The Rising Of The Cake - Part-II

For everyone who hasn't read the first chapter of this, here it is all over again, followed by chapter two.

THE RISING OF THE CAKE-PART-I



The girl paused momentarily, torn by doubts. Already she was a heroine, having saved the day from being a catastrophe of epic proportions - death by fire must be terrible, she thought. Then she took a deep breath, and made up her mind. Closing her eyes, she lifted the ladle and added just the lightest trace of brandy to the baking garnish on the stove before her.
The redolent fragrance of eternally unwashed socks drifted through the kitchen. The syrup must have arrived then, borne by the local delivery boy(? old by now) whose breath must surely be one of the first warning signs of armageddon. Ushering him out, she turned back to her first love, the oven. The cake had risen.
Two hours later, the cake stood, imposing as a behemoth at bay, towering on the dining table. Like all great kings, it was grand and intimidating in its power on the outside. Inside, however, it was just a mushy, gooey, sticky core of blissful indulgence.
The base was a solid yet crusty platter of mocha biscuit. The lower foundations of the cake were made of sweet, crumble-as-you-touch classic brown walnut cake, encrusted with sizeable chunks of milk-and-cherry chocolate. The second layer, tapering to the third on top, was a soft creamy layer of soft coffee chocolate, the lightest and cloudiest of milk white frothy cream, and a dash-just a dash-of freezing cold blackcurrant syrup, running like a vapour trail through the whole layer. This layer was seasoned with a sprinkling of chocolate chips and the faintest whiff of brandy that hovered only at the surface and disappeared as you sank into the heavenly chocolate bliss of it all.
But the topmost layer-that was literally the royal jewel in the crown. Set like a chocolate boat atop this delicious edifice, it was a large-ish shallow cup made of chocolate biscuit wafer, and swimming with chocolate syrup. Gently floating in the middle was a cake island, made up of delicate-looking yet tough petals of black bitter chocolate, which surrounded a cup-sized flower. The gently placed core was a small ball of pure, sweet chocolate rolled around a cherry, and encrusted in a coral shaped layer of a mixture of coffee wafer, chocolate syrup, vanilla frosting, and a single candied rose-leaf. The very slight waves of the pool of chocolate syrup gave it a look of a chocolate island pleased with itself, and at peace with the world.
The heroine looked on proudly, the light of love and joy in her eyes as her creation rested in a magnificient pose on the table. Suddenly, as she looked down to wipe the last of the tasting spoons, still lightly smeared with melted milk chocolate, on her apron, the door burst open with a thud. She wheeled around with a sharp cry of alarm to face three large men wearing balaclavas framed in her doorway. Her glance fell on the foremost of them, whose t-shirt bore the legend MMU. Milkshake Movement Underground. Oh God............
With a slow dawning of horror, she realized the truth. These men-these men must have heard of her cake somehow and come to plunder it. with a faint gasp of terror, she moved bravely in front of the chocolate cake, brandishing her still creamy ladle, ready to risk her all to protect the cake she loved................



FIND OUT THE REST OF THE STORY NEXT WEEK, IN "THE RISING OF THE CHOCOLATE CAKE-PART-II"


On the other side of town, the MMU Don raised his eyebrows and barked the word "Moron!” into the phone.

“It was one woman! One diminutive pastry chef and one masterpiece that was yours to take! How does a cake-crazy midget overpower two MMU assassins and escape? And more importantly, where to?” A deep breath. “Find her. Take the cake. If you have any problems, call me.” A pregnant silence. “And listen, one last thing. Don’t call me.”

The waves of fear seemed to carry over the phone, because after a short silence, the Don hung up.

The man on the other side of the desk smiled. His teeth had gold fillings, every last one of them, even though he was only about thirty. Years of sinking himself into the treacly delights of fudge and marshmallow had left him with permanently rotting teeth, rolls and rolls of sinking, pudgy flab, and a phobia of dentists. His was a benign face, a face that promised cheer and goodwill to all things baked, creamed and frosted on this earth, masking the cunning and greed beneath the ponderously chubby cheeks of an ultrasize Pillsbury Doughboy.

The Don gave his cream-mint flavored cigar an uneasy look.

“The cake seems to still be at large.”

The doughy man kept smiling. Inside, his flabby drooping guts twisted themselves into an agony of apprehension. The pink hands clenched a little.

The Don kept talking, with a shade more confidence.

“It is only a question of time. The woman cannot be trusted, but the cake she will keep intact, if she values her professional integrity. I swear this on my mother’s life.”

The man facing him forbore to point out that the present Don’s mother had died twelve years previously of a surfeit of chocolate éclairs. Instead, he spoke dreamily.

His voice was like him, rolling, ponderous, pleasant, but with undertones of homicidal mania.

“I must have that cake,” he sighed, rocking slightly. “It is my dream, you understand? Started years ago as a child, built up into massive proportions in cordon bleu school, frosted with my hopes and dreams all these years in the safety of my classic dessert lounge, yet everything I have ever achieved is nothing to what that one small woman produced in two days, on her own, in a pitifully antiquated kitchen. And I ask myself, why? Is it her natural talent that surpasses mine? Impossible. It is well known that I am the king of dessert. Is it her undivided time and attention that made that cake what it is today? No. What thirty pastry chefs could not achieve working together is out of her reach. Then – and mark this – it must be the recipe. An heirloom, perhaps, passed on for generations, added to but never changed in its essence. And that is why” – clenching his fists – “I must have it. Already, news of this supercake drifts through the corridors of the Confectionary Kingdom and begins to titillate the tastebuds of leading pastry critics, leaving my recent creations in the dust. My reputation, my career, my life’s work is at stake. I must have this cake. I will taste it, then I will break it down to its base, then I will savour the ingredients until I have captured the soul of each one of them. And then,” – a predatory smile changed the Pillsbury Doughboy face to the awful visage of a plump barracuda – “ I will bake my own Cake.”

The Don shifted in nervous acquiescence, staring at the wall behind his guest.

In the distance, police sirens blared.




STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER, COMING SOON, ONLY ON TRISHA-MYCRIMINALTHOUGHTS@BLOG