This week, piccalillies, I whole heartedly encourage you to HAVE A:
Oh my, did those pearly kings and queens have the right idea! However, as colourful and wholesome as the cuisine of the music halls was, this missive, dear eaters, does not address boiled beef, pork trotters or savs. It instead concerns a deliciously CHARMING peti’terie… (a petite eatery for the less perspicacious amongst you; a SMALL culinary locale. Please make a note of this new vocabulary in your specially designed E.C. (Esther Crumpet) memo pads. I trust you have all obtained these; repetition is ever so bothersome)
… a CHARMING peti’terie with a most flavoursome dish of plantain persuasion. An elegiac elopement of textures and tastes, rich, yet humble, sweet and cool, melting but…
But I am gamboling ahead of myself, loyal chouxs! I must relate the series of felicitous coincidences which led me to the bananaine surprise! Know then, that poor Leavis has been feeling under precipitation of late, so to cheer him up I set out for a visit in my new perambulatory machine, taking with me a batch of freshly risen CRUMPETS.
However, as I was driving through the merry streets of Canterbridge, who should I espy perched in the window of a cosy establishment but Mrs P. and Pamela, who were pleasantly occupied in cooing at passing toddlers. Eager not to miss such good sport, I joined them for luncheon. Said peti’terie, Cafe Otto, is graced by two splendidly astute hosts, whose rhetorical nudges towards a superb plate of dolma were gratefully accepted.
‘Twas towards the end of our jovial repas however, that the real treat-ine was granted, and fortuitously, I captured an image:
As simple, yet elegant and TASTEFUL as one of Miss Pamela’s bows. A yielding, fudge-like centre embellished with hidden jems of pistachio and walnut, melding in a delicate morsel of banana, with chocolate robing as classic as a beatnik’s black polo neck. What is more, it was GRATIS, dear eaters, a quality which emphasized its charms twofold.
Poor Leavis never did get his crumpets. Although I entrusted them to the doorman, Roland Barthes was hanging about again like a hungry beagle. I suspect he ate them.
Love and cucumber sandwiches,
White Mice for Breakfast 
