The tale of the signature bun @Papparoti Mumbai

He looked up at his mother with defiance. A streak of anger clouded his brow. “But you promised,” he said. “Are you going to break it? Is this what you’re going to do to me?” She held his little fingers while holding back a smile, “Chocolate is not the answer to everything.” His feet stamped the hard concrete floor as he allowed her to lead him into a restaurant. “What’s the difference between you and Queen Marie Antoinette?” She stopped. And retorted. “The ‘Let them eat cake’ Princess?” He folded his hands across his chest and said, “Ah haan. You’re right, Missy. Only that I’m asking for cake and you’re asking me to have bread.”

She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well, at least someone knows their history. Now come on.” He sat upright in the chair, not speaking a word. Hands still folded, nose in the air. Just then a whiff of freshly baked bread enveloped their table. He shut his eyes gently to breathe it in, an involuntary smile spreading across his face. There it sat on the table. A bun full of warmth and an invitation to try it out. She smiled at him as he looked at it from the corner of his mouth, mouth watering et al. “Give it a chance. May be you like it better than the chocolates you have every day?”

With a show of begrudging acceptance, he broke the crispy crust of the bread. The buttery soft morsel melted in his mouth as he looked at her with dreamy eyes. “What’s the verdict?” She said. A wide smile spread across her 12-year-old son’s face. He said, “It’s not that bad.”

They ordered another one of those, and she paid for it without a worry. Being a single mother was tough, but she had earned her bread. And well.

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