poke my cookie and die
Unassuming cafés are a dime a dozen in Montreal. Walk a block there’s one; walk one more, there’s another. But Café Névé did something right to catch my sister’s attention. She’s a brisk, focussed walk-er. Only she knows how or why she spotted it.
We went in this weekend for a much needed mid-afternoon caffeine fix. It was a far too productive day as we were already in-and-out of Jeans Jeans Jeans by 10:30 am. I tried on 24 pairs of jeans. Oui, vingt-quatre . That’s how many tries it took for me to find one pair of banging jeans. (Sidebar: Banging jeans are a pair that comfortably sit on your waist, caress every curve, raise your booty and still let you breathe. That's what she said.)
With our new jeans in tow, my sister and I walked into Névé. It’s cute, unpretentious and communal. The only cringe factor came from the hipsters behind the counter. A little too much-ster.
The coffee was good, but it's always good in Montreal. The more important news is that Névé bakes. They serve happiness on a metal sheet pan that sits on the counter, next to the register. No bells, no whistles, no fancy packaging, nothing. As I was paying for my coffee I heard the chocolate chip cookie whisper, ‘eat me’, which probably means I’m stressed out about something. (I don’t crave sugar or hear voices unless I have a lot going on.)
So I got the cookie and took a photo of le cookie:
|Memories of this cookie are making me emotional. Excuse me sir, can I have another?|
It was sweet (but not painfully) with a nice burnt-caramel-like crust on the edges and a soft, chewy (but totally cooked) centre.
My enthusiasm for this cookie is off-the-charts. Words don't do it justice. My face does. If you could see my face you would understand. The cookie is that f*cking amazing. I’m obsessed.
P.S. Dearest sister, please mail me a cookie, or two.