Being on the cusp of fall, you can take note of the changes that surround you, especially in the Midwest. The sun sets earlier. The night winds pack a chill and the leaves start turning colors.

In a more local reference, it is the time of year when twelve year-old boys and their father-coaches wear two different uniforms as they occupy two different sides of Welles Park, and other neighborhood fields, to engage in league play. On one side of the park, baseball is still played, and on the other side of the park, the preteen boys seem lost inside their padded football uniforms and helmets.

Often, when I’ve taken the side streets to the library, I’ve passed a little green shack along Sunnyside, between one of the park’s three baseball diamonds and the activities building. It’s a modest wooden structure at the top of three stairs. Its sign simply announces the name of the business and its purpose, Crepe in the Park.

While returning an overdue library book recently, I checked out its hours, which were posted on a fence, and discovered it operated noon until 7:00 PM, Monday through Saturday. I went there as an intended destination one evening last week, around 6:00. Anticipating sitting and eating at one of a half dozen white metal café tables with a good view of the baseball field, I brought a can of LaCroix with me. (LaCroix, that’s French., right?)

As I approached the small structure, I noticed a lone young man, wearing a short chef’s cap, standing behind the counter. He was short, but not delicate, and was of a golden complexion. I guessed he was Filipino or Indonesian. At one point in our exchange he explained to me that his wife, who taught him how to make crepes, was French-speaking from Africa.

My mind whirred thinking about all he must have gone through to be where I found him. He must have stories to tell about how he got to Chicago, how he met his wife, how he ended up starting up this little business and what it’s like to spend most of his day standing over two circular griddles making fancy flapjacks.

I studied the menu board to the right of the shack. Savory crepes, like pesto and ricotta, cost $6. Sweet crepes, often filled with berries or nuts and topped with whipped cream he added from an aerosol can he kept in a small cooler, cost $4.00. Of course, I had to try one savory and one sweet crepe before sitting at my table and watching the early fall action on the baseball diamond.

While he was making my crepes, I stood just beyond the counter, on which a replica of the Eifel Tower was displayed. We talked. I was amazed that he created this enterprise – right here in my neighborhood; the only food concession on this side of the park.

How did he get the idea? How did he get a license? I was delighted by the whole experience. I wasn’t sure what was the greatest source of pleasure, what I was most grateful for.

I discovered a little bit of Paris on the north side of Welles Park. That this was the only permanent place to get food in the park was another minor miracle. That an Asian man chose to use his African wife’s recipe, get a license to erect this structure and run this business (in a city where such permissions are hard to come by) was downright inspirational!

As I sat at my table, while I paid some attention to the baseball game, I also noticed a small but steady stream of customers climb up those three stairs.

Eating a whipped cream topped crepe on a beautiful early fall evening, made by such a determined entrepreneur, is no small thing.