The Tart
A few months back I was invited to a morning coffee — post run coffee that is — and being a slow jogger and not much of a runner, except when there’s a hint it might be serious, I politely declined. I proffered a tatty work thing excuse and let it slip quietly out of my mind. A few weeks ago another morning coffee invite popped up — this time post cycle and not being a fan of cycling in lurid lycra in a bunch on busy roads (given how beautifully South Africans drive) I politely declined and proffered a tatty family thing excuse and let it quietly slip out of my mind.
A week ago I stopped and parked the bicycle right outside a coffee spot for a quick photo-op with some dolphins that happened to be handily swimming past. And having enjoyed the dolphins and got some terrible pictures on the old iPhone, I turned to get back to the bicycle only to be properly ambushed by the inviter of the abortive morning coffee dates. I was all out of tatty excuses and the crappy pictures of the dolphins held sway for all of ten seconds. After a lot of standing around and drinking out of our respective water bottles — the nervous tension was too much and I was straight out invited to a morning coffee — right there and then. Given that there was no possible escape and that I was mildly intrigued by the persistence (and slightly concerned that I was being stalked) — I agreed. She parked up her cycle, and we went through the whole helmet, gloves and other paraphernalia rituals and ended up walking right into a just cleared away table on the pavement. Great I thought — that must be a sign. When I stopped for the dolphin pictures, the spot was choked and there was no chance of a seat — and now mere minutes later — voila — a prime table had opened up for us. It’s one of those order at the counter spots — so we duly ordered; she recommended a pastry that I usually avoid and we moved off and sat down.
It’s kinda weird sort of dating later in life — there’s less of the obvious fizz that comes with being in your twenties and half sozzled in a bar, with tons of vibe already happening and all you gotta do is not be a Richard and you’re likely to end up being chosen to try out all sorts of fun and games until daybreak. And then go through them all over again before lunch time. For a few days in a row if you’re very lucky. And then likely not see other ever again. Being older means that you’re awake for a sober bicycle ride well before 8am — and your bed is already been made and you’ve checked into work at least once before you were out the door. The washing machine is busy doing it’s thing. The couch has been rectified from the night before and the kitchen sink only contains the tumbler you drank water out of before you left the house. There’s lentils prepped for lunch and the travel bag is out on the balcony for an airing. If you’re hyper fanatical, (or just unable to sleep past four am) the apartment has already been swept and mopped. Or so I’ve been told.
All this means that when you’re looking at someone in the face over a coffee that’s been postponed twice already, expectations can be either sky-high (hardly ever) or rock-bottom (the default). Then there’s the expectations of the other person to deal with. Matching sky-high expectations could result in a quick reversal to being in your twenties, thirties or even forties and days of uninterrupted bliss; a frenzied magic could follow. Until one of you has to go back to your marriage or to work or deal with the progeny who’ve been living off Mr D while you’ve been living off frenzied magic. And packet mushroom soup — as recounted to me by a certified hot-girl. Matching rock-bottom expectations could yield similar results, with one or both of you locking yourself away in your room and swearing never to try meeting new people, let alone dating. Ever again. Either way, the spawn end up living off Mr D.
It was hazy to me about which level of expectations we were at with this spontaneous morning coffee date following two abortive (death-defying in my books) attempts before. So we sat there, sipping Americanos, looking out at the glassy ocean, the gentlest onshore breeze fluffing out her helmet hair, the sun pale and soft on our skin. And it seemed to me in that moment, that regardless of where this went (or did not) — it was a pleasant change to have some company to share in the magnificent morning. Not that I’ve ever done this alone; I’m almost always by myself — which as I have learnt is a small but altogether significant difference. In a bit the pastry, my coffee inviter recommended, arrived and for a moment, it looked like it might have some promise. Years ago a human native to the land this pastry originates from bothered to make them for me and ever since then, I have come to revere them. Given how South Africans love to imitate everything, I’ve even occasionally come across good and great versions of the pastry. Mostly though, it’s an exemplar in disappointment and a lesson that imitation is never sincere nor ever flattering. It’s just imitation — usually cheap, generally bad and almost always best avoided.
Sitting on the plate in front of me, my initial hope wavered and I could tell this was an imitation but given that I had been invited and it was recommended by my inviter — I dutifully approached the pastry with hope in my heart — maybe it was a way of expressing my own expectations about the human that were mildly hopeful. She was at least not an insufferable talker and could sit in silence for a bit. I bit into the pastry and instantly I knew that she was only being silent because she was imitating me. Not because she enjoyed the unmatched bliss that comes from being connected to another human being and choosing to sit in silence for a bit, every now and then. Just in close proximity, breathing the same air.
Her face told me that I should say the pastry is great — she wanted me to like it. Maybe that feeling was just me wanting to like her and end this self imposed singlehood that has recently started to feel like a kind of loneliness I had not ever felt before in my life. With hindsight I see this is mostly because I hardly gave myself the chance to be by myself — being as busy as I was with the regular (and irregular) human relations gigs. I chew, nod and smile, her face lights up and my heart reaches to the depths of my now all too clear expectations. It’s too sweet, the texture is all wrong, the pastry limp. It’s inedible. I chew, smile and move the talk to her next cycling adventure on the busy main roads.
Days later, the dervish reminds me that every experience is full of divine meaning and guidance. If we are of the mind to see it. This time round, I’m full of gratitude that the divine guidance arrived in the form of an inedible little pastry. Truly life is sweet (without any added refined sugar) and we give thanks for every single moment gifted to us. Just choose your pastel de nata with care. It should taste of a moment of frenzied magic suspended in time; anything less, is an imitation.
The Tart is based on a series of mildly upcycled human experiences and one most awful pastel de nata in Durban. I’m sure there are several more really awful versions of the pastel de nata but I’ve got some family thing.
© Jesh Baker, 2021
