Heartbreak Cake (2 page)

The first few months were a financial struggle, something we expected and planned for, but our latest move into the wedding side of baking has proven to be a huge success for us. If you’d told Pedro, my partner, and I, that we were going to become a wedding cake boutique, we would have thrown a cake pan at you—an industrial sized one. We left the world of high-end luxury hotels because we were both tired of dealing with neurotic brides. Their mothers. And their soon to be mother-in-laws.

But our first wedding cake request came from Mindy, who waltzed in and charmed us with her messy eggplant- colored hair and tattoo-sleeved arms asking us nicely if we ever did weddings.

“Not if we can help it,” I had said wryly.

“I’m not looking for something traditional. I want something that tastes totally kick ass. It doesn’t have to be wedding-like at all.” She then smoothly added that she wanted to keep it local so she could promote the neighborhood. How could we deny free advertising?

She gave us full creative control, and Pedro and I came up with the idea of individual-sized chocolate cakes served in engraved cast iron skillets that guests could take home as a wedding gift along with a jar of chocolate cake mix.

It was an ode to her Southern roots, and the best part was how much fun we had catering a wedding the Cake Pan way.
The Los Angeles Times
splashed a full size color photo of Mindy’s wedding in the Home section with the bride and groom feeding each other a forkful of chocolate cake covered in chocolate ganache frosting and candied bacon bits. It was the launching pad we needed to be catapulted into the wedding business–whether we were ready or not. But Pedro and I promised each other that we wouldn’t let ourselves become ordinary for the sake of money.

But most importantly we pinky swore we would never deal with rich, pushy and temperamental brides ever again.

And we haven’t. Until now.

I set my purse down in the office and take in a deep belly breath. Ommmmmmm. This place is my yoga studio, I think, instantly feeling relaxed by the sweet scents of butter, cinnamon, and sugar. I peek into the kitchen where Pedro, Jill, and Tomas are clanging around, singing along to Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” and making red velvet bars with cream cheese frosting.

“Good morning!”

“You’re late,” Pedro says over his shoulder like a stern elementary school teacher.

“Five minutes does not constitute being late. It’s a grace period. Read the manual.” I raise my eyebrows at Tomas and Jill who look away not wanting Pedro to see them snickering at him.

“What manual?” Pedro says, while manically punishing frosting into sweet submission with a silicone spatula.

“It’s the life manual. I have it in my office,” I tease. “Is there something wrong Pedro? You look tense, and it’s not even 8 a.m.”

“Stephanie Hemsley will be here at 9:30.” Pedro slams the bowl onto the kitchen counter. “She wants to talk about tweaking the cake.” Pedro makes air quote gestures, and I inwardly groan. I taught him that move. And he has mastered the art of sarcasm beautifully. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish.” Pedro gives me the
look
. I know the look well, but I choose to ignore it. He wants me to drop Stephanie Hemsley, and take a stand for artistic direction. He wants me to stay true to our promise of never dealing with the same kind of Crystal Cove brides we had willingly walked away from so we could do our own thing.

He wants me to tell her we don’t need her business.

But we do.

The Hemsleys are Los Angeles royalty. Stephanie is a boho-artsy-quinoa-eating-yogaholic who happens to be the daughter of a movie executive known for his million dollar summer blockbuster hits. But she’s no slouch either. Stephanie took her business degree from UCLA and invested some of her daddy’s money into what is now a thriving art gallery in Chinatown with her gorgeous fiancé Travis Wright, lead singer of the pop band, The Peppery Owls. Together, they are formidable LA trendsetters: young, beautiful and painfully hip. The two of them are constantly followed around by paparazzi and are known to turn small companies into national stars. Luckily for us, Stephanie Hemsley had her golden arrow pointed at us.

“Pedro, you know that The Hemsleys could take us into a new stratosphere if we do this, right?”

Pedro keeps whisking the now overly beaten frosting that will have to be thrown away. He refuses to look at me. The Pedro pout. He’s famous for it.

“Think of it this way. We are using her to get what we want. So she’s got another idea and wants to make a few ‘tweaks.’ When we are done with her, do you know what that means? It means we are going to get paid. And then guess who will come knocking?”

“
The New York Times
,” Pedro says with his soft Oaxacan accent.

“That’s right. And then, what does that mean?”

“World Domination?” he jokes.

“Kind of. It means you move out of your apartment and buy Sofia that little beach bungalow you’ve been talking about, and Cake Pan’s name is the talk of the town, the nation. Isn’t that what we want?”

Pedro sighs in resignation. I used the Sofia card. Something I only do in an emergency. He may be a grump. Stoic on a good day. And terrifying on a bad day. But when it comes to his wife, Sofia, a spunky blonde waitress he met at the hotel, he caves.

“Don’t worry, Pedro, there’s no way they can cancel this cake order again. It would be the third time. It’s just impossible for her to be that cruel.”

***

At 9:45 a.m., I’m sitting in my office with a stylish and well-dressed Stephanie Hemsley realizing that, yes, she could indeed be that cruel.

“Wait a minute. You’re canceling your cake order again? Your wedding is less than a month away. Why? What’s wrong with the gorgeous rose petal cake we had talked about? Eight layers of vanilla bean, Stephanie? Eight layers! The sweet scent of rose petals—we’ve spent the last week plucking red, yellow and pink roses and candying them for the testing. Do you realize how much detail work that involves? It’s petal by petal.” I am admittedly shrieking at this point, so I try to calm myself down.

Stephanie widens her big brown eyes and gives me an understanding smile. “I know, Indira. I didn’t think I would have another change, but listen, Travis and I have been working with a muralist from Mexico name Beatriz Villanueva who creates amazing murals of these villages around Mexico and she donates a portion of anything she sells back to the people who live there. She’s already helped thousands of children get shoes, clothes, school books. She’s amazing and her work got me thinking…”

Her hands flap around like hummingbirds, and I half expect her to scream, “Jazz!” at me at any moment.

“Our wedding theme has now changed to
pueblito
style. And we are going to ask guests to give donations to the villages instead of wedding gifts. We’re going to do a big PR push and try to get a large donation that we can give to Beatriz, and we want Cake Pan to lead the dessert table with one of your ingenious one-of-a-kind creations, maybe something Latin-inspired that you can give a modern woo- woo edge to? Maybe we can even auction off one of your creations. What do you think?” Stephanie looks at me shyly. “I’m changing my dress to a traditional Mexican wedding dress. And Travis is going to wear an all-white-linen suit with a turquoise tuxedo shirt. He’s going to look so handsome.”

She blows a kiss to Travis, who has been sitting silently by while she explains her plans to me, and he pretends to catch it.

Oh my God, I think that morning glory muffin I ate is going to come back up.

I look at Travis who smiles sheepishly at me and quickly looks away when he sees me question his manhood in one quick glance.

A philanthropic wedding with one of LA’s Hollywood socialites? It’s pure genius, and even though Stephanie looks like a beautiful Barbie doll with a waist the size of my ankle, her idea means more media coverage than we had ever hoped for.

Well played Stephanie, well played.

“You are obviously a smart business woman,” I say with absolute sincerity. “The apple clearly doesn’t fall far from your father’s ingenious, creative tree. But this has to be the last change. We are three weeks away from your wedding day; we’ve done so much work on both of your other ideas and this redo is going to affect our time with other clients. You do realize that we have other clients, right? You are not the only bride we are working with.”

Stephanie scowls a bit, raises her eyebrows and lifts her nose in a way only a girl bred with money can do, and then she nods at me. “Of course I do. I appreciate your flexibility. I know it can seem like I’m fickle, but I just want it to be perfect. And if I have the opportunity to do some good with my father’s fame and also help my gallery, well what kind of business woman would I be if I didn’t take the opportunity?

“I understand. Which is why I am not telling you no. I also know a good idea when I hear one. Promise me this is the last change?”

She raises three fingers in the air in a Girl Scout salute. “I give you my word. Final change.”

She’s hard to resist with that adorable earnestness, I think to myself.

Now, I just have to tell Pedro.

I touch the tendrils of my braids and smooth the dry ends with my fingers, a nervous tick I picked up in third grade when I was forced to play dodge ball during recess and white-knuckled my way through a game. I’ve had it ever since.

I can see Pedro in the kitchen systematically plucking rose petals and placing them gently on the counter.
Red, red, yellow, yellow, pink, pink
. Bless him for being so detailed.

“We will get a menu over to you next week. I do think coconut flan shooters are a must have for the dessert bar, but I’m also picturing sweet quesadillas and dessert sopes.”

"Fantastic." Stephanie claps both of her hands together. Her huge diamond engagement ring winks at me with a promise of riches to come.

***

“How are you taking all this?” I saddle up to Pedro, who is hunched over the table reading a Mexican pastry cookbook and taking notes.

“I think sweet sopes is such a great idea, Indira. I’m thinking a walnut cornmeal mix is perfect, but we can also look into almond flour, too...the trick will be how to create the illusion of a textured masa cup. Or maybe we just don’t, and instead make our own interpretation.”

“I am so glad you are handling this well. I think this is a great opportunity for us, especially with your background in Mexican pastry. We are sure to sparkle.” I give Pedro a one-arm hug and jangle my car keys at him. “I’m heading to the Farmer’s Market right now to pick up some pears and persimmons. I think I see a lovely fall tart for our pastry case centerpiece tomorrow morning.”

Pedro squints at me suspiciously.

“Why do you still go to this Farmer’s Market? You know I go to the big one on Wednesday and pick up everything we need,” he says pointedly.

“I like this one. It’s small, and I can find everything really quickly.” I avoid his eyes and make my way toward the door.

“Indira...”

“Pedro,” I turn and smile coolly. “It’s been more than a year. I’m fine. I don’t go there for any reason except fruit and gossip.”

“You seem so different this last year. It’s like you are here, but no,” he says with surprising attention to my feelings.

“I’m fine…
Te promento
.” I look him straight in the eyes to reassure him. Waving goodbye, I make my way to my car, and I realize that one of the rules to being a successful liar is to believe your own lie.

 
Chapter 2

The weekly farmer’s market is the proverbial water cooler for the food community—it’s the place to get inside the underbelly of who’s who and what’s what and who did what to whom and why.

The best way to stay out of town gossip is to always be in front of it. You stay away too long and next thing you know, Alice the cherry lady is telling Brandon the squash man how you don’t pay them on time, and come to think of it, you may be having marital problems that could be affecting your finances.