The crowded afternoon streets of New Orleans were lined with the familiar colors of purple, green, and gold since January 6, Twelfth Night. Any native or tourist that was wise enough to study the city beforehand wasn’t surprised by the occasion. Mardi Gras, also known as Fat Tuesday, arrived in one week. Preparations for the event were extensive. Hotels put on their best bed sheets while vendors inflated prices. People shopped for formal wear, costumes, and masks. The busiest places were bakeries that created a special dessert for this occasion.

Uptown’s Boule’s bakery overflowed with freshly baked king cakes. Each was a sweet cinnamon dough, held the same colors the streets wore outside, and carried a small plastic baby for the next king or party host to discover. However, each held a secret uniqueness, including Bavarian cream, cream cheese, strawberry, and more. Fancy galettes de Rois were preordered for masquerades and debutante balls. Although considered pretentious, they were envied by many locals.

The experienced bakers taught new recruits how to fold and knead the dough and where to put the baby inside.

Customers bustled in, eager to bite into one of these annual delicacies. Children were the most impressed by the food. They continually tried to grab pastries, embarrassing their parents. The bakers beamed in pride from the reaction those irresistible goodies caused. As such, they rewarded the small admirers with cookies, donuts, and milk. The children thanked them and ate like ravenous pigeons, but the Mardi Gras-colored desserts were the main attraction.

Friends chatted about their favorite flavors and what they would wear to whatever party or event they attended later. Long-time patrons left work early and collected their reserved orders with gratitude and a slight smugness accompanying those planning for the crowd. Disappointed latecomers recovered and ordered the next batch when available. Tourists marveled at the professionalism of the staff amidst the crowded store’s apparent chaos. The Boule bakers and staff said it was an average day during carnival season.

Finally, the day was over. Everyone headed home for hot gumbo, the comfort of their pets, and relaxing bubble baths. They wouldn’t be back at work until 4 am.

The bakery stood silent underneath the flickering streetlamp, with the only sounds being distant police car sirens and barking dogs. Inside, the desserts lay in wait to be eaten in joy and merriment. Like babies in the womb, their plastic ones lay peaceful and content, unwilling to move from their comfortable position. Once discovered, they would crown the finder as king and have the honor of getting another cake.

The next day, more of them were being sold. Each one made the journey into the warm kitchens, where savory cuisine reigned supreme. Nevertheless, each king cake remained steadfast, even as the first cut to their doughy body was produced. Forks dug into pieces in satisfaction, and delighted “mmmmms” escaped the full mouths of those eating it. From then until Ash Wednesday, each one met the same fate, to treat the palate of Crescent City like royalty.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero