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Written by Robert Tanner, asap
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Tuesday, 13 February 2007 |
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It’s not as if I need winter to enjoy hot chocolate.
For a summer breakfast or a spring dinner; morning, noon or night, a cup of liquid chocolate is an undeniable, irresistible pleasure. (And my regrets for those few that don’t share my affection — to each his own, and I hope some other tasty treat can offer you the same combination of anticipation and satisfaction, the contest between sweet and bitter).
These days, when it comes to buying chocolate, hot or not, it’s hard to avoid veering off into the stratosphere. Every other high-end cafe has its own hot-chocolate specialty. Every gourmet market offers some small-batch chocolate bar from Venezuela, Madagascar, Sao Thome or Java.
The more the better, I say.
And I wouldn’t claim they’re not good. I’ve tried a few. There’s a mesmerizing array of choices, and some I’ve tried (though not all) are deeply flavored. They’re also packaged like royalty and priced to match.
Somehow they seem an adult, it’s OK-to-like-it attempt to recapture the glorious memories of childhood. Glorious mostly because they’re lost — Drake’s cakes, Tootsie Rolls, molded chocolate Santas and Chanukkah coins all disappoint so terribly today.
But the longing remains. Francie Brady, the main character in Patrick McCabe’s “The Butcher Boy,” lives on in my recollection with such affection — in spite of the blood on his hands — largely because of his devotion to Maltesers, a malted milk ball, Britain’s version of a Whopper. They tantalize and inspire him, they dance in his mind’s eye.
That’s how I remember chocolate. And even more for the hot, liquid version, a concentrate of memory and flavor.
In my mind, Nestle’s, Ovaltine, Hershey’s all loom large. (Chocolate milk was pretty good, too — but somehow it never rose to the same heights). And don’t knock Swiss Miss.
Time has brought our way more wonderful choices: there’s the Dutch hot chocolate Droste; the slightly spicy Mexican chocolate that traditionalists supposedly whip to a froth with the pre-electricity version of a latte frother called a milinillo (I could never make mine spin as promised); the towering chocolate bubbles atop the delicate cups (and the more bitter-than-sweet flavor inside) served by the chocolatiers in Bayonne, France.
I don’t think it’s a big stretch to suggest that there’s a direct link between that hot cup of steaming chocolate and the morning cup of coffee.
Is it something about growing up that forces us from the sugary sweet wallop toward the bitter side of the spectrum, even for those who do take sugar with their coffee? I’ve read all about changing taste buds, but maybe there’s something less biological at play.
History also draws a line between the two. Both chocolate and coffee were offerings from the New World, both stimulants. And both played a part in the creation of cafe culture in Europe and the intellectual ferment that came with it.
Besides fueling conversation, the money made from their trade fueled the Age of Discovery (and all the bad, and good, that came with it). (I’m leaving out tobacco’s role in stimulating argument and the Enlightenment, and colonialism, too).
The proliferation of adult hot chocolate offerings gives me hope, some super thick with Mexican-style skinny doughnuts alongside, some elegant in china and tiny chocolate bars alongside, some blazing hot in a Styrofoam cup to go.
Something to think about at home when I rip open another envelope of Swiss Miss.
Marshmallows this time? Sure, why not live it up.
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New asap columnist Robert Tanner has eaten his way around the world as a national writer for The Associated Press. | Only registered users can write comments.
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