Cakeless in Cincinnati.

North College Hill Bakery

All I wanted was a small birthday cake for the man. I came all the way out to Cincinnati to celebrate his birthday and I didn’t think a cake would be an issue. I usually make the cakes for such occasions but it’s hard to cook out of one’s environment. I know I am a pain in the ass when it comes to the food I allow myself to swallow, my friends remind me of that fact it all the time. My feeling is that if I am going to pay good money for something it better be right. Please don’t try to sell me a bill of goods, tell me something is something it obviously is not or think you can pass one over on me. I grew up in New York City...that not only makes me street smart but I know the difference between quality and shlock. New York has some of the best bakeries in the world. I can spot a fake a mile away. I can taste artificial sweetener, and the likes of a cake mix the second it touches my tongue. Cake mix doesn’t even smell of a home made cake. The consistency is never as dense as a cake made with real eggs, sweet butter, whole milk, sifted flour and a good amount of real sugar. You could create a lighter cake by making a sponge cake but most cakes have body. The same goes for butter creams made with hydrogenated vegetable shortening. Gag me with a spatula. Why would you ever cover a cake even one made of a packaged mix with something one molecule away from plastic. You would never get away with a scam like that in Europe. No wonder half of the population of America is over weight. You’re eating wasted calories something you can’t digest people. Can you say clog those arteries!

My tale of woes began on a rainy Tuesday morning. The day before the alleged birthday dinner for Michael. While shopping in Krogers, a local chain of grocery stores, I made it a point to check out the display of brightly colored cakes in the case at the bakery department. Although they are all creative in design they look like display cakes. Something you could place on your sideboard in the dinning room and dust off once a year, good as new. They all look festive but I wanted to eat the thing not arrange it as a keepsake. As I am contemplating my next move I spot a well dressed women talking to the butcher. Which happens to be my next stop for lamb shanks which I never was able to acquire. Long story! I’ll have to blog on that one some other time. I get her attention and ask “ Do you happen to know of a Good Bakery. The women spins into a whirlwind of expressions and descriptions about the best cake she has ever placed into her mouth. I am excited and ret-to-go. I think I may have found a treasure for my culinary desires right here in the Burbs. A place I can satisfy my craving for the finer things in life. “ Cake.” The North College Hill Bakery. Michael had even told me the folks next store to him highly recommended it. So off I go.

It takes me a bit of time to find the place even with the GPS in hand. Cincinnati is a city made up of a small municipalities. Some are quaint with urban shopping tracks tucked away into lovely old buildings, others are sadly forgotten rundown hoods. North College Hill falls into the later. I drive up to a white square flat roofed addition to an old Craftsmen house. You can still see the old roof line in the back as you drive up the street. The sign above the door says North College Hill Bakery probably painted the last time they gentrified the place. I’d say the 1950s.I am here at last.The sidewalk is bare of any decorations with plenty of spaces to park the car. The place looks like it’s closed, but I park and get out anyway. Following right behind me is a young women about 30 or so her eyes light up as she enters. We both spontaneously take in a full breath to inhale the aroma. The place smells like the bakery at Publix, way too sweet. Almost like your grandmothers perfume. Although the place is clean I can almost feel the sugar sticking to the walls. My first impression is to leave but the natives here love this place so I concede.

I look around and spot two rows of fresh baked bread in plastic bags. As I talk to the women behind the counter about the choices I have for a birthday cake. I notice a tray of something that looks yummy. The sign next to the tray says Cream Horns. I haven’t had a Cream Horn since I was in Boston a good 10 years ago. My mouth begins to water. I crouch down so I can take a closer look and notice something odd. The cream looks a bit dense. Almost frozen in time. So I ask. What is the filling in Cream Horns? Meringue! She replies. Like I must be kidding her by my foolish question. Though I think this is somewhat odd for a Cream Horn. I think to myself, I’ll try one. What can I loose? A $1.50.

I ask, do you sell Cream Puffs? Oh yaahh! she replies in her midwestern accent as a proud smile curls up at the edge of her soft colored lips. Are they filled with Cream? Scared to ask. Oh Yaahh! We are out of Cream Puffs though. They are the first to go in the morning. I look around the shop again, It's about 3:00pm and the cases are still full of the standard danish pastry going stale, the kind you can get anywhere. I can see them now all showing up on the half price shelf tomorrow morning packaged 6 to a bag and all stuck together in one lump or better yet delivered to the homeless shelter before the night is over. Hum! I think, If you know you will run out so quickly, Why don’t you make enough to last through to the afternoon? Even though I think this is a fair question I stay silent. Cream Puff Pastry lasts a few days if kept in a dry place. They can always be baked ahead of time and filled on demand. So I move on to the reason I came on this voyage in the first place. A birthday cake.

I ask, ‘Do you make the whipped cream? Oh yaahh! Everyday. Do you have custard filling? I add. Oh yaahh! She smiles again. We have vanilla and chocolate. No chocolate, I say. I just want a white cake with vanilla custard filling and whipped cream for the icing. As she writes down my order she asks. What do you want it to say. How about happy birthday Michael. I reply. Would you like flowers? How about fall colors. That sounds great, I answer.

I look over at the cream horn and say I’ll try one of those too. They are very good the voice behind me says. What else do you like here I ask the women that followed me in. Oh you have to get cinnamon bread. I drive 45 miles to come here for the cinnamon bread. My grandmother lived here when I was kid and always had it in her pantry. It’s the best. Sold! I’ll take a loaf of bread too, I add. The woman tells me the total and I pay her. Do I get a receipt? I question. No! She replies. Just give me your name. It’s all taken care of. Lester, I say, not feeling too good about this policy. She hands me my change and I head for the car treats in hand.

Curiosity killed the cat and mine was running over time. I open the bag to pull out the Cream Horn, take a big bite and wow! Can you say sugar overload? Sweet would be an understatement. As crumbs are dripping over my shirt I take another bite and put the rest back in the bag. Better luck next time.

The next day at the designated time - 12:00 p.m. - I get into the car to pick up my prize. The place will be easier to find now that I am learning my way around the town. I walk into the bakery. Can I help you? a new women behind the counter asks. Yes, my name is Lester and I am here to pick up my cake. She disappears to the kitchen and reappears with a chocolate cake that says Happy Birthday Michael and is decorated with fall colored flowers. I look at the cake and say. This is not my cake and reiterate my order from the day before. She goes back into the kitchen and comes out with the original woman with my order form in hand. She says as she smile. This is what the order form says. Chocolate butter cream with white cake. She has got to be kidding me. No. I remember telling you no chocolate. I asked for whipped cream. You told me you made it here every day. Oh my, we never put whipped cream on the cakes, we only use butter cream. Can we make you another one? She whimpers. We can make it right up for you while you wait, she adds. Butter Cream I think. I am always suspicious of butter cream in places that smell this sweet. Do you make the butter cream here? I am afraid to ask. Yaah! Yaah! from scratch she replies. Oh right, I have heard the made from scratch one before. Scratch doesn’t always mean it’s made from real food. It just means they concoct it up in the kitchen out of who knows what. I am afraid again to ask but I do. Can I taste it? The poor woman is now beside herself. She goes over to the counter, takes out a cupcake, slices off a bite piece and hands it to me placed in a paper wrapper. Thank you I say and take one bite. My face always gives me away. I just can’t help it. My eyes open as wide as the cup cake. Oh my God! Did I say sweet? I don’t know what to say. I don’t even want to swallow. This will not work I blurt out. I was set on whipped cream. Can’t you just ice the cake in cream? No! No! We never put cream on a cake, she tells me again. We can give you your money back. There is a God. Thank you. I respond to her goodwill. I take my money and get back into the car in search of another solution. Michael’s birthday dinner is tonight.

P.S. The cinnamon bread is worth going back for. It’s excellent in the morning with a great cup of tea. Yaahh!!!