Writing it sweet

It doesn’t need to be Winter for the city of Prague to become dappled with the smell of sumptuous sausage meat, but a chance to bless the cold air with some of it comes as a special treat. The sausage booths color a fair share of the city orange, also serving braised cabbage and strong, hot ketchup. It’s the food as fierce as the nation. But this is not where the sweet tooth heaven hides. A couple of booths closer to the center of the square, a hot cloud of an actual sugar aroma lures the most of us nearer. The cakes on the wooden counter drawing people’s attention are called chimney cakes. They’re hot, hollow and cylindrical and come in ten different tastes and colors. The milky, thin dough is being baked on the spot, remaining as soft as it was before touching the stove, a small clouds of flour and sugar with no crust to spoil them. The salesman, huge and as round as a chimney cake itself, approaches me and hands me a cinnamon one. Not speaking a word of English, he flashes a smile with his ginger man face and I move along, melting the sugar and cinnamon in my mouth, along with some mulled wine I bought off the street. Mulled wine is a common drink here, sold on every other corner and along with the well known Czech inns and jags of beer that go along with them, warms and cheers the hearts of local citizens and tourist. It’s dinner time and I leave restaurants with long tradition and heavy, wooden tables to the more sophisticated ones who’ll probably try the traditional food I described, only on shinny white plates. I leave the manly jags of beer to the fierce population of our little group and for now, the spicy sausages to the gourmets among them. My cinnamon cake is still warm, treating all my senses with sweet cinnamon and the dough as soft as milk. And it somehow matches the Christmas spirit. It’s the fierce yet feminine side of Prague.