Bakesale Betty

Recently, I’ve been having doubts about having moved across the Bay to San Francisco. Sure, San Francisco is great and I probably won’t be leaving anytime soon, but there’s a little part of me that yearns for the East Bay and its slightly warmer weather, Oakland hipsters, and, now, Bakesale Betty.

Bakesale Betty sits at the corner of Telegraph and 51st in what has been deemed the new up-and-coming district of Oakland. Large windows reveal the open kitchen, where bakers and woman in a blue wig can been seen working and chatting up the customers. And, if you look carefully, you can even see Eleanor in the back, in her own dark corner, frying chicken.

Mo and I went to visit her, as well as to get a late lunch, Saturday afternoon. We were greeted by lots of smiling faces, from both customers and employees, and it felt like we entered some mystical land where freshly baked sweets make ugly bruises and bad hair days disappear. People sat on miniature stools that lined the windowed walls. A couple ate on a baking sheet. Cakes were displayed on retro-looking ironing boards. And everyone looked happy to be there.

After getting our bearings and figuring out where the menu was, we placed our order. I got a fried chicken sandwich and Mo got a pressed tomato and cheese one on wheat. We were given a pecan shortbread cookie, which tasted like nuts rolled in butter, while we waited.

When they finally called “Mo,” they brought our food out to us on a baking sheet and set it on one of the taller stools. We sat around it and opened up our paper packages. Betty’s husband Michael set paper cups on our tray, poured us water, and told me that I would need it for the spiciness of the sandwich. But I didn’t need the water. The sandwich was good but not all that spicy despite the bits of jalapeño pepper sprinkled throughout the coleslaw that topped the chicken. The coleslaw was a marvel, light and crisp in its vinegar dressing. And the chicken was perfectly cooked, crispy on the outside but tender and moist within, with the right amount of seasoning and not a hint of grease. I was sad to see the last bite of my sandwich disappear.

As Mo and I were eyeing the counter contemplating what to get next, two little triangles of lemon bars on paper wrappers appeared on our tray. I didn’t see it arrive but found no reason not to eat it. The lemon custard was tart and sweet, which was a great balance to the buttery crust. We wondered what else would come our way if we stayed long enough.

And we got a tour of the kitchen. Eleanor showed us the large oven and her dark chicken frying nook. We saw racks of pumpkin bread and chocolate cake. I kept asking her if it was okay for us to be there, feeling like I didn’t want to somehow mess up the baking genius that was underway, but she said it was fine, and Betty and Michael seemed glad to have us there, watching them work and label cake boxes with hearts drawn with a Sharpie.

We left Bakesale Betty happy and full, with goodies in hand. (After a long deliberation, Mo got a pumpkin cake for his housemates and I got a chocolate chip cookie just for me.) I feel many visits to the East Bay, if just for Bakesale Betty, are in the future.