“The Bakery” is a personal narrative by Rubina Davila, age 13. Written in the first person in past tense, the piece opens onto the sights and sounds the writer encountered when she walked into the bakery on Cesar Chavez Avenue in East Los Angeles. The writer then describes everything she can see, hear, taste, smell, and touch in the bakery. Reaching into the paper bag with warm grease at the bottom, she reflects on how her father always told her that a greasy bag meant good food.
When the writer bites into the concha she has bought, she is transported to her Aunt Lulu’s kitchen. She begins to reflect on all of her family members who lived in this neighborhood and enjoyed food from this bakery over the years. It is a tradition for them to come back here for holidays. She walks down the street and feels connected to her ancestors.
How does this writer paint a picture with words?
This personal narrative only spans the length of twenty minutes or so, and the plot is not particularly dramatic. Even so, from the moment you start reading this story it is hard not to be completely captivated by the vivid descriptions of the bakery and East Los Angeles and the mouthwatering descriptions of foods:
The lights shone brightly on the sweet breads. I could feel the heat from the pot of homemade tamales, and I craved one of the Mexican sodas in the glass fridge.
The details in the story are densely packed and rooted in the five senses. As a reader, you can almost feel the cool of the soda, almost see the sweetbreads lined up in rows. The vivid description continues once the writer has purchased her food:
I bit into the concha, and the familiar sweet smell and ridged texture flooded my senses. The top of the bread crumbled and filled my mouth with its sugary flavor. The center of the bread was especially warm and soft. The smell reminded me of my Aunt Lulu’s kitchen. I wondered what it was like for my father to walk to this bakery at four years old, clinging to the hand of my great-grandfather, Agustín, and to taste the delicious concha for the first time.
As we see above, interspersed with these descriptions of food are captivating portraits of the writer’s family members as told through memories of their relationship to food. In the case of the passage above, the smell of the concha takes the writer back to her Aunt Lulu’s kitchen, and then to her father who she imagines as a small child, walking to this very same bakery, smelling this very same smell. They say smell is one of the most powerful conveyors of memory; it’s interesting here that the writer’s memory is a generational one formed from the history of her family.
As I walked to the car, I reflected on all of my family members who had once lived here, on the streets of East Los Angeles and nearby Boyle Heights: the Davilas, the Ramoses, the Ordoñezes, and the Villalobos. I could feel the presence of my ancestors who walked down these streets in the 1940s and 1950s enjoying the treats of this bakery. I could picture my grandfather’s little dog running down the sidewalk and my grandmother in her favorite orange dress.
One thing that really brings this piece to life is the way the writer shares names. From the names of the streets to the names of the pastries to the names of the different branches of her family, the writer establishes a detailed world. And by pairing those names with visual details—like “my grandmother in her favorite orange dress”—we are able to put images to names, which makes the story’s world all the more compelling.
In the end, this narrative gives us a sense of the many ways in which food can connect people with their histories.
Discussion questions:
- Is there a food that you feel connects you to your own history (whether the history of the people who raised you, the history of the place you live, or the history of a culture you are part of)?
- Why do you think the writer tells us the names of every family member, street, and type of food but never reveals the name of the bakery in the story?
The Bakery
When I walked into the bakery on Cesar Chavez Avenue in East Los Angeles, my lungs were instantly flooded with the sweet air of butter and sugar wafting from the kitchen while pots and pans clanked and banged loudly and voices called out in Spanish. My mouth watered as my eyes scanned the many kinds of pan dulce displayed in neat rows. The lights shone brightly on the sweet breads. I could feel the heat from the pot of homemade tamales, and I craved one of the Mexican sodas in the glass fridge. I clutched my $5 bill, knowing I could walk out with a large bag of pan dulce for my family and a soda for myself and still have change.
I ordered three kinds of pan dulce: elote, concha, and a large cuerno, named for their corn, shell, and horn shapes. I reached into the white paper bag of treats, the bottom stained with warm grease.
My papa always said, “If the bottom is greasy, you know it’s good.”
I bit into the concha, and the familiar sweet smell and ridged texture flooded my senses. The top of the bread crumbled and filled my mouth with its sugary flavor. The center of the bread was especially warm and soft. The smell reminded me of my Aunt Lulu’s kitchen. I wondered what it was like for my father to walk to this bakery at four years old, clinging to the hand of my great-grandfather, Agustín, and to taste the delicious concha for the first time.
As I walked to the car, I reflected on all of my family members who had once lived here, on the streets of East Los Angeles and nearby Boyle Heights: the Davilas, the Ramoses, the Ordoñezes, and the Villalobos. I could feel the presence of my ancestors who walked down these streets in the 1940s and 1950s enjoying the treats of this bakery. I could picture my grandfather’s little dog running down the sidewalk and my grandmother in her favorite orange dress.
Today, my family has grown even bigger and has spread across Southern California, but they still travel miles back to this bakery and wait in line to get pan dulce and tamales for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. The cuernos are still my papa’s favorite.
Remembering, I could not resist.
I reached into the warm bag and removed the large, freshly baked, yellow-and-gold, horn-shaped cuerno, ripped off the corner, and watched the steam slowly swirling as it spilled its sweet scent into the cool night air. I bit into it as it spilled its warmth onto my taste buds, and the crisp outer layer crunched satisfyingly.
I washed it down with bubbly Coke, instantly cooling the sugary warmth that filled my stomach. It is true what they say: the Coke from Mexico in the green glass bottle tastes better.
The faded, rusted sign out front symbolizes that the bakery remains unchanged and original in this vibrant neighborhood. The same Catholic church where my grandfather went to kindergarten is still across the street. I can tell he misses this place because he tells stories about it a lot. My fingers feel the paper bag to make sure there is an elote inside for him.
Sierra Madre, CA
