Between the time when I was seven and eight, I used to attend classes at a small music school in my hometown on Saturdays. I always looked forward to it not because of the music lesson but because I could spend time with my two childhood best friends, who also attended the same music school.
Every Saturday, we would attend a choir practice and then a music theory class together. During the lunch hour, we would all go to the food court in the basement of a nearby shopping mall with our mothers.
There was a small crepe shop on the corner of the food court. After eating lunch, our mothers always gave us a few coins, and we girls went to buy crepes for dessert.
At the crepe shop, there was a display of fake crepes made of wax as a visual form of menu. They all looked tempting, but my choice was always the same – banana chocolate flavour with ice cream.
Once our orders were placed, the girl behind the counter poured the batter onto the heated pans. There were three of them, and she handled all three orders at the same time, flipping and taking them out onto a sheet of paper one by one. In front of our curious eyes, she scooped out ice cream, added whipped cream and fruits, then topped with chocolate sauce. Finally she would roll each crepe and hand it to us.
The crepe was hot, moist and heavy. When I inhaled, I could smell the fresh crepe and a hint of wrapping paper. We usually couldn’t wait to eat our crepe, and started eating while walking back to our seating.
This was my first memory of a crepe in my life. To this day, whenever I eat a crepe, my senses travel back to the tiny crepe shop in the food court, how I felt excited as I placed my order and how it felt wonderous as I watched the girl wrap the crepe in front of me.