Until a few weeks ago, I would have full-heartedly recommended the nearby gourmet shop’s cinnamon bread to you. I would have served you a toasted slice without butter: naked bread, nothing but proud flavor, sold only twice a week in the store bakery and more than able to speak on its own behalf. You would have immediately asked for another piece, and we would have started our friendship on this happy footing.
The cost of this cinnamon bread was an unapologetic luxury. In fact, the whole store is filled with one unapologetic luxury after another; you squeeze sideways down crowded aisles past shoppers bearing cornucopias of artisanal cheeses and ridiculously priced crackers. A colleague of mine used to say his weekly paycheck was deposited directly into their account.
One recent Saturday, I sorted through the basket filled with cinnamon bread, picked up the one with the best streusel (it takes a certain eye), and brought it to the register. A lovely young woman rang me up. We agreed that the bread was sublime.
It was a mistake when the price appeared: two dollars more than a week earlier.
I took the loaf to the bakery counter, where an equally lovely man said the price hike was no mistake. I put the loaf back in the basket—not as gently as I had picked it up—and left. Two dollars was a 25% jump in cost without warning. The new tag looked much like the old (except for the price) as if it had plans to sneak right past my debit card.
Because I live in a luxury of time now, and grew up in the age of envelopes and stamps, I wrote the store a letter of complaint. The perfect approach needed reflection: confusion? righteous indignation? sorrow? I settled on a combination of appreciation for the baker, indignation over the price and sorrow for the loss of future cinnamon bread purchases. It was a tiny act of rebellion. Their fan club President was resigning.
One writes these letters without expecting much in return— as a rule, they find their prompt way to the blue bin. But two days later, the phone rang. It was a light voice, just as lovely as the voices of the cashier and the bakery guy, except it was the store manager. She wanted to explain the situation personally. Butter and eggs were exorbitantly on the rise, she said. She had searched without success for creative solutions and felt awful having to raise the price. If dairy costs decreased, she would try hard to lower them. She promised this. And I should really drop by and say hello to her.
It doesn’t take much to turn irritation and righteous indignation around. It doesn’t take much to redeem a situation. What it takes is human contact.
The price remains too high. But though I have not bought a loaf since then, I plan to drop by soon and say hello. In the meantime, I can recommend their cinnamon bread to you once more with a full heart.
Elissa Ely writes about seniors/baby boomers for The Belmont Voice. She is a community psychiatrist.
