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Nigella’s cake, gâteau au yaourt, Italian or Ukrainian yoghurt cake, seven-pot cake … so many names, and all of them delicious
I am at the supermarket, standing in front of the milk, cream and yoghurt fridge. To my left, an elderly man lifts his glasses so he can read the small print on the side of a tub of Greek yoghurt. He asks me if it is magro (low-fat), and I tell him it is. To my right, a woman a bit older than me is checking the dates on the milk, reaching deeper and deeper between the bottles, which are swaying like skittles, until she comes to one she is happy with. Only she doesn’t leave; instead, she gestures to the space she has created, an invitation for me to take a bottle with a long date, too. I don’t need milk, but I am always keen to join in, so take a litre anyway, as well as a twin pack of yoghurt. “Magro?” asks the man, still holding his pot. No, I tell him; the one I am holding is intero (whole).
As if there isn’t enough going on in front of the fridge, a man in a spotty face mask and wearing technical leggings crashes his trolley into the metal base of the fridge. It isn’t intentional, just careless. It makes all of us jump, especially the yoghurt man, who drops his pot, which hits the floor hard, splitting the foil and sending a fat blob of yoghurt streaking across the floor like one of those capsules from a paint gun.