Another Parsi Bakery

Them that takes cakes
Which the Parsee-man bakes
Makes dreadful mistakes.

Rudyard Kipling in How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin

We thought we had proven Kipling wrong so many times that we didn’t need to do it again. But we did have another go. It was legs day for me that morning, and I was immensely tired when The Family suggested a walk on M.G.Road. As we strolled on the pavement next to the unruly traffic of Pune, I was looking for interesting doors. There was one, right in front of us, attached to a beautiful old-style house. But more interestingly, it held a Parsi bakery on the ground floor. We nosed in and The Family asked “What are you famous for?” The young Parsi boy at the counter replied like a born salesman, “Everything really. We’ve been open for a hundred and ten years, and we are famous for each thing we’ve baked in that time.” We looked around and chose a couple of famous things before he told us that the cup cakes had just been taken out of the oven, and they were still hot. We wanted one each, and they were amazing.

The Family had a brainwave. She asked whether the young man knew one of our friends, also a Parsi. Yes, he did. I was astonished, but she explained to me later “I didn’t think there are many Parsis in Pune. And moreover my friend was a piano teacher.” It was a bond. We complimented the man on his very Parsi cakes (he explained that his great grandfather named them crown cakes, because cup cakes look like crowns, and their friends all loved Queen Victoria) and promised to be back later. If the biscuits are anything like the ones we found in the other Parsi bakery down the road, we will go back.

Nowruz mubarak to all Parsis, and to all who are not.