Before I met my husband, I was doing all my baking in a small toaster because my mother didn’t see the point in buying an oven just to satisfy a “hobby.” So imagine when I moved in with my husband, who had a working oven! I started baking like there was no tomorrow. Cheesecakes. Cakes. Cookies. Custards. Cupcakes. Clafouti (which a Kiwi requested, for some reason).

Of course I never thought I could make money off of it. How could I possibly compete with big-chain franchises, with their glitzy advertising and their professionally decorated pastries? Not to mention the eruption of “gourmet cupcakes”, with prices that could feed a tiny village in a third world country. Nope, I embraced my baking as nothing more than a hobby, collecting and tweaking recipes I collected both online and in cookbooks—which is probably what jump-started my obsession with Magnolia Bakery.

I ordered the infamous New York City bakery’s cookbooks off Amazon.com and was hooked. I idolized its founders, Jennifer Appel and Allysa Torey. So much so that not only did I branch out and purchase the Buttercup Bakeshop (Appel’s own bakeshop, which she opened after their partnership fell apart) cookbooks as well, but I also did research on why the two went their separate ways (the theories go from “creative differences” to “lesbian lovers who broke up”).


I was enamored with the description of the bakery in the articles and reviews I read online. “A haven for old-fashion American treats”, “Takes you back to your childhood”, “Its home-style décor makes it a very friendly eatery.” So imagine my excitement when, early this year, my in-laws shipped us off to vacation in New York. I instantly headed for Magnolia’s first shop on Bleecker Street, like a fangirl about to meet a rockstar who graced her bedroom walls.

It’s true what they say online that lines can go around the block. Despite our aching calves from walking around the city all day, my husband and I joined the line outside since they could only accommodate a number of people in the shop. I convinced him it was worth the wait. But once we got in, my spirits quickly fell.

I couldn’t even admire the home-y atmosphere because of the number of people crowded around the shop. The smell of buttercream was drowned out by people pushing, shoving, and barking out orders. Frosting on the cupcakes on display has been dug-in, most probably by the unruly children who were ahead in the line. There was a limit to how many cupcakes you can buy, just to make sure “everyone got a cupcake.” And forget the so-called “friendly eatery”—there were no tables or chairs. The staff wanted you in and out of their bakery in as little time as possible. Taking too long to order your pastry of choice seemed to be frowned upon.

We left with a vanilla cupcake, a caramel cupcake, and a slice of their infamous red velvet cake (much to my husband’s dismay, who kept pointing out I could easily make them all myself back home). We sat on a bench in a small park near the bakery, and, after listening to him complain about our $10 purchase, we dug in.

Maybe I was just really setting the bar too high. Or maybe my expectations were unreasonable. When I bit into the cupcakes, I expected to get the same feeling I get whenever I taste something new that absolutely blew my mind, like the first time I tried uni sushi or when I took my first sip of ice wine. But instead, the fireworks I expected were mere watusi sticks being set off. The vanilla cupcake’s buttercream was so-so, the cake “okay.” The caramel cupcake was pretty good, but not worth the $3.

I dove into the red velvet cake, hoping that not all was lost. But the damage has been done—my taste buds have already been alerted by my brain’s previous disappointment. The cake tasted just like any home-baked red velvet cake, not too moist and not too dry. The creamy vanilla icing was too buttery for my taste, almost like rubbing a stick of butter on my tongue. We brought home the rest of the cake and ate it that night, both of us feeling guilty if we didn’t polish off every single crumb.

Some people say it’s not a good idea to meet your heroes. I disagree. I remember when my husband pleaded and begged his grandmother to take him to the Goya Factory after seeing the wonderful chocolate fountains and lakes in its TV commercial. His grandmother finally caved, which resulted in him crying all the way home—there weren’t any chocolate lakes or fountains, just a big factory connected to warehouses. I didn’t exactly go home in tears like my then-7-year old husband. Instead, I broke out my baking gear, made a lemon meringue pie, and showed it to an officemate. He immediately ordered one. Then more orders started coming.

I then realized that my fear of my baked goods not being “good enough” wasn’t exactly true. They may not come in a labeled box or have been featured in an HBO series—but they dang taste good and friends don’t mind paying a premium for them.

Looking back, I wish I had experienced the Magnolia Bakery with a different outlook: stripped it off its hype, taken it down the pedestal I put it up on….and just enjoyed it for what it was. A bakery just like every other, and the cupcakes just as simple, sweet, and yummy—the way every cupcake, in the first place, should be.