The Magic Cake Shop (9 page)

E
mma woke to the smell of burning. She opened her eyes groggily, then snapped awake as the odor of charred sugar grazed her nose. She pulled on her shoes and hurried downstairs.

Mr. Crackle was standing over the counter with a blowtorch. He wore pink protective goggles and green flame-resistant gloves. He whistled happily as he aimed the torch at several dozen custard cups spread out on the counter. Once he had finished flaming them, he set down the torch and turned to Emma.

“Why, hello, Emma! Care for some crème brûlée?”

“No thanks, Mr. Crackle. But if you don’t mind, could I have something to eat?”

“Of course!” Mr. Crackle removed his goggles and gloves. “Sorry about the smell—it’s an unfortunate sensation one must experience when making brûlée. Though, to tell you the truth, that poison of Mr. Beedy’s is working
remarkably well—I can’t smell a thing. Anyway, why don’t I whip up some peanut butter and jam sandwiches while you get us some milk? Cups are in the cupboard behind you.”

As Emma hopped onto the counter to reach the cups, she heard a knocking on the glass separating the kitchen from the front of the shop. She looked over and saw Albie, with a surprised face, tapping away.

“Mr. Crackle, Albie’s here!” she called.

“Oh, good, we need him too. I always thought that freckly young man could be put to better use than just cutter control,” Mr. Crackle called back. “Pop around to the front and bring him back here. Today we have more important things at hand than selling cake. I’ll tell Margie to close up shop for a few days after she sells what I baked this morning.”

Emma ran out the back door and around the shop to the front. “Hey, Albie,” she panted.

“Emma! How did you get into the kitchen with Mr. Crackle? I’ve never seen him let anybody else in there while he’s mixing things up!”

Emma took a few moments to explain to Albie what had happened. When she finished, he scratched his head. “So … you’re saying that one of your uncle’s friends poisoned Mr. Crackle, and you’ve got to make a special potion or else Mr. Crackle is toast?”

Emma nodded. “Yup. Will you help him? Oh, please say you will!”

Albie snorted. “Will I help? Is the ocean wavy? Of course!”

Emma gave Albie a tight hug, and they raced back to the kitchen, where Mr. Crackle was putting the finishing touches on some exquisite-looking peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Once he was done, they carried their meal upstairs to eat.

As they sat at the table munching, Emma hesitantly said, “Mr. Crackle? Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Why, certainly, Emma. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, you’re not scared of being poisoned, and I’m not sure why. Most people I know would be screaming or fainting every three minutes or throwing a tantrum or
something
. And then you seemed so calm and sure when Mr. Beedy asked if you could make the recipe. I can’t help thinking you don’t need my help. And then I thought I heard something about going down a flour barrel to go shopping, but I wasn’t sure what you meant. I was pretty tired, and I think I might have heard wrong … but are we going down a flour barrel to go shopping?” Emma paused to catch her breath.

Mr. Crackle tapped his nose thoughtfully. “Emma, the answer to your first question is easy. I’m not scared because I trust my skills enough to make the elixir correctly. As for your other questions, I’m going to answer them by telling you a story. Many bits of the story you have to promise me you won’t tell a soul. That goes for
you too, Albie. What I’m about to say is extremely secret. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” Emma chimed.

“Sure thing, Mr. Crackle!” Albie said.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Crackle. “Here we go.” He settled back in his chair.

“
I
knew when I was very small that I wanted to bake,” began Mr. Crackle. “My mother was an extraordinary cook who owned a cake shop, much like mine. ‘Gregor,’ she told me, ‘there are a few things you must know to be a baker. One, you must learn the secret to every ingredient and spice. You must learn their taste, their texture, their color, their essence. You must learn what they are like alone, in pairs, in medleys, in orchestras! You must also learn to make recipes perfectly. There are plenty of people who are and were magnificent bakers, and should you stumble across a recipe of theirs, you must be able to imitate it flawlessly. This will make you a good baker. What makes you a
great
baker is your imagination. You must be able to hunt for perfect flavors, combining the exact ingredients in the exact amount in the exact order to make exactly what you want. You must be daring and adventurous and brave and courageous!’ ” Mr. Crackle smiled. “Mother was a wordy person, but she loved her pastries.”

“She sounds lovely,” said Albie. “Please go on.”

“I inherited my mother’s love of making sweets, so when I grew up, I went to the Culinary Arts School in Athens to become a pastry chef,” continued Mr. Crackle. “While there, I participated in the most prestigious competition a baker can enter—the annual Supreme-Extreme Master of the Kitchen Contest. It is over one thousand years old, and the winner is declared the most talented chef in the world.”

Emma polished off her last bite of sandwich. “Albie told me you won the Supreme-Extreme contest before moving to Nummington.” She frowned. “Why does it have such a funny name?”

Mr. Crackle sighed and rose to clear the table. “It used to be called the
Grand Prix du Gâteau
, but fifty years ago there was a very close match between François Dupin from France and Hank Smith from America. Hank won. François was a powerful man, and he was so miffed over losing that he got the French government to forbid the competition to be named in French. Hank was given the honor of renaming the competition. ‘Supreme-Extreme Master of the Kitchen’ was what he chose.”

Cups and plates in hand, Mr. Crackle walked to the sink and turned on the water. “Apparently it was a great name for publicity. The competition used to be known to only a handful of experts who dedicated their lives to the culinary arts, but about ten years ago, a television producer caught wind of it. A year later,
Supreme-Extreme Master of
the Kitchen
went on the air. I’m afraid it’s now more about pizzazz and showmanship instead of the art of good cooking, but it’s still a grand way of finding talented master chefs.” He began to soap and rinse the dishes.

“Anyway,” he went on, “many years ago, well before the Supreme-Extreme was put on television, I entered the competition and won. I got a sizable chunk of money, but after the hoopla was done and everyone went home, I was pulled aside by the judges, all previous Supreme-Extreme winners. They showed me the true prize of the contest.”

“And what was it?” asked Emma.

Mr. Crackle beamed. “A key to a door that opens into a most marvelous shop! Inside the shop are jars filled with spice combinations unlike any flavors you have ever tasted! Each bottle is created from the combined knowledge of all past great bakers who discovered the most exquisite blends of flavors.”

By now Mr. Crackle had stopped washing dishes and was dancing. He continued, “Take pumpkin pie spice, for example. It is a precise proportion of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and allspice that does wonders for bland pumpkin. Now think of jars upon jars upon jars of spice combinations that make cookies burst with flavor, pies and tarts sweet and delectable; then think of the creative chef who combines these spice combinations and—voilà!—you have incredibly complex and beautiful flavorings unmatched by anyone except those with access to this shop.”

“Sounds marvelous!” Albie got up and started to jig along with Mr. Crackle. Emma laughed and joined them.

“And that’s only half of it!” Mr. Crackle said. “The other half of the shop is filled with the rarest ingredients in the world, found in places as deep as magma beds located thousands of miles underground or as far up as outer space! One of my favorite ingredients is moon sugar. I put it in my chocolate truffles for just the right sweetness.”

Emma stopped dancing. A worm of a thought had just occurred to her. “This is very interesting, Mr. Crackle, but you don’t have much time to make the elixir. What does the spice shop have to do with the recipe we need to make?” she asked. “And why do we have to go down the flour barrel?”

“Ah, there’s a reason why I knew you’d be an excellent assistant, Emma! Sometimes I do get carried away when it comes to baking. It’s good for you to remind me that we have a task at hand.”

Mr. Crackle stopped dancing and lowered his voice. “Most of the ingredients in the recipe are found only at the spice shop. And the flour barrel is how I get there. Every Supreme-Extreme Master has a portal installed in his or her kitchen. I’m not sure about the physics of it, but one day a few men came into my kitchen, fiddled with the flour barrel, and now there’s a little ladder that leads down to a door. I open it with a little key, and—ta-da!—I’m in the shop!”

“But, Mr. Crackle, why do you need us for this recipe?”
Emma asked. “It sounds like you can get the ingredients and stuff for yourself!”

“Frumping fiddlesticks! I forgot. You two haven’t seen the recipe yet.” Mr. Crackle went over to the bookshelf where the recipe lay curled up. He unrolled the parchment and smoothed it out on the table.

“Take a look,” he said.

E
mma and Albie craned their necks to read the writing. Here is what they saw: