I order a small coffee.
“Anything else?” the barista asks.
“I’d love some cake, but I’m trying to watch my sugar intake.”
I’m just making chit-chat here, sharing my sweet desires and my not-so-sweet struggles. But words matter, even the seemingly meaningless words we share in the course of mundane transactions. One person’s inconsequential dietary confession is another person’s conversational gambit.
“Do you want a bite of my cake?”
The person asking the question is a woman in her fifties. She holds a plastic to-go container in her hand. Inside the container is a slice of blue velvet cake, which is the cinematic version of red velvet cake. The slice is huge because that’s how they roll at Aroma in Studio City.
“Um... no thanks.”
“Come on, don’t be silly” she says. “Just a little bite. There’s not much sugar in one little bite.”
“No, that’s OK.”
“It’s really good cake,” she says.
“I’m sure it is. They make the best cake here.”
“So why don’t you want any? I don’t have cooties.”
That’s exactly what someone with cooties would say. But I don’t want to tell her that because it sounds rude.
“It’s not a cooties thing,” I insist.
“Then have some…”
With the edge of her fork, she cuts off a piece of blue velvet cake. She extends her arm for me to take the fork. Or, maybe I’m supposed to let her feed me? I’m not sure. But I know this: the cake is mine for the sampling, if I want it.
“I’m good,” I say. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Well, I tried,” she says. “What’s that expression? Horse to water? You can offer a man cake, but you can’t make him eat it, I guess.”
She eats the bite of cake and licks the blue velvet coloring off the white plastic fork. Then she closes the plastic container, and walks out the door without saying another word.
“Wait,” the barista says, “you two don’t know each other?”
“Total stranger,” I say.
“Wow. That was some weird shit.”
“Totally weird shit,” I agree.
The barista shakes his head.
“I’ve never seen someone do that before, and I’ve seen some really weird people in this job,” the barista says. “What do you think her deal was?”
“We’ll never know. But it’s fun to speculate.”
The barista accepts my invitation to speculation. He thinks she’s off her meds. I think she’s a shill for Big Cake.
“Maybe she’s one of those people who just walks the Earth spreading kindness,” the barista says. “You know, a do-gooder.”
That’s a lovely thought. I’d like to believe that the mystery woman was a carb-loving do-gooder. But her choice of cake says otherwise. A do-gooder would’ve offered angel food cake. A woman offering a blue velvet cake is straight out of a neo-noir. Deep down in my gut, I know the mystery woman was a sweet femme fatale—the kind of dame who lures you in with a taste of sugar, lulls you into a diabetic stupor, then pounces on her prey like a jungle cat.
“She was lying,” I say.
“About what?”
“The cooties. Weren’t you listening? Me thinks the dame doth protest too much about a fictional disease.”
“Huh?”
“She had cooties, man. Blue velvet cake is the perfect delivery vehicle for a fictional disease.”
“I dunno. Maybe she was just stoned.”
“No,” I say. “Definitely not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because stoners don’t share cake.”
Shout out time!
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Stick around and chat!
I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers.
What was the deal with mystery woman? Was she a blue velvet femme fatale with cooties? An angel food do-gooder? Off her meds? A shill for Big Cake? A stoner? Share your theories!
Has a stranger ever offered you a bite of their food? What did you do?
Does velvet cake come in colors besides classic red and neo-noir blue?
Do you think David Lynch would be interested in making another neo-noir called Blue Velvet Cake?
What’s the best kind of cake? Hint: It’s a Swedish cake called Princess cake that consists of alternating layers of airy sponge cake, pastry cream, raspberry jam, and a thick-domed layer of whipped cream inside of a green marzipan shell. Top that!
I would have definitely taken a bite of her cake (blue velvet! sounds fun!). I’m also the kind of person who shares their fries with the table next to me so... 🤷🏽♀️🍟
Cake lady was neither stoned nor off meds. She was Jewish. Forcing food on unsuspecting people is a five thousand year old trait amongst our tribe. Look at Passover. Matzo? Really? Our ancestors had to grab the unleavened bread and not the chocolate on the way out?