The bakery was a corner business along the road nearest the lake. Its entrance faced the massive body of water. The building was rectangle-shaped with a flat roof, its walls beige on the outside. A large, black chimney puffed up smoke in steady, circular clouds. Puff. Puff. Puff.
Through the picture frame window, Pete could see inside. An oven rested against the far wall. It boasted five broiler racks spaced at even intervals, one atop the other. Each shelf had its own glass door that allowed access to its space.
Spread across the top three racks were different varieties of bread. The most common came in the form of six-inch discs laid out on baking sheets. Along with those, he noticed some bread molds.
A waist-high counter wrapped around from the back and to the wall on the right. It formed an L shape, separating the oven from the area where displays provided customers plenty of food options: cupcakes, cakes, brownies, and of course, breads like the ones that were cooking in the oven.
The person working behind the counter—a tall elf with broad shoulders and chestnut hair—wore a white baker’s hat with a matching apron. With a practiced meticulosity, he bounced from this rack to that, using tongs to pull molds and sheets from the oven. One by one, he’d remove the hot bread from the metal cookware, organizing it on the counter. Then with unmatched agility, he’d vault over the counter, gather armfuls of the bread, and organize them into their places in the sales area.
Then he’d bounce back over the counter, grab balls of uncooked dough—Pete guessed there was a bowl with the dough on a shelf under the counter, but he couldn’t see from his perspective—and the baker would plop those balls onto the trays and into the molds. After loading the trays and molds, he’d sling them into the oven.
All the while, his head bobbed up and down like he was dancing. Was he listening to music? Pete thought he was. It reminded him of back at Pizza Place, how after close, the driver’s and insiders would blast rap, R&B, or metal.
Pete pushed open the front door to the bakery and walked inside. The second he entered, he heard a girl’s voice behind him, “welcome to Mod’s Bakery. How can we help you.”
“Aggh!” Pete hadn’t seen anyone when he came in, so someone speaking from behind him surprised him. When he spun, he realized why he hadn’t noticed them.
She was a pixie, no more than a foot tall, her long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Behind her, black wings fluttered like a hummingbird’s, causing her to hover at face level with Pete. In her right hand, she held a piece of chalk. She’d covered the black slate wall behind her with chalk-drawn pictures. The colors used were pastel: pinks, blues, yellows, greens, and oranges. One of the images reminded him of a penguin from a show he used to watch on the cartoon channel.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Sorry,” she told him. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Welcome to Mod’s bakery. My name is Angel. Can we help you with something?”
“Umm…yeah,” Pete lifted his hat and scratched his head before returning his hat to his head. “I know this is a longshot, but I’m looking for pizza dough. Do you have any of that?”
“Perhaps,” she pulled out the smallest smartphone he’d ever seen, opening it up and scrolling through apps. “If we don’t have it now, I’m sure we can…” She froze, her brown eyes lifting from the phone to stare at him. “The internet says pizza dough isn’t a thing. What is pizza dough?”
“It's similar to bread dough, but pizza dough has a lower ratio of water to flour, and pizza dough has oil in it.” He explained.
“Sounds easy enough to make.” She said. “Let me talk to Mod.” She fluttered over to the baker. At the moment, he continued to work at the oven, dancing all the while. She pulled an earbud from his ear and told him, “customer has a special request.”
“Special request?” He smirked: pulling the other earbud from his ear, looking at Pete. As he did this, he vaulted over the counter. Then he began in Pete’s direction. “That sounds fun. My name is Mod. I’m the baker. What did you have in mind?”
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Pete looked up at the baker. The elf was at least a head taller than Pete. Then Pete explained how to make pizza dough, including the ingredient ratios of his dad’s secret recipe. “After you make it, you divide it into doughballs. The larger the doughball, the bigger the pizza, but they need to be fist-sized. I need at least one of those.”
“What do you do with the dough after you divide it into the doughballs?” Mod asked.
Pete answered, “From there, you slap and pull the ball until it is a thin disc. You leave an elevated border on the disc. The border should be about as big as the piece of chalk that Angel is holding.”
“Why do you have an elevated border?” Mod seemed excited like a child getting a new toy on Christmas. In a way, it made sense. After making the same bread and dessert recipes, it must be nice to find something new to make.
Pete replied. “The borders hold in a tomato sauce, melted cheese, and any other ingredients you put on the dough. We call the things you put on it toppings. After you get the pizza with all the toppings you want, you bake it.”
“And after you bake it?” Mod continued to ask questions.
“After,” Pete willed the pizza cutter to his hand, “you cut it into triangular pieces with this.”
“Like a pie?” Angel entered the conversation.
“Exactly,” Pete told her.
“Swag…” The pixie smiled, pointing her finger to the side. Then she flew back to the wall and continued to draw on it.
“How much will dough cost?” Pete asked.
“Based on what you told me,” Mod scratched his chin, considering, “ten len. It will be more than normal bread because it is a special request, and it will take away from my usual work.” Ten len? Pete hung his head; he only had five left. Upon seeing this, Mod added. “Or I can do it for free. As long as you show us how to make it. We can use my ovens. Also, once you’ve made it, you have to share.”
That was an offer that Pete couldn’t refuse.