Okay so, there's this giant ~SHOPPING CENTER~ over by a freeway exit in Nampa. It was built a few years ago and. . . there are pretty much no stores in there. Pretty much a Macy's. I'm feeling adventurous on my drive home from class and decide to turn in and see if there's anything over there yet, as the actual set up of the shops is really kind of neat.
Awkward "FURNITURE IMPORT" place that gives me the feeling that several people have probably been molested on whatever furniture they sell there. Yeugh. But! I turn a corner, and among all the "NOW LEASING" signs and empty windows, I see a bakery!
Espresso! Deli! Pastries! The sign informs me in bright lettering.
I like all these things! I inform myself.
So. I park and go in. Ding a ling goes the door bell. The inside is cute. Little tables and deli case set up in an adorable and appetizing fashion. There are three people inside, probably the folks that own it. All three of them are staring at me. I feel like I've done something wrong. I'm sorry, was this your house? I'll be on my way now.
I remind myself that customer/retailer communication is really the only form of communication I'm versed in. So, I take a few steps forward towards the counter. The lady and (I'm assuming) her son are behind the counter. The woman caws something at me-- I don't hear quite what she says but say good afternoon regardless. The son, admitably, is. . . pretty. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Younger than me, but then again, my fat ass at the ripe age of 21 probably looks somewhere around 30. Anyway.
"Hi!" I greet. "This is uh. My first time here. Any recommendations?"
Any form of attractiveness from the lad goes flinging itself out the window. "Er yeah. Theeee. . . cookies are good. We've got some uhhh. . . pastries."
I assure you, it's not often that someone makes me, the queen of social backwash feel uncomfortable. I quickly pick a cake from the counter and ask for it to go. The boy obliges and starts to pull it out when I notice a little note on the side of the register: sorry, no debit.
. . . Dude, guys, I'm sorry. What. You've left me cocking an eyebrow, why would you start up a business and not take debit? I say this because the rest of the place is well put together, decorated, organized. Frustred, embarrassed and confused and quickly mutter I have no cash, I'll get some and come back later.
All three of them stare at me as I back out. No one says a word. I apologize again. Still nothing. I resist the urge to run screaming to my car, but the sudden fear hits me that if I make any form of noise in the painful silence and break their stare, something terrible will happen.
Ding a ling goes the door, and I'm back out.
Royal Bakery, I'll try you someday, I promise. I read good things about you. And (making me feel like a giant anus) it turns out upon further research, they're a Ukrainian family. Derp, hence the reason the woman nor the man said anything to me. Regardless, the day left me at an unease. We'll try this again later.
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