Dear Bakery Nouveau: I Love You.

I thought it was a passing crush, nothing more than a blush of affection based in giddiness around our departure from Capitol Hill for the broader reflective light of West Seattle. But as time has passed and I’ve visited over and over, my feelings have deepened and now, there is no denying it. Bakery Nouveau, I love you.

Sure, there’s an awkward interior and a long line. I will gladly wait my turn with my nose pressed up against the cool glass cases while I admire the delights within. I will happily share my table, blasted by the draft from the front door, while I wait for my coffee to be called from the back corner. I don’t care about your flaws, Bakery Nouveau, because you give me complete and utter satisfaction every single time.

Is it the hazelnut creme pastry, fluffy and crispy and creamy all at the same time? Is it the mocha cheesecake, dense as a truffle and twice as rich? Is it the buttery taste of the baguettes, delicate and crunchy, half eaten before I get back to the house? Or is it the almond croissants that seem to appear magically from the kitchen as though my desires are anticipated before they are even voiced?  Those things are the barest beginnings of your charms, Bakery Nouveau.

I am grateful for your distance, just about two miles from my door. Were you any closer, I would stalk you, camping out on your front door, waiting for you to open so I can get my fix of warm marzipan wrapped in flaky croissant, fresh from the oven.  Daily, I would think to myself, ah, there are leftovers at home, but I could have a sandwich the likes of which I’ve never experienced on this side of the Atlantic.

And I forgive you your failings. The fact that you were closed on my birthday. The fact that there is never a good place to sit. The showoffy manner in which you display your trophies and medals. The fact that you have no idea who I am. But before you dismiss me, Bakery Nouveau, let me tell you a little about myself.

Before I lost my heart to you, I had another affection. The pastries of Europe were mine, the grand bakeries of Vienna.  I have eaten my way through 29 different documented varieties of confection, and countless other undocumented complexities. I have smashed the last chocolate crumbs on the back of my fork in bakeries much older and more experienced than yours. I am a profligate of pastry, a connoisseur of cake, a baccanal of baked goods. I have leaned back, pushed the empty white plate away from me, licked the last bit of espresso foam off my demitasse spoon and said, “Let’s get a few things to go.”

No longer. I am faithful to you, Bakery Nouveau. I’m nothing to you, I know, but as long as you are there at the Junction, serving not only me, but all the others who worship at your temple of baking, I am satisfied.

Never leave me. Ever.