Banana Bread

“Mate, do you serve banana bread?”

The young man scurrying to ready the cafe for opening looked at me perplexed. The cafe was a small affair in a narrow lane, one of many stylish cafes in this prosperous regional city that I, as a traveller on my way through, had wandered past, waiting for one to open so I could re-charge after a long night of driving and then sleeping rough. Strange for me, most of the cafes had walls adorned with bottles of wine and various liqueurs, and their opening hours finished with “till late”, suggesting more than just coffee was allowed to be served.

At the head of the narrow lane where it joined the main street, opposite the imposing bluestone courthouse, were another two cafes, and along just this one lane there were two more besides the one I had chosen to make my polite inquiry.

“Banana bread?” Bewildered, borderline bemused, his scurrying stopped. He then answered politely, though with a definite air of condescension:

“No, we don’t serve banana bread, and I don’t think you’ll find any cafes in town that do”.

“Oh, ok, thanks.”

Slightly embarrassed, I madly tried to project an air of nonchalance by re-reading the menu and, pretending nothing took my fancy, casually stepped back into the lane, following it further away from the main street, now very much awake and aware that I’d left my home town.

In my hometown they know all about banana bread; there is no bewilderment when it is ordered, no condescension when it is served.

The only way to enjoy banana bread is for it to be toasted – under a grill – so that the crumbs on the surface turn into golden brown beads of crunch but the texture remains open so that slabs of butter generously applied easily melt and ooze before seeping through the slice. And if you are somewhere fancy, icing sugar would be sprinkled over the plate, with slices of strawberry artfully laid alongside.

Those were the days.

Those bad weather days in the mountains, in my early climbing years, rescued by retreating back to the nearest café. My budget extending only as far as a shared piece of banana bread washed down with a rich sweet hot chocolate, while outside the rain and temperature fell and the wind blew, blowing away not just the rain but my aspirations as well.

Those days are gone now. The falling rain and blowing wind continue on, eroding my motivation still. The cafes are still here, some that remain from those early days, and newer ones each with their own style and vibe, but banana bread is still on the menu – of course. But it’s not the same.

The grill has gone, or so it appears to me; replaced by the dreaded press.

“I’ll have a slice of banana bread thanks. And can I have it toasted.”

“Yep, too easy.”

Great!

Not Great.

I ask for it toasted, but instead they use the press, the modern kitchens answer to all questions, squeezing all the sponginess from it, and the insides are not even warm, and the outside is hard so the knife cracks it rather than cutting it, and shiny, oh so shiny. Glancing at the plate as the waiter carries it to the table you see dark flat rectangles and your hopes fade.

Butter – why bother? The butter that once shimmied before oozing into the porous slice now glides across the surface and back onto the plate. But if the serving is generous and the table uneven, then a square of butter will screech across the shiny surface and launch over the plate and onto the table; an amusing but disappointing proof of the demise of the sumptuous banana bread.