Page 9 of A Sweet Mess

Traveling for work is never a vacation—that is, until you blow a tire on the freeway and live to tell your story.

This story has a simple beginning. My time at home was dwindling away, and I wanted to visit one more restaurant before going abroad again. Rumors of a restaurant rising out of the mountains, graced with the shimmering stars of Michelin, called me. I borrowed a friend’s poorly maintained car (more on that soon) and headed for the mountains. Itwas supposed to be me, the car, and the open road for a half-day drive.

My friend fate’s fickle nature manifested itself when one of the tires blew in the middle of the freeway, sending the car skidding. Fortunately, I was able to maneuver it off to the side, and no one was harmed as a result of the incident.

After a harrowing ride in the world’s most ancient tow truck, I found myself in the hidden town of Weldon, California. With repairs unable to be completed until the next day, I had no choice but to spend the day in the picturesque town.

For the first time in what seemed like years, I hadfree timeon my hands. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I checked into a charming trattoria and inn and went for awalk.Yes, a leisurely stroll, if you will. The small, tidy streets of downtown Weldon had a warm, inviting feel to them, and I, by all means, accepted their invitation to explore.

I was lost in the delights of the colorful mom-and-pop stores when the sweet, seductive fragrance of baked goods beckoned me. Led by my trusty nose, I soon found myself in front of Comfort Zone, a quaint bakery sandwiched between an old-fashioned barbershop and a pet store.

The outdoor seating consisted of a couple wrought iron tables, with black-and-lavender parasols shading the customers from the sun. The simple but dramatic color scheme blended perfectly with the bright white storefront trimmed in gray. All this, combined with the alluring scent of fresh bread and cakes, and I was sold on the spot.

When I stepped into the shop, the interior did not disappoint my heightened expectations. From the plush couches and mismatched chairs to the clusters of black-and-white photos on the walls, the bakery essentially hugged me inwelcome. The customers looked well at ease, whether they were laughing with friends or snuggled into overstuffed armchairs with their noses buried in books. I couldn’t wait to join them.

The display case was a wonderland of cakes, pies, cookies, and pastries. The choices weren’t overwhelming in number, but each was presented with such care and affection that it was impossible for me to choose. When I find myself in such delightful conundrums, I always go for the daily special. Something the chef was excited to share with me. A personal recommendation. Plus, it happened to be one of my favorite desserts, chocolate Bundt cake.

The polite but sullen young lady at the counter asked for my order—sliced or whole—and I went for the whole cake. With a cup of Sumatra coffee. I’m not a complete glutton, mind you, but Iwason vacation. There is something wickedly decadent about digging your fork into an entire cake or your spoon into a whole tub of ice cream. I took my first bite of the cake, and my eyes slid shut. It was better to narrow my senses to focus on experiencing the cake without distraction. The chocolate cake was moist, not quite dense, and just the right amount of bitter and sweet. It was a perfect balance of the devil and the angel.

When I dug deeper into the Bundt cake, I discovered it was filled with a creamy, caramel-colored filling and specks of what I suspected were dried fruit. Intrigued, I forked up a small mountain and stuffed it carefully into my mouth. The filling was not caramel but some sort of a cream cheese and peanut butter filling. Other than its overuse and cloying texture, it tasted surprisingly delicious. However, the “dried fruit” pieces were unchewable, so I swallowed my mouthful.

And promptly choked.

Aided by the thick, sticky peanut butter filling, the translucent bits of colorfulwhat-the-hell-is-thisgot lodged in my throat. With teary-eyed coughing and gulps of scalding-hot coffee, I escaped near asphyxiation.

So what were those odd bits of un-masticate-able health hazards?

Gummy worms. Chunky bits of chopped gummy worms.

What were they doing in the chocolate Bundt cake? And why?

Utter, egocentric arrogance.

The small-town baker/pastry chef has awe-inspiring talent. But it’s the kind that has led to unbearable arrogance. An unfortunate pitfall for some brilliant chefs. It could have been frustration or boredom that led to the creation of the peculiar cake. Who can know for sure? Whatever prompted the addition of the gummy worms, the cake should not have been served to an unknowing customer. Experiments should stay in the kitchen until they are perfected. Comfort Zone’s pastry chef used its customers, including myself, as test subjects, which was unforgivably selfish, and a senseless rebellion against the core value of chefs everywhere.

A true chef would never have done something so hurtful, disrespectful, and reckless. I take the arrogance of the act as a personal affront. And for that, I strongly advise my dear readers against ever entering the menace known as Comfort Zone.

You. Deserve. Better.

His review was humorous, lively, and even complimentary in parts, and she had to concede he was fair about the oddness of her cake. But he was completely wrong about her. Makingher customers happy with her sweet creations was her raison d’être. Arrogance and boredom?How dare he!His sweeping presumptions and scathing judgment of her as a chef based on one gummy worm–filled cake was unfair and hurtful.

But he’d been so gentle and sweet during their night together.Gah. Stop thinking about that.Thishas nothing to do withthat. She crumpled the tattered magazine pages for the twentieth time and stuffed them in her pocket.

Aubrey wished the critic had been a small, thin man with chalky skin and greasy hair. Someone who didn’t know how to bake or cook, sitting stooped over his computer in a cold, windowless office. Hating on people who did their best to create something lovely for others to enjoy. She could scoff at a man like that and console herself that her life was fuller and happier than his.

A long sigh leaked from her lips.Yeah, right.Scoffing wasn’t her thing. She’d probably feed the poor imaginary critic some sweet buns to cheer him up.

It might actually be easier to scorn Landon Kim, an arrogant elitist. He was a tall, muscular specimen of male perfection with fan-freaking-tastic hair who happened to have a degree from a little place called the Culinary Institute of America. The celebrity food critic and blogger could ostensibly cookandcritique—the perfect package.Life is so unfair.He was going to breeze through life being rich, famous, and buff, while she lost her bakery and was forced to work at a chain doughnut shop that didn’t even make their wares in-house.

She couldn’t reconcile the funny, sexy man she’d taken to bed with the cocky, judgmental food critic with a stick up his ass. Well, maybe he couldn’tnotbe judgmental—it was his job to critique restaurants. And despite his mocking tone, his review of Comfort Zone was witty and well written.Aubrey Choi,are you making excuses for him?She had lost her mind. That was it.

All of this was a rotten joke fate decided to play on her.What were the chances of me picking up a food critic? A critic who happened to eat the most outrageous cake I’ve ever made?It could only happen in a perfect shit storm so rare that it came just once in a billion years.

Her phone rang, bringing her back from her dismal thoughts. She stared at the screen with a confused frown. It was her mom, but it wasn’t her birthday or Christmas.

“Mom?”

“Hey there.” Her voice was soft and soothing. “How are you holding up?”

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