#42: making magi-
(possible excerpt from the book)
At first, I thought of Cake Cottage and its ilk as these amazing toy stores for bakers. Now, after all the work I’ve done, I find them spectacularly lacking. These are not stores for serious bakers; they are stores for the cat-sweatshirt wearers, country crafters, people who are interested in getting the richest shade of pink and finding barely edible sprinkles with which to “dreck”-o-rate their chocolate-dipped pretzels, the chocolate itself being full of stuff you shouldn’t eat.
If I was a snob when I first walked through those doors two years ago, I’m a bigger (in all ways) snob now. I don’t deny that the Magi-Cake strip’s benefits far exceed its stupid name and poor packaging (with spelling mistake); they are worth the $9/pair price tag. (At least they aren’t called Magi-Kake; then I would keel over and die.) But what I need hasn’t been invented or is just impossible to find: a 12-inch plate that is flat for at least eight inches in the center, and a cake carrier that will hold both my plate and the three-layer on top of it.
I leave disappointed in the excessive amount of junk, while there’s still so much missing. For instance, why not sell the very best cake flour in bulk or some superfine sugar? Why not peddle elegance in the place of schlock?
So when I leave bakeries and cake supply aisles and shops these days, it’s with thoughts of what I’d do to make them better. I’d pretty up those Cakelove cupcakes—make them look as inviting as they taste by doing nothing more than smearing the frosting in a way shows some pride of craftsmanship. I'm not asking for polka dots, just something that doesn't look like it was frosted by a four-year-old boy. I’d sacrifice a few cents more for some butter instead of margarine at Gourmet. I’d require nutrition information on every bag of fruity glurp I carry (because, face it, I’d go out of business if I didn’t sell Sweetex frosting and bags of fruity glurp, which can be smeared on my customers’ waffles the next morning).
It doesn’t matter, of course, because I don’t have the personality for retail.
While sitting with Warren Brown at his Canton shop, a young girl began clacking her shoes and clapping and making all sorts of obnoxious noises during our conversation, and Brown just smiled his smile while I was pondering yet another use for duct tape. And you can’t be like that in your own store. You can’t, as I once did, tell your customers how wrong they are about their health and insist they can replace the but-they're-fat-free! pretzels with eggs and shellfish and improve their cholesterol.
So my dreams of pretty from-scratch cupcakes and luxurious ceramic cake plates remain where they belong: in my head.
#42: making magi-
(possible excerpt from the book)
At first, I thought of Cake Cottage and its ilk as these amazing toy stores for bakers. Now, after all the work I’ve done, I find them spectacularly lacking. These are not stores for serious bakers; they are stores for the cat-sweatshirt wearers, country crafters, people who are interested in getting the richest shade of pink and finding barely edible sprinkles with which to “dreck”-o-rate their chocolate-dipped pretzels, the chocolate itself being full of stuff you shouldn’t eat.
If I was a snob when I first walked through those doors two years ago, I’m a bigger (in all ways) snob now. I don’t deny that the Magi-Cake strip’s benefits far exceed its stupid name and poor packaging (with spelling mistake); they are worth the $9/pair price tag. (At least they aren’t called Magi-Kake; then I would keel over and die.) But what I need hasn’t been invented or is just impossible to find: a 12-inch plate that is flat for at least eight inches in the center, and a cake carrier that will hold both my plate and the three-layer on top of it.
I leave disappointed in the excessive amount of junk, while there’s still so much missing. For instance, why not sell the very best cake flour in bulk or some superfine sugar? Why not peddle elegance in the place of schlock?
So when I leave bakeries and cake supply aisles and shops these days, it’s with thoughts of what I’d do to make them better. I’d pretty up those Cakelove cupcakes—make them look as inviting as they taste by doing nothing more than smearing the frosting in a way shows some pride of craftsmanship. I'm not asking for polka dots, just something that doesn't look like it was frosted by a four-year-old boy. I’d sacrifice a few cents more for some butter instead of margarine at Gourmet. I’d require nutrition information on every bag of fruity glurp I carry (because, face it, I’d go out of business if I didn’t sell Sweetex frosting and bags of fruity glurp, which can be smeared on my customers’ waffles the next morning).
It doesn’t matter, of course, because I don’t have the personality for retail.
While sitting with Warren Brown at his Canton shop, a young girl began clacking her shoes and clapping and making all sorts of obnoxious noises during our conversation, and Brown just smiled his smile while I was pondering yet another use for duct tape. And you can’t be like that in your own store. You can’t, as I once did, tell your customers how wrong they are about their health and insist they can replace the but-they're-fat-free! pretzels with eggs and shellfish and improve their cholesterol.
So my dreams of pretty from-scratch cupcakes and luxurious ceramic cake plates remain where they belong: in my head.