Red Velvet Cookies

Ten years ago, I was strolling through the West Village in New York City when I first came upon Magnolia Bakery—with its toy-like displays of layer cakes, cheesecakes, and cupcakes; all that pastel yellow, green, and blue frosting; the long line snaking out the door. The cupcake was in its heyday. It seemed everywhere you turned there was a cupcake shop: If it wasn’t Magnolia, it was Butter Lane on 7th Street, Melissa’s on 14th, Georgetown on Mercer, or (RIP) Crumbs on University Place. I had just moved to Manhattan from Atlanta a few months prior, where the cupcake craze had yet to explode, and felt lucky to live in a city where a shop’s single purpose was to dole out mini cakes topped with buttercream. I had also just broken up with my then-boyfriend and was soaking in the cold winter streets on my own for the first time. And the one thing you need when you’re cold, alone, and heartbroken is to stumble upon a bakery filled with cupcakes. The sweet brightness of the shop was in stark contrast to how I was feeling that night. It wasn’t until I got to the counter after waiting in that line, ordered myself a red velvet cupcake (something I had never had before), and took my first bite that, for one brief second, I was able to forget about the breakup and wrap my mind around this new thing I had just shoveled into my mouth. I had never tasted anything like it. Was it vanilla or chocolate? Or both? Definitely both, like a black and white milkshake. Or a deeper cookies 'n' cream. That first bite at Magnolia would inform how I’d measure all other red velvet desserts thereafter: Red velvet batter must, in my opinion, have enough sugar to caramelize at the edges after being baked (for flavor, but also a slightly chewy texture in the cupcakes' case). There must be savoriness (thanks to salt and vinegar, the latter of which helps the cake rise, too) as well as bitterness (thanks to the cocoa and food coloring). Speaking of artificial facades, there must be a deep, bold, brick-red hue to it (because that’s the color of reignition). Most sources point to the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in N.Y.C. as the crimson cake’s original creator. Wherever it came from, red velvet is, for me, a flavor that I’ll always associate with my early years in New York, and by extension, who I was back then: wide-eyed, vulnerable, and unabashedly sanguine. A lot has changed in ten years: The hotel has since closed and been turned into luxury condominiums; I barely remember that ex-boyfriend’s name, let alone his face; and cupcakes, especially red velvet, are way over. But even after all these years, one thing has remained the same: I still love this stupid city.