Written by Amy Stoltenberg
Photo by Amy Stoltenberg
Santiago: a kind, smooth South American gentleman who works at the thrift store I frequent. One Friday afternoon while I was shopping for some roomy new clothes to fit the extra inches that have recently appeared around my waistline due to an increased proximity to a fully stocked pantry, we got into a lively discussion about the revival of overalls in youth culture today. This somehow translated into casual flirting (“Those buckles look like they’d be fun to undo.”), which turned into intentional flirting (“I hear that you have an exotic accent. Where are you from?”).
He was new to Minneapolis, had spent the last few years after high school traveling around the world, and must’ve been just lonely enough to hang out with the girl trying on pinstriped short-veralls and jean skorts.
I suggested we meet at Lucia’s, a trendy yet locally sourced bakery in the uptown neighborhood, on the pretense of wanting to try out their chocolate chip cookies at a coworker’s recommendation. This was a blatant lie. I have already tried their chocolate chip cookies and know for a fact that they are the best in the world.
In fact, this date was no date at all, but a test to which there was no black-and-white answer, only the scattered and sporadic judgments of a teenage girl on a sugar high.
On Saturday, we met at Lucia’s and the exam commenced.
The bakery trays there are layered with extra thick fudgey brownies, puffed chocolate-frosted eclairs and other mouthwateringly scrumptious delights. Cookie jars are filled to the brim with moist, cakey cookies: salted caramel double chocolate, crunchy peanut butter, cowgirl and classic chocolate chip. After performing the appropriate cultural greeting rituals, we approached the registers.
I ordered one salted caramel double chocolate chip and one classic chocolate chip cookie with a large black coffee.
He ordered a bag of chips and a water.
I wasn’t even aware that Lucia’s sold chips. Every time I walk in, my eyes are so entranced by the sinfully alluring decadence of baked goods that I can barely find my way to the cash register without tripping over my own lustfulness. But sure enough, there they were, lining the counter: a hellish gleam of burgundy and mustard-colored plastic kettle chip bags available for purchase to separate the sweet from the, well, not-sweet-enough.
The conversation we shared on the sidewalk patio was acceptable, if a little old. In all honesty, the magic of our shared interest in quirky ’90s comeback fashion was lost the moment he picked up that bag of salt and vinegar chips. The last straw came when he refused to try a bite of my chocolate chip cookie.
If tasting the best chocolate chip cookie in the world is not one of his priorities, then spending more time with him may not be one of mine.
They say that opposites attract, but there’s nothing more alluring to me than a man with an appetite for dessert that rivals my own, whether because it makes me feel like less of an overindulgent slob or because there is some sort of correlation between the intensity of someone’s sweet tooth and the sweetness of their personality. Whatever the case may be, it is clear to me now that a willingness to share in the indulgence of decadence is a key criteria for my romantic happiness. As long as he saves the last bite for me.