Angelletta’s Cafe

A French Bakery Made with Endless Love

In a quiet Parisian neighborhood is a French cafe nestled between a Bistro and a second-hand bookstore. It opens to a wide sidewalk with several chairs and tables scattered around two hackberry trees. The trees provide ample shade against the afternoon sun. Across the street is a neighborhood park that connects to the Seine River at the other end. The park funnels many strollers to this tiny French Bakery. It’s a popular area for expats to sit and enjoy their favorite cup of coffee.

Pierre is the owner of the bakery. He had planned his bakery forty years ago with the love of his life Angelletta. Pierre,once a young baker with great ideas and lofty dreams, kept his sidewalk bakery thriving through the years. Despite the occasional bumps and tiny setbacks, Pierre enjoyed the hard work he put into it because he always had Angelletta with him. He had met Angelletta at the Bakery as a teenage boy. He was a baker’s apprentice, and she was a waitress. But those years were the best years of his life. He sneaked and stared at Angelletta’s full black hair and ruby-red lips. Those softly blushed cheeks with her irresistible dimple. She always wore a white shirt and jet-black skirt in high heels. Several times his old boss, Maurice, with his burly broad shoulders and thick arms, would knock his baker’s hat off his head and yell at him, “ Don’t just stare; ask her out.”

Angelletta was a local girl who had a flair for attracting people. Maurice had a keen eye for hiring the right people for his cafe. Maurice instantly noticed that Angelletta had a warm, inviting disposition. She was smart and quickly remembered every customer’s order without ever writing it down. She called every patron by name, and she never made a mistake. It took Maurice weeks to get his customer’s name memorized. She would stop in the middle of waiting tables and walk up to everyone who came and give them a Parisian kiss on the cheeks. She treated everyone the same as if they were her family or friend.

Pierre stared at Angelletta’s portrait that hung beside the bakery store entrance. Pierre began to cry. Pierre never married. He was about to propose to Angeletta before he started the bakery. But Angeletta died three months before he opened his bakery. He recalled the fateful day he went to propose.

Pierre rushed to tell her the good news. He brimmed with excitement and joy. He had a plan. He could provide for her. Maurice had agreed to sell his bakery to him, and at a reasonable price. Maurice also agreed to work with Pierre and help him out with the transition. The Bakery was going to make his dream come true. To marry the only girl he ever loved. But Angelletta was ill. He considered proposing now and hoped she would improve after a few days.

Her father opened the door. Pierre entered her parent’s apartment, dressed in his Sunday best with a bouquet of white daisies. Pierre looked into both of their faces and noticed the long looks.

Pierre, hopeful for some good news, asked, “Angelletta, how is she? I pray much better this afternoon.”

Her father quickly stared at his wife with the same long sad face and then turned to Pierre and answered, “She has developed pneumonia; her condition has become worse. The doctor just left. He wants her to go to the hospital; Angelletta would hear nothing of it. She says she is fine. She is not doing well.”

Pierre’s face became white. He had not fathomed for this to happen. He had imagined that things would only get better, not worse. It did not make sense. This was not supposed to happen. He muttered to himself, “I came here to propose”.

He took her father’s hand, kissed it, and trembled with his request, “May I have the honor and privilege of asking your daughter’s hand in marriage. I swear to you; I will make her happy, provide her with every need imaginable, and protect her with my life. Angelletta is strong. She will pull through. By the Glory of God, she will overcome this.” Angelletta’s father gave Pierre a warm hug. Her mother forced a smile and gave Pierre a double kiss.

The father took Pierre to Angelletta’s room. Pierre laid white daisies at the foot of her bed. Her cheeks and lips were redder than usual, and her long dark hair spread across her pillow like a fan. But she was beautiful. He knelt on one knee and grabbed her warm hand.

“Angelletta, my dear, how are you feeling.”

‘Pierre, I would be lying if I said I was fine. My whole body aches; at times, I get cold and begin to shake with the chills.”

“Pierre placed his hand on Angelletta’s forehead. He brushed away the few strands that lay across her forehead. He felt her skin burning with fire. He had dreamed of proposing to her in the Park by the Seine. An old park bench was under a chestnut tree by the river bank. He had dreamed of proposing to her at that spot as the sun settled behind the Church of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine. She had said once to him that there was where she wanted to be married one day. Pierre began to think that this was not what he wanted. He wanted to propose when she was better and not ill. He loved to see her jump with excitement like a little schoolgirl. Not like this, ill and weak. But he had already asked permission from her parents and received their blessing. It may be rude not to ask her now. He was so confused. But he was certain that he loved her, and love has no boundaries, no constraints. Maybe, Pierre thought, the proposal may give her a sense of purpose and strength to fight this terrible cold.

So Pierre stood up, gazed into Angelletta’s eyes, and said,” Angelletta, I love you with all my heart. And it pains me to see you ill in this condition. But I hope, at least, I can make this day better for you with one simple request.”

Pierre fell onto one knee, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a tiny black box. He opened the box before Angelleta’s face, revealing its content. In the box laid a small engagement ring, sparkling amid the afternoon sunlight beaming through her bedroom window.

“Angelletta, I cannot imagine living without you. It is you that I only think about. You are my earth, my water, the air I breathe. You are my everything. Angelletta, will you marry me.”

Pierre looked up and saw her gone. His eyes widened, shocked about the horror unfolding. He couldn’t believe it. He grabbed her shoulders and cried, “Angelletta, wake up. Don’t leave me. Angelletta”

Her parents burst through the door. Her mother dared not go far beyond the threshold. The horror froze her. She realized she had lost her only child at that moment. Helpless, frozen, her mother slowly, uncontrollably began to cry. “No, God, not my Angelletta. No, no, not my little girl.” Slowly the mother fell to her knees and cried out loud,” Dear God, Not My Angelletta.”

Her father pushed me aside and hugged his little girl. He sobbed uncontrollably as he hugged her closer to him. Pierre stood up, scanned the room, and stared in disbelief at what had happened. His love, his life gone in an instant.

He remembers nothing after that evening. The next day the funeral was held at the Church of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine.

Three months later, he renamed his bakery after her as a tribute to her. As you enter the bakery, her picture hangs in a large oval silver frame. Pierre would stare at the frame throughout the day, year after year, even to this day. And every night before he closed his bakery, Pierre would lean over the picture frame and kiss his Sweet Angelletta good night.

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