Camden Crepe

Creative Food Piece for Creative Non- Fiction

With every step around the market I took, my senses became more overloaded. Trying to squeeze into the smallest of gaps in the crowd to get to the food- liquid, solid, anything- was a struggle. But worth it. The sight of the vibrant juice being squeezed out of a perfectly spherical orange (Victoria’s Secret Model of the citrus world) had created quite a crowd. The sizzle of meat on the blackened, well-used barbecue sounded like a spring day, until I read the sign and learned it was ostrich. The cries of the customers were barely heard by the frantic, harassed stall workers, yet the mood was happy, light, and excited. I had been around the Camden Food Market three times already, yet my hands, and stomach, were empty. Not for lack of choice, but rather because of it. The yellowed strands of rice fighting for space amongst bull-red peppers and seafood had caught my eye, the prawns feelers drawing me in. Unfortunately, my recent trip to Spain had left me all paella-ed out. The traditional English pie, whose pastry I could see being delicately hand-rolled in front of eyes, was certainly a contender. But, no. Not quite what I wanted. I stood for a moment at the end of the markets, or the start (depending on your glass-half-full mentality), to think. Sweet. Savoury. Large. Small. Guilty. Saintly. Pleasurable… Crepe. That was it. The crepe. It could be all of those adjectives- as thin as an angels little black book, but with the ability to be crammed with such delights as nutella, banana or cheese, cheese, cheese. I whipped around, my eyes locked on the large chalkboard sign, proclaiming dozens of different crepe flavours to choose from. This next part would be difficult. Should I go Egg McCrepe style and have ham, cheese and the delicious yellow and white protein? Or develop a new cavity with the glorious, US-meets-Italy flavour of nutella and peanut butter (something I can’t imagine Ms Lawson saying no to)? No, this amount of rumbling in my stomach deserved something special. It had gotten serious, I had to clutch at my abdomen to stifle the sound. It knew what it wanted. The French. The best. The sugar and lemon. I caught the monsieur’s attention with a wave of a hand; he looked at me, I looked at him. I said my order. He nodded. As I watched him create his masterpiece (his sixtieth for the day no doubt) I marveled at how smooth the crepe was. No bumps, no air holes, just batter the shape of a full moon. He was generous with the sugar, and the lemon squeezed and sploshed drops of sourness, a perfectly balanced meal. The monetary transaction over, the crepe was in my hands. Going towards my mouth, the paper was peeled back just enough to get a good, decent bite. Suddenly, a yell. I moved my head, momentarily distracted from the delights that were now mine. A knock to my elbow by the forehead of a small child, though soft, was enough to open my unfocused fingers. Gravity pushed the paper open, and the crepe unfolded as it fell down, down from heaven to the dirty, foot-trodden earth. My eyes widened. A slight, almost vulgar slap of the crepe on my shoe confirmed the worst. The dribble of lemon running down my thumb was all I had left of the great, the beautiful, the crepe.