This is a space for quiet contemplation. The narrow windowsill that acts as a tabletop for my croissant and coffee. The morning light streaming in. Outside the waves of power cables intertwined like lovers in an orgy. A flash of creamy white and rufous red scurries across one of these lines like an acrobat: a Finlayson’s squirrel in search of urban feasts, from treetops to rooftops.
I didn’t mean to come here, not initially. I have been trying to resist the draw of the freshly baked viennoiseries for some time now. My beloved teases me, Are you sure you don’t want a croissant? You know you love them…
And I do.
What makes it worse is that the shop is but a hop and skip away from where we stay, a stone’s throw from the house where every Songkran season we’d get homemade kao chae from a lovely lady who makes it once a year.
Every time I tell myself that one pastry a month is more than sufficient; my waistline will thank me for it. Then I reconsider: maybe once a week isn’t that bad. And then surrender.
Entering the shop, I stroll past the oven and dough rolling area to where the trays of croissants are. Plain ones and pain au chocolat. Boozed up versions with rum and orange liqueur. Velvety frangipane and a porcupine’s crest of almond flakes. Ham, bacon and cheese. La vie en jaune, filled with passion fruit and mango cream.
But my favourite is the chocolate hazelnut croissant – a half coating of dark chocolate ganache and a generous heart of chocolate hazelnut paste (it’s probably Nutella, right?) – and that’s all the chocolatey heaven I need.
My waistline will just have to forgive me; my tongue and taste buds have their own desires I must fulfil.