Page 30 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
Elsa tuts heavily, shaking her head. As if in disagreement with Tiago, and in solidarity with me.
“Life is evolution, Tiago! There is nothing wrong with a little change. Tell me about what you have done with our belovedpastéis, Willow. I’m sure it’s quite lovely. And you, Tiago. Be quiet.” I’m halfway back to loving her again already.
I gulp all the same, because she will soon change her mind when she hears just how far my twists and turns have extended. I’ll be hung, drawn and quartered! I’ll never leave this kitchen.
With trembling hands, I show Elsa pictures of my individual tarts from The Custard Tart Café’s website. The website designed by the very company that the guy sitting next to me works for. It’s the easiest way. She gasps. I panic. But when I spot the sweet little grin on her face, I realise it was agoodgasp. She loves the idea… I think.
“Look, it isn’t for me, or my generation here in this town.” Oh. “But, having learnt English over the course of many summers in Oxford and Cambridge and Brighton and Bristol, for the benefit of tourist customers here in the Algarve– and for the benefit of Tiago’s late father– and having understood a little of the English psyche, I think it’s an excellent enterprise and I commend you, my dear.”
Elsa turns on Tiago before he can protest, before I can process what she just said about his dad.
“Why are you so determined to put this girl’s achievements down? You know full well that the Portuguese government fully encourages all of this culinary innovation. Take umbrage with them, if you must, but not Willow. Her love for thenatasis pure. Innocent childhood memories that she’s simply transformed in her own style. From the French croissant to the American donut, what cake hasn’t had a makeover at some point down the line?”
“There are good makeovers– and then there are bad ones.”
I know that Tiago is referring to my caking at the cosmetic counter all over again. Any snippet of sympathy I had ref. the late father comment disappears instantly.
“You’re missing the biggest point, Tiago.” Elsa shakes her head in exasperation. “Willow is doing this for her own people. Not the Portuguese! If people want to experience the tart in its pure form, they come to bakeries like ours instead.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself. Thank you, Elsa.”
“You’re very welcome,mihna querida.” Elsa lays a reassuring hand on top of mine. For some strange reason goosebumps fleck my arm. “Why can’t the custard tart be the vehicle for all sorts of delicious fillings, eh? It’s not going to make the standardpasteleriago bankrupt or become extinct.” She finishes off with an elaborate “tsk”.
I baulk at the mention of the word ‘vehicle’, itching to check that Lauren isn’t drip-feeding this speech to Elsa through a hidden earpiece. It sounds exactly like the kind of thing my sister would say.
Elsa stands to clear away our cups, clipping Tiago playfully across the ear in case he hasn’t quite got the message yet. “You know full well how it is withfarturasthese days, boy!”
I am lost. Bewildered. All at (Atlantic) sea.
“Farturasare like Spanishchurros,” Elsa explains. “Except fatter.”
“My grandmother is insinuating thatfarturashave long been fiddled with,” says Tiago. “Go to a fair or a public event in Portugal nowadays and it’s virtually impossible to find a stand selling plainfarturaswith just a dusting of sugar or cinnamon.As they should be.Millennial vendors are stuffing them with all sorts of ridiculous fillings– from Nutella to jam… and Gen Z are all too happy to oblige and scoff them.”
“Oh, you’re living a sheltered life over there in the UK if you think that Gen X and the Baby Boomers aren’t cashing in on the evolution of taste buds too,” Elsa says. “Honestly, Tiago, it’s precisely those generations of people who are selling funkyfarturas!”
Okay. I am fully back to loving this woman now. She’s as cool as Leona.
“And the problem with that is?” I can’t resist joining in and quizzing her grandson.
“There is no problem,” Elsa replies firmly on Tiago’s behalf.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Okay, so that’sme told,” Tiago sulks, flumping onto a bench next to Tavira’s river Gilão. His face is the kind of resolute glum that not even the gorgeous sunset, pouring liquid gold onto the water’s surface, can turn into a smile.
We have managed to leave thepasteleriaat last. In other words, Elsa has shut shop for the day and finally accepted I can’t take up her kind offer for dinner. I have to get back to my friends… don’t I?
Then why am I still at her grandson’s side when he has been so rude to me, when I could easily be making my getaway, when there’s a taxi rank just down the road?
“I have a couple of unanswered questions,” I say, surprising myself, delivering my own answer as to why I am sitting a little too close to him on the bench.
I squint at the arches of the Roman bridge that spans the river, then I pull my shades down from the top of my head and pop them on. I have probably already wrecked today’s hairstyle, the power ponytail, whose vibe we know doesn’t always follow through to words, actions, and deeds.
“Fire away. After what I put you through back there, you have a right to know the truth,” says Tiago. Wow. I never thought he’d be so open to a grownup discussion. But indeed, after the carry-on this afternoon, he definitely owes me an explanation… or three.
“Why?” I start, then quickly change tack. “What I mean is, when your grandmother has made it clear she has no qualms about change and even the Portuguese government is giving the thumbs up to the nation’s belovedpastel de natabeing sold overseas… in various guises… how come you personally have such an issue with what I am doing? It doesn’t make sense. I didn’t know you before I set up my business. This isn’t some kind of attack on you and your family. I put years of training and hard work and, above all,loveinto what I am doing. How could you be so callous as to try to destroy that for me?”
“I’m sorry. Grannie’s home truths leave me under no illusion. I was probably wrong.”
