the f word

it happens everyday. it's late, you missed the last bus and take a walk home. everyone's sleeping except the diligent people sweeping the sidewalks.

you have a long way to go. you get hungry. horribly hungry.

then you see the sign that promises redemption...

fornettis are little stores everywhere around that serve pastries like pizza slices decorated with mushrooms and ham or little flaky pastry with sweet or savoury filling. the taste of their goods is... let's say fair, often too sweet or just artificial but somehow addictive.

at daytime you can enter the stores, but may just get a step inside, because you get stopped by the register placed there. at night you get served through a little opened window night desk by the fornetti lady spending the night in her little house of food pleasures.

one of the first words i was able to say in romanian language was fornetti.

sure, it doesn't sound romanian, i don't think it even is and the company isn't either. is it hungarian, isn't it? but i felt good knowing a word to say in case i'm about to starve and lacking of suitable romanian phrases.

but joy follows disillusion. everyone, really everone i talked to hated the fornetti stores. and i got to hear how unhealthy their food is but i was excused liking them because of being new in town.

a few nights ago, we didn't miss the last bus, i said the fornetti-word in the middle of a conversation.

all of a sudden some passengers turned around and gave me these strange looks.

i didn't know that things look that bad for the reputation of fornetti...

so i decided to better not to talk too much about my secret vice but to getting my flaky pastry de mere there from time to time.