First Rate Cakes

First Rate Cakes was easily the best shop in town. The publicity from the television show of the same name, hosted by the tough-talking, no-nonsense celebrity pastry chef Daniel Pinkham afforded the company a certain cachet. From the day I interviewed to be a driver there, I knew I was destined for great things. I made it through what they cutely referred to as a "casting call" and met with several different talking heads. All I wanted to do was to deliver amazing cakes.



On my first day, Chef Pinkham shook my hand with the vigor of a man who knows his way around a whisk.
"Benny! Nice to meet you. My assistant Jenny tells me you made a wonderful impression with her-- and with my network advisory board! Welcome, welcome, welcome. It's a tough job. We've lost six drivers this season." He grinned at me, not with his practiced TV smile but a more knowing, yes, yes, this will be child's play sort of look. I certainly had all my ducks in a row. He appraised me with a look I'd often seen him give his staff on First Rate Cakes and I stood my ground. Having not actually performed any job function yet, my purpose was to look meaningfully back at him and assert myself in my ability to convey fondant-wrapped sugary batter to a host of potential clients. I pictured myself carrying a cake to Tom Hanks. No, flying it in by helicopter.... No, hauling it in a crate on an 18-wheeler... to Jessica Alba. Yes. Definitely Jessica Alba. She looked like the type who'd appreciate a lot of cake. I mean sure, so would Roseanne Barr, I suppose, but...

"I see I have your full attention." Chef Pinkham raised an eyebrow at me and fluffed a towel in my general direction. "Come on, come on. Need to get this cake out to Justin Bieber's birthday party! You'll be taking this to Times Square, so just take the van through the Lincoln Tunnel and, you know. Deliver."

I deflated a little on the inside. Justin Bieber? He has a birthday? Didn't Disney just grow that kid in a vat or something?

"Absolutely, Chef Pinkham!" I hustled after him into the kitchen, where I met with a veritable wall of cake wrapped in ugly grey fondant.

"Stunning, isn't it, though? I replicated the entire Prudential Center where he played his first headlining tour, right down to the thousands of screaming fans! Perfect, isn't it?" He asked me, expectant, a dog that desperately wanted to play fetch with some praise.
I stared at the tiny screaming fondant fans in the stadium bleachers. Oh no. Oh, this is terrible. Where's my Jessica Alba cake?!
"It's stunning," I replied flatly, hoping to instead divert the conversation. "So how many guys do we have to lift this thing?"
"Well, just you, really. I haven't been able to hire any other drivers yet and you did list your experience with lifting up to-" he looked at his clipboard, "-up to three hundred pounds."
"I did, did I. Yes, that's right. Only this appears to be closer to five," I fibbed, "and it's rather longer than my arms, sir."
"Oh, is it now? I hadn't noticed how impressively huge it is."
"Could I at least get a wheely cart, Chef?"
He regarded me coldly for a moment, and then flung up his arms. "Yes, Benny, go and get a wheely cart!"

After much consternation and struggling, we managed to fit the fairly-bulging fondant confection into the back of his delivery van. We managed to bungee the rear door closed, finally, and with that, I was off on my first auspicious day as a delivery man. Or, at least, I might have been if there were not a two-mile backup to get into the tunnel. He called three times while I was stuck in tunnel traffic, screamed at me like he always did on his show to his underlings, and hung up on me. I didn't have much else to do but daydream, and so, naturally, I went back to the idea of Jessica Alba's cake. It would have to be some kind of incredible Devil's Food, maybe with some sort of icing...

I heard a "sploink!" and woke back up. Traffic was moving again. Good. I shifted into first and crept along into the tunnel when I suddenly heard a roaring, lurching sound.

The cake! No. It was sliding around. The bungee had given out and the cake was now what I could only describe as free-range. I prayed (to Jessica Alba) and bit my lip. The drive out of the tunnel was harrowing, and the cake slid slowly backward.
No no no no no!
I inched along through midtown rush hour traffic. Oh yeah. I was That Guy. That Guy with the Van with his Rear Door Hanging Open Driving Three Miles an Hour Because Five would be Disastrous. That Guy. I inched my way down toward Times Square, into a muddle of Bieber-feverish tweens and their parents in tow. Surely at least one of them would be happy to help me, right? I signaled for a double park and tried to flag down some girl with a hefty dad. No dice. Apparently a big grey boxy cake covered in fondant in someone's falling-apart delivery van is "suspicious." At least, that's what the officer told me. He certainly didn't go for it when I suggested I might get him Chef Pinkham's autograph.

I took the wheely cart out of the van and tried to inch the cake onto it. It was only two city blocks away. Hardly a walk at all. The previous statement is in fact false when you have five hundred pounds of cake on a tiny rolling cart.

I had to stop to take a breather, half a block away. Pedestrians pointed and laughed at me as I sweated and huffed my way down the street. I stopped, got my handkerchief out, and
The only way I can describe the sound the came next is that it was unholy. The earth itself opened in front of me and delivered an Elder God with Cake Rage.

I figured the best way to handle things was simply not to exist. I put the keys back in the van, closed the door, and walked away whistling a merry tune. Never even here. No one's ever going to remember it was me. They couldn't even get my name right. It's not Benny. It's Danny. But there can be only one Daniel in Chef Pinkham's world! Some people.




Two months later, the new season of First Rate Cakes was on the Eats Channel. The first ten minutes of the show were about "Chef Daniel Pinkham's worst driver ever!" along with footage from what appears to be a hidden camera. There is a notice with my name and pertinent details in case someone might know me and want to turn me in. Oh good.

I changed the channel.