Pieces torn by hand, uneven, tall, covered in icing sugar that looks like fresh snow under the light. Beside them a small cup of plum compote, dark, glossy, the skins still in it.
The first forkful is a very thick pancake, only torn instead of cut. Inside it's moist, full, savoury, not a dry corner anywhere. The little crust at the edges is there but barely, almost absent, it melts at once and leaves only the soft part. I chew slowly, it's more substantial than the cloud of sugar suggested.
The plum compote comes after. It's sweet, just warmed, lukewarm against the cold of the icing sugar. It corrects nothing, it accompanies, softening the dry sweetness of the pancake with a different sweetness, rounder, of cooked fruit.
Fifty minutes in line to get to this. And while I eat I tell myself that in the end it's a pancake. Good, rich, but a sweet pancake pulled apart. Around me, though, there's a room that overawes me, gold everywhere, a richness that almost makes me feel out of place at this tiny table. Eating something so simple amid such grandeur gives me the sense of committing a small sin, as if it weren't meant for something this humble to sit so comfortably in here. I keep going anyway, one forkful after another, until all that's left on the plate is the sugar.
