Piece of Cake

Fantasy Fudge.  Apple Twists.  Cheese Flakies.  Chocolate Puffs. If you grew up on Chicago’s North Shore, you’re sure to recognize these names and remember Heinemann’s Bakery. They started in 1929 with a single, small bakery.  By 1935, one store had grown to three and these days, the home-grown, bake-from-scratch enterprise sells nation-wide to supermarket chains everywhere.

When we were kids, my brother Kenny and I were crazy about all their scrumptious wares.

But we had, what can only be described, as an obsession with their famous, devil’s food chocolate, neon green, butter cream-iced pistachio cake.  Take a look.

This confection was the go-to dessert in our household.  We ate it all the time.  I was even willing to ignore my “I have to fit into my skimpy two piece bathing suit” rule to make an exception in its yummy case.

Sweet table Sidebar:  We have just switched over to a new Heinemann’s creation- the above-pictured pistachio cupcake.  Kenny stumbled across it at Jewel recently, and instantly alerted me to its existence.  Really good.  And it saves us from having to buy the whole cake.  A triumph.

Heinemann’s was always our bakery god.  The gold standard by all other bakeries was measured.

Cookie Fate moves in mysterious ways, and one day, all our slavish devotion to their product line paid off.

My friend (and Snowmass ski instructor) Hays divided his teaching – and friendship- time between three big clients.  One heavy hitter was yours truly.  The other two were a couple from the North Shore named Sue and Vincent Graham.

The three of us had never met- by design.  We would alternate ski trips so we could avail ourselves of his services. The Grahams had no children, and that made scheduling easier, too.  I grabbed all the boarding school holidays right off the calendar.  They booked many of the other ski weeks, and we’d split the rest.

But even though the three of us had never met, we all knew each other. There are lots of long, cold lift rides over the course of all these ski trips. and Hays would talk to me about the Grahams (he was crazy about them), and ditto, I guess.

And then one day, it all fell into place.  Sue’s maiden name was Dorner.  And it was her family who had co-owned Heinemann’s since 1935.

And Vinny was the man in charge.

This news blew me away.  And once our Heinemann’s addiction had been carefully explained to him, Vinnie graciously extended to us an invitation to visit the Heinemann’s plant on the Southwest side to see all the buttercream and fudge deliciousness for ourselves.

Phone calls were exchanged. Little League coaching baseball calendars and baking schedules were consulted, and finally, a Friday night seven p.m. field trip was set up for Kenny and me.

On the appointed night, Vinny met us carrying our official tour uniforms- smocks and hair nets.  Thus suited up, we entered the savory Heinemann’s world of cakes, breads, tortes, kolacky, rolls, pies and cookies.

Overhead was an old conveyor belt- right out of Rube Goldberg’s imagination.- bearing hundreds of freshly-fried doughnuts to be dipped in a chocolate river.

“This is great,” breathed my awestruck brother.  The smile on his face told the rest of the story.

For the next two hours, we were surrounded by gigantic bowls of fudge frosting, king-sized vats of frothy, white, whipped cream, luscious green pistachio frosting and acres of fresh strawberries.  Huge mixing bowls also held fresh apricot glaze and raspberry filling. And we watched in awe as powdered sugar and cinnamon rained down on chosen pastries from giant shakers.

And everywhere we looked, we saw people doing all the bakery work the old-fashioned way- by hand.

They were kneading and stretching and rolling the dough, frosting and decorating with skill and dexterity that bespoke years of experience.

Kenny and I saw men hand-rolling the Cheese Flakie dough and white-haired ladies brushing mountains of strudel with egg wash.  We also looked on as they decorated the birthday cakes with the patience of Job- and the skill of Rembrandt..

The building was filled to the bursting point with racks of piping-hot coffee cakes, cinnamon bread, apple twists, layer cakes, angel food cakes, bagels and strudels destined to be sent that very night all over Chicagoland.

The entire place looked- and smelled- like a cross between Santa’s Workshop and Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.

Vinny was a great host.  He patiently answered all our questions- and there was a surprise for Kenny waiting at the end of the line.

A pistachio cake inscribed in neon green icing “To Our Best Customer.”

But our biggest thrill had to be when Kenny and I got to pack the doughnuts.

It was a scene right out of “Lucy and Ethel at the Candy Factory,” but we had a ball.  And we got to keep what we had packed as a souvenir.

All too soon, our tour was over and we were back in the car heading to our homes.

“Should we?” I asked, eyeing our doughnut packs.

“Why not?” my brother answered gallantly.

I handed him a chocolate-covered doughnut fresh off the line.  I took one myself,

“This is the best doughnut I have ever had,” Kenny said dreamily.

Thanks, Heinemann’s.

You make my life a more luscious place to be.

And to all my friends who celebrate, may this be a very sweet start to the Jewish New Year.