We find our flaxen-haired heroine alone, despondent moving through the streets of downtown Chicago like a slow fog tripped aimlessly into dark corners by the slightest whisper of wind. Her delicate pink toes grip the unforgiving pavement, impervious to the broken glass and soda pop tops, which armor her path. Muffy, our precious Muffy, feels nothing but the pounding reverberation of her dying heart’s futile cries for help echoing through her hollow chest. ‘Francesca’ it chokes through its own labored beat. ‘Francesca, Francesca, Francesca’.
It has been three days since Muffy’s beloved Francesca was found in dark play with their maid Elsa. It had been two days, twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes since Muffy banished them both from Vanderdyk Bungalow high in the north shores of Andersonville. Now Muffy is in her own dark play; with her soul slowly gravitating towards the Chicago River. The air is moist and one could see the tiny droplets of the fading summer’s mist collecting on her plentiful bosom. The wetness permeates the lace on her Canterbury nightgown, saturating her smooth, round figure. She feels a chill run through her bones. She knows it is time. Her listless stroll turns to a deliberate march towards the river, towards the climax of her dark play in the dark streets of Chicago. Racing down the street, bouncing towards her demise, our relentless heroine is stunned by a radiant light spilling down from the windows above. The windows run the entire length of the building allowing all of the life inside to illuminate the streets below. All of the joy, love and laughter from that space fill Muffy with the memories of more joyful nights. The energy in the cascade of light envelops her, evaporating all sense of her mission. Muffy knows she must change course. The last shriveled thread of her soul wills her to. She follows the bright beam to the front door and enters … a restaurant.
Once inside, Muffaletta realizes she is famished. Famished from the very core of her being. Stumbling through the tapestry of this American bistro, Muffy encounters jovial, soul-fed diners sipping on wines and nibbling through artisan cheeses, Antipasto salads and nuggets of bread and veggies dipped into sultry vats of fondue. She looks up to catch the twinkling blue eyes of the most beautiful creature she that has ever seen beckoning her from behind a marble pastry board. Muffy stands, her damp breasts heaving with hunger over a bowl of freshly whipped cream and candied nuts. She is a peeping tom gazing into the private boudoir of this tasty treat of a pastry Goddess with her sandy blond hair and milky complexion. She spies her Goddess’s nimble fingers preparing fresh chocolate waffles blanketed with poached pears and caramel ice-cream, sticky, glistening banana tarts sleeping next to hazelnut milkshake shooters and the most decadent Grand Marnier panna cotta courting two virginal blood orange macaroons to its side.
Muffy’s body begins to tremble with an ecstacy she thought she would never again know as her precious Goddess slowly licks a drizzle of cashew créme anglaise from her dainty finger. She reaches over the cold stone separating them and hands Muffy a bowl; a heavenly bowl of sunshine for her soul prepared to exact specifications. It is a chocolate cremeux. The Goddess slowly spoons through the delicate whipped cappuccino foam into the hand-made sweet cream ice cream flavored with orange zest and finally reaches the rich, smooth lava of chocolate waiting at the bottom. She places the spoon to Muffy’s begging lips, tracing her mouth with the sweet love piled on the end. Muffy can feel the warm beam of light that drew her to this place inside her now, reviving her shriveled spirit with every motion. Back and forth the Goddess moves the cold silver across her parting lips until the heat of Muffy’s breath begins to melt the cream sending a trickle plummeting onto her left nipple just peaking from underneath her nightgown. As she follows that drip of cream with her deliberate stare, The Goddess plunges the spoon into Muffy’s begging mouth. It is as if that sweet nectar fills every inch of her being and begins to seep through her skin like chocolate sweat. Muffy is alive. Muffy is reborn.
The next morning, Muffy is awakened by her telephone. She looks at her caller ID wondering who would be calling her from Bin 36, the wine bar located at 339 N. Dearborn. ‘Hello,’ she mews through a chocolate-soaked bed sheet. ‘Hello, sweet Muffy,’ answers the seductive caller ‘it’s your Pastry Goddess from last night.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ replies Muffy ‘I was in the middle of something rather important. I’ve no time to talk now.’ She hangs up the phone and returns to her hot, steamy slumber, dreaming of cremeaux.
Bin 36’s decadent sweets are created by pastry chef, Mr. Adrian Vasquez and lovingly prepared by Bin’s own Pastry Goddess.