FatherHood

HIS PERSPECTIVE: STORIES

From

FATHERHOOD | BY JON SALINSKY

Not very long ago, in a city not far away, at an establishment that could be considered local, my 11-yearold daughter and I arrived for a sweet treat. Yes, I used the phrase “sweet treat.” Yes, I’m a red-blooded male. The blood used to run hot, but I’ve been married for 16 years. As a child, I learned the phrase from my grandfather. He used it rather inappropriately, but quite endearingly to refer to whichever lucky waitress happened to be serving us Sunday lunch. As an adult, I typically get takeout. When I use the phrase, it has a much more literal meaning. On this day, aside from subtle manipulation, I don’t recall what my daughter did to deserve a sweet treat from our favorite bakery. The bakery focuses heavily on the dessert-side of the baked goods spectrum. I would drop the name of the bakery, but they don’t advertise with Society Life. In fact, they don’t advertise. It’s not part of their business model. This is good for me. I don’t want to share them with others more than I already do.

Upon our arrival, we were greeted at the dessert counter by a grandmotherly figure who asked if we had been in before. Initially, I scoffed at the absurdity of the question. Then I course corrected by covering the scoff with a throat-clearing cough. It occurred to me that I was likely in the shadow of the Countess of Cakes, the Princess of Pies, the Duchess of Desserts, and the less esteemed Queen of Quiche. She confirmed my suspicion when she introduced herself as the owner and thanked us for our patronage. In return, I thanked her for making the world a better place through her desserts.

Flattered, she asked if I would repeat my statement on video. I then asked her if the band Warrant loves sweet cherry pie. She had a 50/50 shot on the Warrant thing. She erred in the affirmative when she asked me to stay put and asked my daughter to pick out a pie. She then disappeared into the back room as she sung an oompa loompaish tune about peanut butter, bacon, bananas and taking care of business.

I expected her to return with the address of the studio where I would break into film. Instead, she returned with her phone and asked if we knew how to use the video function. I didn’t, and my daughter was too busy scanning the dessert counter for an on-the-house treat. Before we went live, she made it very clear that she did not want an advertisement. She wanted a taste-a-monial that she would post to her website. After a couple of unplanned dry runs, she discovered the record button, and I went Hollywood. I confidently cocked my head slightly towards my right shoulder and with just the right amount of eye-squint, I delivered my lines in a deeply alluring voice and for a few blissful seconds I became a sweet treat Overall, her review of my performance was favorable. She liked my delivery, but she was a little uneasy about my unnatural neck and eye-movements. She said I reminded her a little of Elvis. My daughter’s review was a bit more direct. She described my performance as awkward and full of incoherent mumbling.

After the critiques, the owner asked my daughter which pie she selected. Subconsciously influenced by the owner’s backroom ditty, she selected what I would consider as an awkward pie made with incoherent ingredients. The pie consisted of peanut butter, bacon and bananas. It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but the pie would certainly be gratis given my endorsement.

Even though I earned it, I didn’t feel comfortable departing with a free pie, so I ordered a pie that I would purchase. The owner directed us to the register and then rang us up for two pies. Had she forgotten about my taste-a-monial? Was I overly presumptuous? Had I just been hustled? To soften the financial impact, she gave my daughter a Pastry Patrol button-pin. The button, when worn, entitled us to a percentage off future purchases.

A couple weeks later, we returned to the bakery for, surprisingly, another bacon, peanut butter and banana pie. At check out, my daughter proudly displayed her button—though perhaps a bit too discretely. As promised, we received a percentage off of our purchase. We received 0% off with a generous invitation to come back again. We were hustled.