I’ve never really been a cinnamon roll kind of girl. They’ve always just been too much for me. Too sticky, too messy… maybe even too sweet? I don’t dislike them but I don’t love them either, and it’s a pretty rare occasion when I’ll order one.

One of those rare occasions though, is if I’m somewhere and am personally recommended one. Because if there’s another type of girl I am not, it’s the kind that asks a server or other employee for their recommendations and then goes with something totally different, disregarding whatever the person just said. Especially offensive, in my opinion, if you’re at a restaurant and a server tells you how much they personally love a particular dish and rattles on about the ingredients or how it’s made. I just figure if you go out of your way to ask someone what they themselves like from a menu, unless it’s something you really don’t want to eat, just go with what they like. Otherwise, why ask? (I should also explain that many moons ago, when I was in college and studying abroad, an annoying girl I lived with used to do this constantly. We always went to the same restaurant and she’d always ask the waiter what he liked, but then, like clockwork, would go with something else. It got to the point where every time she asked, I just rolled my eyes and wondered why she was wasting everyone’s time.)

So when I found myself at the front of the line at Winner in Park Slope one morning, and the guy at the order window told me they didn’t have what I was looking for yet (grape focaccia, which wouldn’t be available until the afternoon) I asked him what he thought was good. Even with just their morning menu, which included croissants, scones, muffins and coffee cake, there was a lot to choose from and I wasn’t sure which direction to go.

“Definitely the cinnamon roll,” he said, without hesitation. “They’re my favorite.”

Welp, I thought, that settles it then, and ordered the cinnamon roll.

I initially opened the container it was in just to take a photo of the cinnamon roll before I ran back home with it to eat after a shower. (In retrospect I see how absurd that plan was, but that’s also who I am: a girl who will go on a run to a bakery, to then run back, holding a small take-out box with a cinnamon roll in it.) The second I got a good look at it though, I decided to eat it then and there, on the corner as people on morning walks went by with their dogs.

It was about the size of my palm and covered in a thick, even coat of icing, which for a very brief moment made my teeth ache in sugary anticipation. The moment I bit into the pillowy softness of the roll I was so glad I had asked though, because if I hadn’t, I would never have experienced the deliciousness filling my cheeks like a chipmunk. Inside, the glistening, cinnamony filling oozed from the still-warm swirls of golden, fluffy dough, and while it was on the messy side, I didn’t even mind.

I don’t know that I’m a full-blown cinnamon roll convert just yet, but if you ask me what to get at Winner, I’m gonna tell you to order the cinnamon roll.