It was a holiday festival, the kind that are set up around Christmas. I wandered through slowly regarding all the wares. A jogger ran past me and I was irritated, thinking she could surely have deviated her route and gone around the tents. I stopped for hot spiced apple cider and gripped my steaming paper cup with cold fingers. The scent of vanilla wafted around the corner so I followed. There was a booth set up with two giant mirrors as walls and a menu written on them in chalk ink. It was big enough for two people to each take two steps. There were two cast iron cylinders set up for cooking crepes on and I watched as one man poured the batter down and flattened it with a smooth circular motion, then expertly flipped another crepe. Another man sliced bananas. The ipod played a reggae-rap mix and the base thumped while the two men worked wordlessly. A small crowd stood hypnotized by the music and aroma; quietly watching and waiting, patiently mesmerized by the pulsating beat and the rhythmic spinning and flipping of reggae-rap crepes. He wore a faded, teal, flannel shirt and a tight knitted skull cap with his sleeves rolled up slightly, a white t-shirt peeked from underneath a top button undone. He looked like a skate-boarding photographer, I decided. His Afro tucked into his baseball cap framed his baby face. Striking cheekbones and deep dark eyes. He grooved to the music for split second. A little girl poked her head into a small corner gap of the booth. He spoke in a foreign language to her, his partner glanced up momentarily. With a fluid movement ham and cheese was folded into a toasted crepe and stuffed neatly into a wax paper triangle. A name was called and someone stepped forth to claim their handful of hot oozing joy.