Portuguese Custard Tarts Dad, the last gift you gave me was a box of pasteis de natas from the famous bakery in Belem. We drove there in your van, or maybe it was a car, it was too long ago to remember. I don’t know what made you take me there. We walked around the buildings of Belem like tourists, like father and daughter. You ordered six tarts and handed me the box. I ate one in the car. Then I ate another. Then, when reaching for more, I realised I had eaten them all on the ride back home to your new house and your new family. I don’t remember eating anything else on that trip. When I moved to Montreal later on that year, after having returned from France and from seeing you, I discovered a little Portuguese bakery on my street, Pine Street. I would go there every week and treat myself to a tart or two; the flaked pastry and burnt tops called to me in the night. I liked the way the first bite would stick to the roof of my mouth. I thought of you at every bite. As a pastry chef at the Auberge Hatley I had to make mignardises, tiny sweets to end the meal. One day I decided to make pasteis de natas. I made the puff pastry and the custard. I lined the tarts with a round of dough and filled them with the thick vanilla curd. I baked them on high in the convection oven and managed to get the same blackened tops. I ate one and then another. I was so pleased with myself that I ran into the hot kitchen yelling about my triumph. The sous-chef bit into one and said: They are just custard tarts. They’re nothing special. These are everywhere in France. I made them in my chocolate shop, but I could never get the tops to caramelise the way they do in Portugal and Montreal. I tried extra sugar and grilling. I took the crème brulee torch to them. A master faker. They sold fast and people loved them but I saw them for the counterfeits they were. There is a place that sells them in Wellington, for four dollars and fifty cents. The pastry is not crisp and the tops are pale. I buy one and feed a bite to my daughter, hoping she’ll love it more than she loves cupcakes, but she spits it out on her plate. Dad, I wonder who you think of when you eat Portuguese custard tarts, alone in your flat in Dover. Do the memories of the people you left behind fill your home up like smoke? Do they stick to the roof of your mouth?
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