WHAT IS WISDOM THAT DOES NOT PROFITEROLE THE WISE?

I’m going to tell you a story that still seems unbelievable, as if it were the product of a fevered dream rather than cold, hard reality.

Make that creamy, sugary reality.

Okay, here’s what happened: I was walking down Leonard St. on my way to the supermarket last night. As I crossed Devoe St., I suddenly became aware of Italian music playing in the background, and strands of soft, white light bulbs strewn from one end of the street to the other.

Since neither K. nor I are Italian, but our neighborhood largely is, I assumed that I had stumbled across some sort of religious or cultural festival. Being a reporter, and having my camera concealed in my trusty backpack, I decided to walk over to the mass of white tents, ask a few questions, take pictures, and find out what was going on.

But little did I realize that I had stepped into a parallel universe, where cake flowed as liberally
as water, albeit with much more variety.

I’m not being hyperbolic, you disbelievers. The local pastry shop, Fortunato Brothers., happened to be celebrating its 30^th Anniversary on Monday. In commemoration of that historic day – which is no mean feat in our age of the revolving business – they threw a party on the adjacent block, with tables covering just about every spare inch of asphalt.

And on each table sat an assortment of delectable treats including tiramisu, chocolate mousse, babarum, and more. My Italian may not have been fluent enough for me to decipher exactly what “zupper ingles” means, but luckily, the human palate is a great equalizer of languages. One bite, followed by a smile, translates into easily-understood happiness no matter what culture you come from.

It almost matched the happiness I felt when I found out that everything - and I mean everything - was free.

That's right, we’re talking all-you-can-eat pastry at absolutely no charge. I indulged until I could indulge myself no more, then I walked to the next table for yet another serving. Thank the heavens that I am a spindly man, or last night could have been the end of me. As it was, I stumbled home clutching my stomach in my hands, half-expecting that the tiramisu in my arteries would cut off blood flow at any moment, instigating a fateful heart attack. I felt the seconds of my life ticking away, like sand falling through the neck of an hourglass, like chocolate shavings lightly dropping from the mouth of someone haphazardly eating black forest cake.

But over-consumption did not claim my life, and after several hours of sitting on the couch without eating, my body managed to absorb all that sugar and fat. Perhaps the gods also decided to spare my life since I had been carrying several plate-loads home for K., who was out until late. Either way, I made it through to morning, and as I type away at my computer, pausing only to munch on a comparatively healthy snack – an apple – the faint taste of decadence still lingers in my mouth.

With only those trace memories to remind me of last night’s excursion – oh, and some profiterole with lemon that K. didn’t take to work – it seems too good to have been true. Could I have imagined the whole thing?

Even if I did, however, I suppose that doesn’t change the essential truths that one night in cake-land revealed: That indeed, there can be too much of a good thing; that babarum, despite not tasting like liquor, does in fact contain alcohol; and that the love you make equals the love you take, judging by all the loyal customers who gathered in the street during a calm evening, bearing 30 years of fond memories.