I Like It When You Call Me Beard Papa

I have no time to write this post. I have to write 10 pages of a screenplay and read “How I Learned to Drive” by Paula Vogel before tomorrow morning. But I feel the need to tell you about cream puffs. Specifically, the cream puffs my playwriting cohorts and I ate yesterday on a break between classes.You see, across the street from the Tisch School of Dramatic Writing is Beard Papa’s:I’d passed by it many times. Inside, I saw people eating cream puffs. I thought this was a wonderful thing.So after Forms of Drama yesterday, we rode the elevator down and people were talking about food.”Who’s up for cream puffs!” I said gleefully.People stared at me strangely.”No seriously!” I pressed. “There’s a place across the street called Beard Papa’s. They sell cream puffs and we should go eat them.”The group splintered. Some wanted something more substantial. The smart ones went for the cream puffs.How to describe Beard Papa’s?”I don’t understand this place,” declared one perplexed playwright after we sojourned inside. “It’s a place that only sells cream puffs, and where little Asian women yell at you.”The second part was a fair reflection of what was happening inside. When it came time to order our puffs, a little Asian woman began yelling back: “One cream puff! Anything else?” Then she yelled our order to the cream puff man:After the whole ordeal was through, we went outside and ate our puffs:How were they?I don’t think anyone was thrilled with them. First of all, they were messy. If you want to find someone attractive, don’t watch them eat a cream puff. Second of all, they’re just a little too baked for my taste. I prefer my cream-stuffed dough to be fried. In other words: a donut. Donuts make sense. Cream puffs leave many people–including the people I go to school with–scratching their heads and wondering where their money went. But all in all, I’m glad we tried Beard Papa’s. Should I ever encounter a school emergency that requires a ready supply of cream puffs, I’ll know where to go.