Honey and cream is not particularly lean, and yet you spy the baker, thin and gaunt. Never trust a skinny chef you hear them say, but the cakes can't be that bad for their rent even after a month.

Customers aren't in steady stream because the bread shop on the corner has sold out since 1922, and this one only sells roulades. They are special as they can contain savories such as beef or chicken; a little harrowing, but what could be wrong?

Eh, what could be so wrong?

You enter the shop and there are stacks of them. The shelves are high with powdered sugar and cellophan wrap. The blast of heat from the open door leads to the oven, the smell of fire soothing despite the unseasonable weather.

And then the baker finds you. 'You're the one who stands outside on your way to work every morning and every night.' Is this what it's like to be a regular at a bar? You don't know the etiquette. They put up their hand and return to the back only to come with a toothpick. On it is a small sliver of cake: cream and honey, basic.

It is light, airy, and unlike anything you've ever had, though the simplicity of the ingredients are nostalgic. It's cinnamon and sugar on slices of white bread and yet rustic apple pie. You think it must be the honey hidden with preserves.

'Actually, it's a secret in the center,' is what they say. 'The closer you get to it the sooner you'll understand.' You question that method of eating a cake, peeling the layers back.

'Can I work here?' You blurt out. You don't know why. You have a steady office job where you earn livable wage.

The baker has a sparkle in their eye that you realize is bright, but only because of how dark the rest of it is.

'You'll have to talk to management.'

'I wasn't aware this was a franchise.'

'Oh, you'll learn.'

When they disappear into the back once more, literally as the door is clouded in smoke (why didn't you notice before when everything looked so clear from the outside?), you think you see a chicken sitting on the hearth of the large rotisserie column that is apparently the oven. They are as orange as the fire and yet have eyes that bore black.

Maybe it is worth it, giving up your security on a whim - for the knowledge.