Let it be known throughout the parish that a plaited cardamom bun of such glistening, sugar-flecked splendour has not crossed my table since the Coronation luncheon of dear cousin Beatrix, and even then the pastry chef wept openly at the comparison. The knot-work upon this bun — that lustrous, twisting braid glazed to a deep mahogany — displays a precision I have only otherwise witnessed in the hands of my head gardener when trellising the roses, and I daresay this bun outperforms him. The pearl sugar scattered across its surface catches the light with the same shameless sparkle as my late husband’s cufflinks, which is to say: entirely too much, and yet I would not have it any other way.
The setting, I must say, does the pastry no disservice whatsoever — a pewter-grey plate against pale linen, a coffee cup poised at attention like a footman awaiting instruction, and beyond the balustrade a view of sea and cliff that even Brighton in its finest hour could scarcely rival. One does rather feel that the establishment has confused itself with a coastal retreat for minor European royalty, and I shan’t be the one to correct them.
As to the bun itself — the interior, glimpsed at its cracked and buttery seams, promises the dense, spiced richness that only proper Scandinavian technique can achieve, none of your feeble supermarket imitations with their timid whisper of cardamom. This is a bun that announces itself, the way I announce myself at a garden party: unmissable, faintly overwhelming, and ultimately adored by all present.
A Word on Presentation: The single sprig of lavender in its little glass vessel is a touch of theatre I shall permit, even applaud — though I do hope the staff understand that a flower beside a bun does not, in itself, constitute a garnish, merely an aspiration toward one.
I award this a resounding nine and three-quarter crumpets out of ten, withholding only the final quarter on principle, as one must never let an establishment believe itself entirely beyond reproach.
