The tart was vegan and quite the most tasty thing on the menu. I used to crave it in-between visits to the cafe and once or twice it appeared in my dreams.
It was a black cherry tart. Oona had lined it with shortcrust, poured on the tin of pie filling and layered the almond flour cake batter on top. It would last for days, each having a small slice after supper. I thought of it as my firework cake, the flavours exploding to spark up bright feelings within me.
The tart was apricot frangipane, same as a cake really, just switching the flour for ground almond. With the apricot icing it was divinely wonderful, good food ready for the sharing.
The tart was wonderfully amateur. I laughed. I could see Paul's handiwork in the icing, a sort of modern art expression of his emotions in sugar.
Those fruit tarts on a Sunday, they gave a solid feeling inside. They had the sharp tang of the fruit and the comfort of the pastry and frangipane. Sometimes there would be the custard, other times ice-cream. Either way it was something to look forward to.
The tart was savoury, caramelised onion with feta in egg. The outside was a shortcrust pastry, gently golden. It was the sort of lunch that did well with a tangy pickle.