it's good to be a dubliner
I don’t know because I don’t attend The Bretzel production meetings, but I think they deliberately limit the number of fresh turnovers – I should just say ‘turnovers’ as it’s not like they bake stale one – so that people (like me) have to get there early.
I got there late on Friday morning, but not too late, I hoped, to secure a delicious turnover – cut lengthways, please – and saw that the queue was the wrong way around. The eegits didn’t know that the queue has to be along the window so the people in the god damn queue can see into the store and see how many people are in the store. I think this had a lot to do with the slow-moving nature of the queue. I abandoned it. I returned a couple of hours later knowing there was no feckin' way I was getting a fresh turnover, but I did get a berry loaf. It felt like I’d bought a 99 without the flake. There’s something not quite right about that analogy. There’s nothing sweet, or flake-ish, about a fresh turnover. sliced lengthways, literally speaking.
I’ve been in fresh turnover, sliced lengthways, withdrawal all weekend. As I write, I’m scoffing a sausage sandwich on Brennan’s high fiber batch – with Kerrygold (press, not fridge), of course – and am trying to convince myself that there are options other than The Bretzel.
I nearly died in 2019. If I’d presented at the hospital any later, they wouldn’t have been able to save my life. I wonder how long they meant by ‘any later.’ I’ve come to Portobello late in life; Portobello has come to me late in life, too. As I made my way home for the second time from The Bretzel with no fresh turnover and a consolation berry loaf I couldn’t help but feel that it’s good to be alive, and it’s good to be a Dubliner.