A. When it’s a financier.

I’m in line at Eric sweet-mother-of-heaven-that-tastes-incredible Kayser this morning, mulling over the vast array of calorie bombs, when the gentleman in front of me steps to the counter and says in a booming Texas accent: “I’ll have wunna them chocolate muffins.”

The sales clerk’s already icy expression chills by a few more degrees, and she sniffs: “It’s not a muffin. It’s a financier. They are not the same.” There’s a brief pause as they lock eyes across the counter, each seeing the other as validation of countless cultural stereotypes.

Then he shrugs and says: “Whatever. I’ll take it.” And she reaches under the counter and deftly plucks his muffin financier from the tray.

Détente.