To Share a Canelé

I have these repeat customers at the Patisserie Poupon farmers market stand that I work at. They’re some kind of eastern European, I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know more specifically. Possibly Russian, maybe something else. They’re a handsome couple. The guy has long hair and is shorter than his woman counterpart, who is shorter than me. He’s good looking and friendly. I liken myself towards him for whatever reason. I don’t remember when it started but I remember feeling like, for whatever reason, some kind of thing made him something like me — or so I sensed.

I like them a lot. And I was away from my market the past couple weekends and when I returned, the first time I was back, I saw them. And I said ‘Hey guys!’ Which was a first. I said it because I knew them, and I recognized them. And I knew they recognized me too. Because it had been many times they had selected my favorite pastries for themselves and I had given them to them, with a smile. They really responded when I said ‘hey guys!’

First of all they reciprocated the hello, they realized I saw them, but didn’t just see them, and really saw them. And they realized I knew they knew me too. And then the woman said something I find myself thinking of right now. Not that I could understand it. She said it in some other language. ‘Some other language’ I find myself embarrassed that I don’t know of now. I didn’t understand it but I know what she said. I didn’t understand it but I got it. I said ‘Hey guys!’ He smiled and said ‘Hey, how are you’ and she said something in that other language that they live in at home and I don’t. But I knew what she said. She said ‘We’re finally regulars!’ She was excited, it was sweet. I gave them their little treat that I’ve loved before and I looked down and I kept a smile for myself.

I’m not well versed in those people, or their customs. But I knew a little bit about them as soon as they did something I would’ve done, and got a canelé along with the rest of their goods week after week.
So, I don’t know what a canelé is. Like what defines it. But I do know the one by the same name that I take out of a white box to set in a short wicker basket with a number of its fluted brethren on Sundays. That one is fluted for one, and small. Incredibly grab-able with tongs but delicate. We used to describe it as a rum flavored, but it’s more like vanilla.

And I knew them a little more when I let them know I knew them at all. Because I’ve had that interaction before. I’ve been with a girl who was waiting for something like that and, when it happened, revealed it with the same cadence. Somewhere between yelp and exclaim. It let me know that she had hoped for something, and she got it.

So who are these people? Why do they do things differently than me? And other questions I used to spectate those I was unfamiliar with, weren’t really seeking answers. Because I don’t know the answers to those questions. But the peanut gallery has quieted now. We’ve shared a smile looking down.