C is for Cookie...And That's Really F---ing Annoying!

Yesterday, I went out at lunch with a coworker. We decided to treat ourselves to something yummy at DiBruno Bros on Chestnut Street (or is it Walnut Street? I can never tell them apart unless I'm driving).

I approach the pastry case, I immediately eye up the cranberry gingerbread bar with cream cheese frosting. I am a sucker for these at Starbucks during the Christmas season, and although there are two Starbucks, each one block away from where I work, I hardly ever indulge at work (mostly because I am always running late for work and I hate waiting in the long Starbucks lines downtown).

I decide to give the DiBruno Bros. version a try, confident that theirs will be yummier, fresher, and more satisfying than whatever has been mass-produced in the Starbucks case two blocks down the street. The only thing separating me from immediate powdered sugar and cream cheese euphoria --- the well-coifed Rittenhouse Square wife ahead of me in line.


In the pastry case, there are six classic holiday options: a gingerbread man, an ice skate, a mitten, a wreath, a snowflake, and some undefinable shape with white frosting and red and green squiggly lines on it. I'm thinking that I probably have about 2 minutes until sugar satisfaction.


Wifey starts her order. It goes something like this:

"I'll have one skate, one wreath. Hmmm...I guess...I guess one snowflake."

{Pause, as she scans the case}

"And one gingerbread man."

"A blue mitten." (Perhaps worth noting that blue is the only color that the mittens come in)

"How much does that weigh?"

The guy behind the counter takes the box to the scale. "A little less than a pound, miss. You can probably get one more cookie in there."

I snarkily think to myself that this woman hasn't chronologically been a "miss" in about a decade, but whatever. I HATE being called "m'am", and I'm pretty sure that the young DiBruno Bros. workers are instructed to ALWAYS refer to women of a certain age by "miss," just to keep the clientele happy.

Back at the cookie case, she scans the trays again and asks the guy, "Can you show me what that white frosted one looks like outside the case?"

Outside the case? The case is clear glass, so I'm not sure how different it's going to look outside the case as opposed to inside it. The counter guy obliges and lifts the cookie off the tray and into the air for her approval. He doesn't appear to be phased by this request, so I assume that this type of interaction with high-maintenance, overprivliged women (whose husbands work 80-hours a week, and who pay someone to clean their house and nanny their children so "mommy" can get some well deserved "me time"), is standard operating procedure in the Rittenhouse Square area.

"Well, I don't know what that is, but I guess I'll take that one, too."

Depending on how fast you read, it probably seems like this interaction took all of about two minutes. But trust me when I tell you that it went on for five minutes.

With the addition of the unidentifiable cookie shape, her order is complete. Heavenly cream cheese goodness can't be long now.

"I think I'll get another box. A pound this time."

My heart sinks. And the cycle repeats:

"One mitten."

"One, no make that two, skates. I guess a gingerbread man."

"A white thing. And one wreath."

That's six cookies. Five minutes ago, six cookies equaled a half-pound, so we're halfway there.

"Can you weigh that, please?"

The counter guy obliges. Hey, at least she said "please."

"Almost a half-pound."

At this rate, I'm thinking that the math is kinda like a word problem that most third graders could probably figure out:

QUESTION: A woman goes into a bakery. If there are six cookies in a half-pound, how many cookies does the lady need to order to equal a full pound?

Seemingly perplexed, the woman scans the case again. You can tell by her careful deliberation that these types of ornamental decisions are the only ones that this woman ever makes.

"Oh, I don't know."

"Two more wreaths and a gingerbread man. How many is that?"

"Nine, miss. You can probably get about four more."

"A skate, and a mitten."

"And two snowflakes. Can you weigh it again?"

"A little over a pound, miss. Is that OK?" I detect a slight air of desperation from the counter guy.

At this point, I'm thinking, "Please God, don't let her ask to do something like snap the blade off the skate to bring the weight to an even pound." I know most people would never ask something like that, but with this woman, anything (And I mean ANYTHING) is possible.

"That's fine."

Amen!! A true Christmas miracle! After almost ten minutes in line, I can order my dessert. After I pay, I find my coworker, who apparently sampled a fine array of gourmet cheeses from around the world while I was in line. So jealous! And so exasperated that I couldn't even eat my cranberry bar, so great was my need to vent to her immediately on our walk back to the office.

Meanwhile, back at the office, I had my cranberry gingerbread bar. And, damn it if it didn't taste anywhere near as yummy as Starbucks'.