Ramadan Began with Angels

I wanted to stay close to the Bakery window, where otherworldly cascades, ornamental sugary creations seemed to grow towards the glass. The sweet twists were white, golden, copper and orange in color. For a moment it was like being inside the miniature magical world of a sugar eggs with peep holes, a present I had received on Easter Sundays as a small child. I felt so close to that inedible, sweet display. Through the window I could see that mountains more filled the glass case and topped the long, narrow counter, glittering from the street towards the back of the store.
The man behind the counter was curious about my interest, as was a lone male customer inside. I turned away from the window to avoid their gaze and saw their sidewalk advertisement: a sawhorse stand provided by a well-known multinational. The sponsor background featured a young white woman with clear skin and rippling hair, angel wings in view behind her naked shoulders, two pre-packaged ice cream cones held in white- and black-colored gloves crossed carefully in front of her chest. The cones had also been produced to contrast: the cone appearing to be vanilla-flavored bore a light-colored wrapper; dark paper surrounded the presumably chocolate version held, of course, by a darkened hand. One wing was white, the other covered by a sinister shadow, as was half of her enchantingly pretty face. Still visible behind a large yellow sheet inserted by the shop-owners - a question printed on the poster by the multinational: Angel or Devil?
A thick plastic covering on both sides of the stand allowed the retailers to add their own hand-written news, which, in this case, in red marker, informed me that the Bakery was actually a take-out restaurant: Special Menu for Ramadan. By now the shop employee was frowning through the window at me while I studied the heaven and hell cone-eater image. Everyone was rushing along this busy Parisian shopping street. Observant Muslims from all continents might be walking past the sign, I thought, but nobody actually needed to stop in order to read it. The man inside wanted to know why I had. I stepped up and in off the street. The shop employee and I had to peer around the sugary towers on the counter to see each other and converse, while a tall, skinny local boy listened intently. He looked like a hip-hopper, with his baggy pants and cap.
I told the man that the sign was interesting, and asked if I could take a picture of it. He was suspicious and twisted on the balls of his feet, as if he wanted to consult, but could find no consultants within range. The boy asked me where I was from. The mention of Amsterdam brought a contented (conspiratorial?) smile to his face and he called out to the troubled shop employee: “Laisse la faire!” “Let her do it!”