The Sweet-Simple

It was an unnecessary idea to consider desserts outlawed, but the feeling one got while enjoying a thrice dipped strawberry opera cake was enough for cake engineers, pastry wizards, cookie peddlers, flan experts, cupcake speakers, and other pedigrees of bakers to establish a sweet-simple in the heart of Outerbanks, Georgia. The relatively small town existed on a line bordering Atlanta where one might see the great city’s coruscating skyline and hear the rail bustling by every so often. More of a town than a destination, Outerbanks did not set itself as a major draw for out-of-towners as its downtown included a mere fifteen storefronts offering everything from locally grown fruits and vegetables to affordable tailoring options for the entire family, including the dog. The streets were always clean because the residents were always cheerful and the thought of reaching down to pick up a fly away receipt or cigarette butt was of no great setback.

Large pots of flowers at the base of every streetlamp and a few benches gave the downtown portion of Outerbanks some character along with the Mayor and her strapping poodle, Chaco, who would walk daily from South End to North End all the while waving, shaking hands, and offering homemade candies from the pocket of her cherry coat. Outerbanks hosted a great deal of talent easily witnessed by the many murals adorning open spaces of brick, the iron and bronze statues, and water fountains, giving any weary travel who had lost their way a reason to stop and get out.

If one were to take a census of the town, they would find a diverse population of about five-thousand with nearly a third noting their occupation as ‘baker’. True, there were more bakers in Outerbanks than cooks, teachers, sanitation engineers, firefighters, police, and dog trainers combined. It was the bakers who pulled in the most cash to Outerbanks through their various forms of vending either through direct purchase or online sales. It was the bakers who held the most seats on the town commission. It was the bakers who made up the majority of the PTA. Again, one might think such an imbalance of power would wreak havoc on Outerbanks, but, surprisingly, it did the opposite. However, what made Outerbanks truly special was its nightlife in the form of a single bar.

The bar, at the end of the North End, which was the end of downtown Outerbanks, claimed red brick walls and an always opened black iron gate that led down a shadowed hallway to a green door with its rectangular windows outlined in silver. Inside someone would find the ceiling fans always circulating, polished, round pine tables shining beneath dim light, a six-foot jukebox, a couple of pool tables, a few dart boards, and then towards the back, the bar and bartender. Often the bartender, either Maggie or Mort, would have their hands occupied either with a deck of cards or a magazine or a newspaper, but rarely with work as most of the work was completed before sundown. Even without knowing anyone in town, it was easy to tell who was a resident or who was a passerby. Visitors often met the bartender at the back, ordered a beer or vodka cranberry only to watch Mort or Maggie fumble around searching for items seldom used. A resident, on the hand, would approach the bar, place their left hand on the bar and their right on their hip, stare directly at mural behind the bar, and say calmly out loud ‘I’m here to see a cake about a cup.”

Upon hearing and seeing the secret phrase and gesture, Mort or Maggie would then point to the staircase around the corner with clear signage stating it to be for employees only. The right person paid no mind to the sign and descended the stairs as they looped once with narrowing passage to an oak door with no handle and an eye slot covered with a piece of brass. All that was needed was a single knock for an answer, unless Richard was at the door then two knocks might be called for. Whoever answered the door did so with gusto as they tore the brass piece from place, eyed the new arrival, closed the brass piece, and then opened the door.

For many residents of Outerbanks this was the best part about entering the sweet-simple; the smell. The smell was never the same twice. Most often there was always a base of vanilla to the scent, but it was easily overdone by hints of golden pastry, strawberry infused citrus, or half-hazelnut cream coffee mocha. The sweet-simple, as well, changed in position nearly every Friday with bakers and their staff moving tables, chairs, and the half-square baker’s booth where patrons could watch items created before their eyes. This meant a unique experience for guests every time while ensuring the bakers never grew too used to their surroundings and therefore prone to a dreaded Baker’s Rut. If one were to yell across the crowded sweet-simple ‘What’s the house special’ it was likely they would get up to ten different answers.

“Buckle pie with sweet cranberry.”

“Chocolate tears on crisp apple meringue.”

“Caramelized coffee tart.”

“Thick boysenberry pastry.”

“Three berry pandowdy.”

“Poor pudding with classy custard.”

“Figment cookies with a spool of vanilla.”

“Dark chocolate chowder sideways muffin.”

“Ageless ice cream.”

“Lemon crumble brownies.”

“A slice of plain chocolate cake without the plain.”

There were two kinds of nights patrons most looked forward to; nights where the house special changed by the half-hour and nights where two bakers or more got it in them to have a bake-off. Bake-offs only happened quarterly if the sweet-simple was lucky, but the desserts delivered from such events were some of the greatest inventions to the world of baking Outerbanks ever tasted. Patron favorites like four tier chocolate custard, vegan vanilla drop candies, and sugar-free double coated cupcakes would not exist without a bake-off between two of the leading bakers in Outerbanks. The sweet-simple hosted a great deal of activities and while the local authorities partook along with the citizens it always felt clandestine to leave the sweet-simple in the early hours.

It was a sight to see and a smell to behold and while the residents loved their secret, it was always engaging to see a new face and experience through them what a bite of lemon brownie could do to a person. Often the sweet-simple remained opened until the late hours of the morning and, on a few occasions, it took Mort or Maggie going downstairs to remind the slackers the sun was almost up before everyone cleared. Still, even as the last patron left, it was always with a final look over the shoulder and promise of return.