feast for all five of the senses, if I do say so myself. Yes, even for the eardrums. It’s a pudding aficionado fact that patisserie speaks a crispy-layered language all of its own. I smile triumphantly, despite my nerves at the momentous occasion which is about to unfold this morning.
I can still recall the very first time my teeth sank into the flaky pastry and the deep, eggy vanilla promise of a Portuguese custard tart. Fourteen years old. August. The Algarve. Vilamoura, to be precise. I can even remember my all-important hairstyle that day; a pair of neatly coiled space buns sitting on top of my head, before they’d been given their name. Oh, all right, Princess Leia’s giant and impressive earmuffs may have officially coined the term, but having experimented at length with that iconic Star Wars look, I always felt like I was wearing headphones. I preferred my dinky mounds instead.
I’d just enjoyed (survived) the thrills and spills of the nearby waterpark, super proud of myself for acing it on the wiggly, partially vertical, kamikaze slide after Lauren’s dare, sporting the bruises on my back to prove it. The package holiday bus had dropped me, my parents and my two sisters off a couple of stops too early on the way back. Caitlyn (then eight), and Lauren (then sixteen), had whinged incessantly at walking less than a kilometre to the hotel in the late afternoon heat. But I was a happy-go-lucky soul in my early teens, always effortlessly focusing on the brighter side of life. Within moments of beginning our leisurely stroll, a pretty, blue-tiled bakery had reeled me inside its sloping doorway, and from that moment onward my destiny was written in the stars.
Azulejos,the Portuguese call their gorgeously elaborate glazed tiles, which come in every hue of blue. Thepadaria’s exterior was encrusted in them, so that seeking out its treasures deep within felt a bit like opening a jewellery box and stepping inside.
That reminds me, the late twenties version of Willow really needs to chase up the courier company. They’re a couple of days overdue with my own delivery of authentic Portuguese tiles from the ceramicist in Porto. My ribbon-blonde balayage cornrow-braided side-bun updo (yeah, try saying that after you’ve had a glass of the aforementioned city’s famous Port) bobs up and down as I make a literal note to chivvy the order along, circling the telephone number of the courier company and double-tapping my pen on the notepad, as if sending a sign to the logistical goddesses above. I’d planned to have the tiles in place ready for opening day, but thankfully they are to be but a small feature on one of the walls, giving a respectful nod to the seed of inspiration that grew into my café and its products. I may be young but I’m a stickler for honouring tradition, even if I do love to fuse it with my slightly divergent ideas.
Back to my memories of refreshingly authentic Vilamoura…
I don’t think I’ll ever forget the heady scent of cinnamon, sugar, and freshly baked bread as I walked inside that bakery with my purse gripped tightly in my hand, my poor wilting sisters forgotten. There were only a few varieties of cake on offer but they were displayed irresistibly on the shelves, and it took me ages to evaluate the likely taste sensations from each of the works of art commanding my attention. Most fourteen-year-olds would have opted for something neon-light obvious, like the dominant chocolate pyramid-shaped creation, which I later learned was constructed of recycled cake trimmings– undeniably ingenious!– but I had never been most teens, most kids, or mostanything. Carving my own path in every activity since the day I arrived on planet Earth, be it bottom-shuffling instead of crawling; turning a colouring book upside down and filling in its boring black and white illustrations with psychedelic pastels, watercolours and acrylic paint (often all at once); crooning along to Prince and his funky purple rock pop as opposed to more on-trend mainstream chart ‘delights’; learning the complexities of double-Dutch skipping before attempting to jump with a single rope; fishtail-braiding my hair before it became a social media craze; or sewing sequins and ribbon on my jeans, I simply love to buck the trend.
Perhaps I could have allowed thequeijadato whisper sweet nothings in my ear– whilst other holidaymaking kids would have undoubtedly recoiled at the fusion of eggs, sheep’s cheese, milk and sugar, I somehow knew it would prove surprisingly gratifying. And I might have been tempted by the pastry pillowtravesseirowith its rich almond and egg yolk centre. But I only had eyes (one green, one blue) for the simplicity of the buttercup-yellow, ever-so-slightly charred custard tart that piqued my curiosity.
Love at first sight.
There was never a sweeter contender for my affections. Now or then. Even before that Portuguese holiday, the highlight of my school dinners had been the ‘unhealthy’ pudding choices that came drowned in giant pools of standard, chocolate, strawberry– or if you were really lucky– mint custard.
And so I, Miss Willow Schofield, fell head over heels with the art of patisserie. Many who’ve trodden the same culinary path have been inspired by Frenchmille-feuilles, profiterolesoréclairs. Those tried, tested, and trusted elegant stalwarts of the dessert industry. Walk into any Parisian establishment selling dessert, and defy their culinary collections to be anything but airbrushed production-line symmetry featuring that trio.
But I like my cake the way I like my people. Full of surprise, full of character. Uniquely shaped, uniquely weathered. No two custard tarts are the same and therein lies the beauty. I have remained helplessly and hopelessly spellbound by the rusticpastel de nata(pastéis de nataif you’re talking of more than one of them): the humble Portuguese custard tart.
My passion and commitment have burned brighter every day. Determined to introduce the delicacy to the British seaside town where I live, I practiced my art by supplying a handful of local bakeries with a daily delivery of my specialty, until, once perfected to my exacting requirements, the time came to tap into my savings and go for gold, opening a custard tart café in Weston-super-Mare.
That’s it, that’sallthat my shop sells: glorious custard tarts.
I can sense your eye roll as you process these words, and I can maybe even hear the distant tinkling of your giggling fit. But never judge a cute little café by the sea by its cover.
My establishment is so much more than a mere bakery with tables and chairs. In fact, I still can’t hide the grin that’s permanently plastered itself to my lips since I’ve lucked out. I’ve only been and secured myself a unit with dream-like porthole windows, that make you feel as if you’re at the helm of a cruise ship. And it’s only in prime position at the back of the pavilion on Weston-super-Mare’s magnificent Edwardian seaside pier!
Never mind that infamous movie pose struck by Rose and Jack on the Titanic. Romance on the Seven Seas is nice, as you gaze at the horizon, wondering what the future holds, but have you eaten a custard tart and stood (okay, sat) in the virtual bow of a ship?
Oh, God. Now I sound like one of those ‘Yeah, sex is cool but have you ever tried (and fill in the blanks with chocolate/garlic bread/had a hairdresser accidentally scratch your itch while getting your haircut)’ memes.
You know what I mean. And if you don’t know yet, you soon will.
Welcome to The Custard Tart Café…
CHAPTER TWO
Alas, as withall matters in life, swooning over success accounts for one percent of the journey. I’ve got my work cut out over the next few days and I can’t rest on my laurels… or my Lauren. My older sister, now thirty to my twenty-eight, is supposed to be lending a helping hand in the early days of set-up and exposure. But Lauren (was Schofield, now Masters) has forever been distracted by better offers and, knowing this is par for the course, I’ve resorted to making a sketchy plan B, comprising leaflets, loudspeakers, and crossing my fingers for luck. Well, there are sure to be a gaggle of summer students willing to parade sandwich boards along the pier and the seafront in return for holiday money and free custard tarts, if my sister doesn’t come up with the goods.
I’m not going to kid myself as to the reason for my sister’s sudden benevolence. The swish Bristol-based marketing company, where Lauren has zippily worked her way from assistant to account manager to director, is experiencing a very rare lull in incoming projects. Then again, I can hardly complain. Optimum local coverage at one third of the going rate is a pretty sweet deal.
Pulling out my checklist, I run through every item on my agenda again, ticking methodically with the green of my BIC four-colour pen as I go:
•Chase the courier company for my missing tiles (for the third time)
•Make sure Caitlyn, Reggie, and Tim are happy with the monthly rota (kind of too bad if they’re not, now it’s written)
•Put out an ad for additional part-timers (subject to inaugural week’s success)
