That part of New York was home to several artisan outlets and small, incubated, cottage industries. Rather like a hipster vision of battery farmed chickens, Wilhelm noted. Right next door to his bakery - Purveyor of the Finest Home-Baked Goods* (* all dietary requirements catered for) - he was aware dimly of a bespoke micro brewery, although no liquor of any kind had passed his ancestor shudderingly German lips in over forty years. Wilhelm didn't approve of alcohol. Not for a long time, though he had once courted the hop and the grape until their avoidable, but probably inevitable divorce. He was no longer on speaking terms. The separation had been as severe as it was complete.

So, the "finest baker in Brooklyn"* (* New York Times, June 2014, five stars) could be forgiven for never having noticed Fron - probably short for something given she was a mature woman of unclear heritage - the apple-blossom faced neighbour who worked as hard at her still as he did the "Ash only, if you please" wood-fired oven. Only when his mixing machine - a brief, but justifiable nod to 21st C expectations of productivity - decided to jilt him in that "It's not you, it's me!" way, did she finally figure in his world. A desperate plea to kneed with him, and a late night of frenzied baking, were all it took. Her later let down, raven black hair and smilingly relieved blue eyes did the rest. Clearly, something was brewing. Now he had to prove himself worthy.