The Agony and The Ecstasy, or Waiting in Line at Modern Pastry

The cannolo [pl. cannoli].  That simple Sicilian pastry, perhaps the most recognizable of all the Italian desserts (more on that a little later).  Had The Godfather been set in the CSI era of modern crime-fighting, Clemenza would still have been justified in telling Rocco to "leave the gun," with its traceable serial number and incriminating set of fingerprints, and just "take the cannoli."

Enter Modern Pastry on Hanover Street in Boston's North End, creators of, in my humble opinion, the best cannolo in the city.  Here, empty shells wait, albeit not for long, in the display case, for that magic moment when they are paired with that oh-so-perfect ricotta filling.  Because at Modern, the cannoli are fresh - not just because they are made to order, but also because they are light and creamy, with a noticeable texture that makes your palate yearn for the next bite.

My love for a good cannolo is serious business, and for the past year, I have lived around the corner from Modern, frequenting the store several times a week to get my fix.  Each time, I am careful to leave my wallet at home and bring only exact change, knowing full well that I cannot rely on will power to govern my purchase.  At Modern, guests can find a small menu that summarizes the options, among them: regular shell or chocolate dipped, ricotta filling or something less tradition, and the possibility of toppings (chocolate chips, almonds).  I consider myself a purist - I like a regular shell with the traditional ricotta filling, a dash of powdered sugar, and some chocolate chips.  I know exactly what I want every time, how much it costs (a modest $3.00), and how to order it without any confusion.

I am, you could say, "in the know."  And lately, it seems I am all alone in this group.  If I wasn't alone, business would probably be bad at Modern.  But business is booming, and so I find myself consistently waiting in line behind people who, perhaps through no fault of their own, have no clue how to order cannoli and have come for a tutorial.  They ask questions like "What do you recommend?" and "What's ricotta filling?"  Sometimes, they actually invite the onset of Armageddon by asking "What's a cannoli?" Recent studies have shown that school children have trouble identifying U.S. states on a map, but I'd be willing to bet that those same children could identify a cannolo if they saw one.

So there I stand, jaw dropped, eyes boring holes in their heads, waiting to be saved from this nightmare by the friendly sound of "Who's next?"  "I am," I respond as calming waters wash over me, "and I know exactly what I want."