Page 9 of Cakes for the Grump
He texts me a directive at the start of my shift.
LUKE
Make a cake today before you leave.
All of a sudden, I freeze. My cake-making skills arewhyhe re-hired me in the first place. If I don’t deliver this request perfectly, it being delicious enough to sway any ornery business partners into pliable happiness, I might as well fire myself. Because anyone can make smoothies, steamed chicken, and blanched asparagus twigs. I provide Luke with none of my real cooking talents since his dietary requests basically equate to elevated baby food, but this?—
This is the true test.
Not wanting to fail, I ask:
ME
Is this request for the same business guests that liked my other cake?
Do they have a certain type of cake they want to taste this time?
LUKE
No.
ME
No what, exactly?
Can you give me a hint of what kind of cake you want?
When he doesn’t answer, I text again.
ME
Cooperation makes it easier for me to help you.
Ten minutes pass.
LUKE
Surely someone of your caliber shouldn’t need such guidance.
My hand knocks over a glass of water. Is he wanting me to fail? Is he saying I’m of high caliber sarcastically? Or genuinely? Must be sarcastically. So he’s thrown down the gauntlet, trying to see what I can come up with. I grab a towel to wipe up my mess, and type back one-handed:
ME
It’s called preferences!
Depending on the type of food these business partners naturally like, I can use that to my advantage. Not all cakes have the same appearance, aroma, taste, and texture. I can pick the perfect recipe with more information.
Do they prefer highly palatable sweets?
Are they concerned with caloric intake?
Do they like strong acquired tastes where savory toppings might be more appropriate?
The tongue can distinguish between sweet, bitter, salty, sour, and umami. If you combine all that with individual reactions to the senses of smell and touch, there are way too many variables to choose blindly from.
His response is short and cocky.
LUKE
