A Mouth Hug And A Pair Of Baggy Pants.

I was standing in line for only a few minutes at a small bakery in the West Village, but I had been waiting for this moment for weeks. I was there for what I had deemed, “The World’s Best Cinnamon Roll.” They only bake them every few weeks, which made the moment in line particularly significant.


My cinnamon roll experiences run deep, so if you're questioning my opinion on the matter, don’t. And to ensure that the words, “Worlds Best Cinnamon Roll” are not read lightly—let me explain. 

This cinnamon roll is square with rounded corners, baked side by side with its fellow buns, allowing for a delightful and slightly crispy top and bottom, but a pillowy circumference. Every bite is the perfect combination of textures. From the window, you’ll notice the icing first, which is translucent and glazed liberally over each bun. They serve it dripping, but not too messy. The entire bun is irresistibly sweet, but not the kind of sweet that will give you a headache if you’ve taken a break from sugar for a while. Their homemade cinnamon mixture is so potent that you’ll question if you’ve ever tasted real cinnamon before. The size? Perfect. You can finish the entire bun without hesitation, but it’s also okay if you want to save some for later. Not that anyone has ever done that before. Your first bite will be a plunge into a density of soft layers and with it, you’ll receive your first “mouth hug” ever. 

I was next in line.

In front of me was a man wearing baggy pants, high socks and a pair of Adidas shoes I wanted in my size. 

It was 6:15 pm. There was one cinnamon roll left and it looked perfect, which is saying a lot for any baked good at 6:15 pm. 

“Sir, what will you be having tonight?” 

Baggy Pants replied, “The cinnamon roll, please.”

Things get blurry here.


I remember gasping for air as I watched, in slow motion, the baker embrace the bun’s sweet rounded corners with the wax paper and gently place it in a white paper bag. I cried—I didn’t, but I was hoping that Baggy Pants would turn around, notice my visibly upset face and say, “Here, you have it, I’ll get a scone, and yes, these shoes do come in your size and they’d be cute on you!” But he did not. In fact, he never looked back. He had no idea what kind of pants I was wearing. 


As Baggy Pants left, he did not know the treasure he held in his hands. I watched him swoosh out the door. And with every step he took, I wanted to scream, “CONTAIN YOUR PANTS” and “THAT’S MINE,” but The World’s Best Cinnamon Roll was gone. Only its icing juices remained on the parchment paper. 


Everything hurt as I said, “I’ll take the scone, please.”