“Si, si, si. Crumble cake. Si.” Professor Caprese paced back and forth in the cooking lab, talking on the phone. This went on for half an hour. Finally, he hung up.
“Who was that?” I was curious.
“My cousin Laura.”
“And what did she want? I mean … With a crumble cake?” I wondered why Caprese had even used that word.
“She owns a little café in Naples and would be very happy if you sent her your crumble cake recipe. You know, that incredibly soft one with the crunchy sprinkles.” He rolled his eyes in rapture.
“My crumble cake recipe? How does your cousin know my crumble cake?” Things were getting more and more wondrous.
Caprese looked embarrassed. Then he told me everything. He had actually sent Laura half a crumble cake. Stolen from the cooking lab, wrapped in foil and sent off.
He stood in front of me with his head high in red.
“You’re a thief.”
I wasn’t mad at him, of course. My crumble cake in Naples? That flattered me. Actually, a very simple recipe. In the cooking lab, we often ate it in the afternoon. The aroma. Fluffy and soft on the inside. Crispy on the outside.
I wrote down the recipe and the professor sent it off right away.
A few days later, a couple of photos arrived in the mail from Naples in the cooking lab. Two bakers with crumble cakes in the bakery. Cousin Laura with crumble cake in hand at the café. Three crumble cakes in the small shop window: “La torta sbriciolona del Signore Grün”. I was already a little proud.
…
The French have such a unique style for which I admire them very much. One of the images I would never want to miss is a French breakfast at Place d’Italie. A piece of baguette, some butter, jam, un petit café. People are walking by. I like those red awnings. The typical wicker chairs.