In reality, it’s just a cinnamon bun. But more than a decade since the last time I had one, for me, wrapped in the warm layers of sweet buttery dough are the equally warm and sweet memories of early Saturday mornings parked at this exact table at Gail’s on Chiswick’s High Street. Then, Weezey and Seb, not more than babes, could barely reach the table. Bruno, our sweet South Beach basenji-mutt, would quietly rest at my feet, while James good humouredly juggled a tray over-stacked with mugs and plates on his way to his hungry brood. This was our Saturday routine.

We were definitely exhausted and frazzled by the unexpected and incessant needs of our littles in our new city far from family, but I don’t remember minding that. A hot coffee in hand and cinnamon sugar coating the cheeks and fingertips of my gorgeous children giddy on the deliciousness, those sleepy Saturday mornings were quite literally -- are quite literally -- the moments that both haunt and halo my memories. Oh how precious they were, how delicious! Sebastian’s manic blonde ringlets. Eloise’s British accent. Warm cinnamon sugar pastries at the ready. No plans but to make it to nap time. How good was that!

We would spend an hour or two at that cafe, then, like us, a new arrival to the neighborhood, watching passersby and convincing James another sweet treat was a good idea. Incidentally, another “cinnamon bomb” is was always a good idea!

Now, more than 11 years later at that same table watching a new crop of passersby, we live in Tokyo, my laugh lines are deeper, Sebastian is nearly taller than me and definitely a better chef, Eloise is touring in New York and contemplating college, and James is a wee bit grayer but forever handsome. As it should, everything has changed. Everything except Gail’s cinnamon buns! And, for that, and for the memories they serve up, I am eternally grateful.

So Much More Than A Cinnamon Bun

London Calling

Breakfast Dates!