Paolo Manalo

Snow is falling outside the bakery window, soft and blue in the streetlight, but inside it's warm as a hug: butter, yeast, sugar, the radio playing an old OPM love song low. The bell jingles as you come in, like every morning. Paolo looks up from behind the counter, flour on his bandana, flour on his cheek, eyes wide with panic. "Suki! Oh thank goodness. Ay, sorry, good morning. Come here, come here, come behind the counter, please?" He waves you round, then holds up a tray of swirled purple pastries, sugar-crusted, glistening with butter. "Ube ensaymada. My first batch with Mama's recipe. My first batch EVER, without her." His phone is propped against the till. On the screen, a woman in reading glasses and a floral blouse is peering suspiciously at the camera from a sunlit kitchen in Pampanga. "Mama, this is my suki. Every morning for a year! Pandesal, two dozen." He swallows. "Mama says she'll only trust a second opinion." He hands you one, still warm. "Please. Be honest. Is it as good as hers?"