stepping into ranch, sampaafulhu and i are met by the full force of the restaurant’s bad plumbing. what a greeting. samfa wades through this to the counter and asks for a breakfast burrito and an eggs benedict for me. after a bit of back and forth, we eventually find out that ranch isn’t serving breakfast because they don’t have the ingredients. at 9am.

this is how we find ourselves upstairs at the maldives patisserie.

‘it smells nice,’ i tell samfa who nods. ‘quite nice,’ she tells me.

it’s an inviting space done up to reflect the brand with the mosaic tiles and the greens of their walls and fabric chairs.

we get an iced strawberry matcha, an avocado toast (without onion) and poached eggs for her, and a bowl of granola and some water for me. the mains aren’t cheap, over 130 MVR each. the server repeats our order without prompting. a good omen.

as we wait listening to unobtrusive dance music, a couple turns up with their children, shattering the peace.

‘it’s so expensive to have children,’ says samfa. ‘imagine, if we were here for breakfast. it would cost at least twice as much.’

‘you’ve got your nieces,’ i tell her.

‘yes, they’re wonderful and i can come home to myself.’

‘and me,’ i say.

‘yes, yes. you look a bit dehydrated, have some water.’

she pours some into my glass.

the matcha arrives and it looks incredible.

‘oh my,’ says samfa taking a sip.

‘can i have a go?’ i ask, and grab the drink from her before she answers, drawing a look.

‘ah, i can taste the strawberries, sweet and tangy. and the matcha is pretty good.’

so, expectations are cranked up for the mains.

my bowl is all right, maybe overly sour thanks to the strawberries, but i like the nuttiness of the granola and the sweet slices of banana.

‘these eggs aren’t poached,’ says samfa. ‘they’re boiled. and the avocado mash has onion.’

‘that’s no good,’ i tell her. she brings over the server and tells him what’s wrong.

i give her some of my granola while she waits. for these prices you really have to be on top of your game.

a clean-shaven man with a spiky haircut and a neat white polo shirt comes up to us with samfa’s mains.

‘the eggs are poached, we poach them in their shells with vinegar,’ he explains. ‘sorry about the onion in the avocado mash.’

when he leaves us, samfa says: ‘doesn’t he look like he’s worked in a resort?’

‘yeah they have a look,’ i say. ‘a bit like our friend bakurube.’

‘yes, yes. he’s still so well-groomed even after the divorce. must be the years of military discipline.’

‘must be.’

‘how is he these days? i haven’t seen him in ages.’

‘ah he’s running a wood working class for children,’ i tell her. she beams.

‘isn’t that nice. well done bakurube.’

she cuts through an egg, sighs, and eats it.

‘who was he trying to fool? this is just a soft boiled egg,’ she says. ‘also, you’ve finished all the matcha, there’s only strawberry left.’

i say nothing, it’s not been the best of mornings, and yes i did empty the matcha, not intentionally, mind, but yeah.

it costs 515MVR for this breakfast, and we only had one drink plus water.

‘i don’t know maldives patisserie,’ i say to samfa. ‘you’ve got the look down, you smell fantastic, the drink was magnificent but the mains…’

‘should we get a car do you think?’ asks samfa. ‘it’s much too warm out here.’

‘much too warm.’