Chocoholic

"We have a lovely flourless chocolate cake with a raspberry sauce for dessert." I did my best not to make a face, failing. My brow wrinkled and I smirked a bit. I’m a purist when it comes to chocolate.

“I'll have that cake, but absolutely no raspberry, please. Just the cake, with a bit of whipped cream, thank you." The waitress replied she would have that right out, with a large smile, but it seemed forced to me. “Oh and a cup decaf with all the fixings please.” I smiled up at her.

So many people want that raspberry on chocolate desserts. It dilutes the creamy, deep taste of dark chocolate, and I cannot fathom why a trained pastry chef wants to ruin a rich dessert by the 'oh so pretty' magenta drizzle of raspberry sauce.

Several days later, my darling fiancé had so pissed me off that I threw a grapefruit spoon across the kitchen, grabbed my iPhone and peeled away from our shared studio apartment in my decrepit sports car. Yeah, in my angry haste, my purse was left behind. I NEVER left home without my lipstick. My lips had to be colored hourly, or I looked OLD and faded like a weathered photo.

Now, really, really steaming (and speeding), I headed to Walgreen's to pick up some lipstick in a deep pink hue. While there, I got a pair of dark sunglasses with purple and pink dotted frames. At the checkout counter, I grabbed a bar of Lindt Dark Chocolate, A Touch of Sea Salt, ripping it open as I shoved my debit card into the card reader. Biting off a silky piece, it began to melt on my tongue as I punched in my PIN. Damn, I felt good! The chocolate was like a shot of B vitamin straight into my nervous system, calming me. Blissfully, I cracked off another small square and broke that in half, planning to savor it.

After a jaunt to Starbucks for an Americano with a splash of cream, I headed to the library to get my book on hold. Dammit! My purse was at home. Now I was pissed again. "He is such an asshole!" ran through my mind for the millionth time. I turned toward home, reaching for my chocolate. Better calm myself down…again.

Entering the apartment lobby, I looked around, trying to find excuses not to push the elevator button to take me upstairs. Finding none, I hit the up button and boarded the steel trap, keying in our private code to ascend. Yeah, our little studio apartment had an elevator that opened into the apartment, thanks to his high, six-figure salary.

Alex looked up as he heard the doors slide open, smiling. He sauntered over to greet me, grabbing me in a big hug, pushing my auburn mass of curls behind my ears so he could plant a juicy wet kiss on me. His lips moved to my neck, pushing my hair out of his way. Then he removed an arm and held the grapefruit spoon up in the air for me to see, and we both burst into uncontrollable giggles. “I rescued it, and all is well,” he whispered against my hair.

“Come,” he commanded, pulling me to the small table at the window. There, in all its glory was a one pound box of See’s Chocolates, my favorite. I ran my index finger over his knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. He broke the golden seals on the box and pushed it to me.

“I got you dark chocolates,” he said.

I peered into the box and what I saw was not the dark chocolate truffles I loved: Dark Chocolate Chip Truffle, Dark Chocolate Truffle, or Dark ButterChew.

“There’s some truffles and nuts, and a Dark Chocolate Raspberry and a Dark Chocolate Lemon,” he explained.

I tried to hide my frustration but wasn’t succeeding. I had even given him their complete list of chocolates and CIRCLED the ones I loved numerous times. I had gone over the list with him! Alex had thought to include dark chocolate almonds, walnuts and peanuts, and deserved a heartfelt kiss from me. I was determined not to stay angry. I grabbed one of the nuts and munched. Then he held out the Dark Chocolate Lemon Truffle and I almost gagged. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why it was so hard for him to just buy me the exact ones I wanted and not get some for me to “just try."

“Hon, it’s dark chocolate. Lemon! Try it - you’ll like it! There’s a raspberry one too!” He is so proud of himself. Doesn’t he listen to anything I tell him? I’ve told him over and over again what I like, the only ones I like.


No, I won’t like it. Blech! I thought, beaming at him. “Oh, you go ahead Hon, I’m full.” I watched in disbelief as he gobbled up the lemon in total oblivion to my real thoughts and deep annoyance.

Now two weeks have passed since Alex bought me the box of See’s Chocolates. The Dark Chocolate Truffle and the nuts I’ve eaten. The others, except the Lemon Truffle he ate, are still in the box. I am waiting him out. He can have them. Just the thought of them makes my tongue cringe and the saliva in my mouth dry up.

It’s early Saturday morning, my three mile speedy walk along the river completed. I want my chocolate croissant before nine a.m. with a cup of coffee. I've so many errands to run today and it would be nice to be done by one p.m. so I can relax a bit before the cocktail party we are hosting at eight p.m.

Not too sweaty, I decide I can scoot into BriocheWest, and grab a seat. The bakery case has delicious freshly baked items making me drool. I want more than one item. I can, right? I walked super fast for cardio, and will do some weights tomorrow. I salivated over the twice baked chocolate and almond croissants; wanted no part of breakfast sandwiches, or quiche. The pink champagne cake, and coconut chocolate tart were tempting. I order a cup of brewed coffee with heavy cream, a twice baked chocolate croissant and queued up to pay.

Then, I spot it. Behind the barista’s head is a chocolate cake labeled "seven layers." It is a almost a foot high and covered in very dark frosting and curls of dark chocolate. I WANT IT. You just ordered a chocolate croissant and they are the round huge ones, not the small oval ones. Probably one thousand calories. So? I can eat that slice of cake over the entire week. I’ll work out every day and skip a meal.

“That’ll be $10.45, please.” I stare at the cashier. I can’t speak, my words are jumbled, tumbled together, like rocks in my mouth. “The rain in Spain flows freely on the plain,” I hear come out of my mouth. “$10.45, please,” she repeats firmly, “$10.45.” She is annoyed with my gibberish and lack of quick payment.

Finally my words came back. “Yes. I also want one slice of that cake.” She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “What?” she asks? “The cake,” pointing behind her, “do you take ApplePay?”

“It’s not cut.” She is staring at my phone and debit card.

“I see it's not cut. One piece, please, add it to my total. Please. Apple Pay?” I give her my very best smile.

“It’s not cut.”

Now I'm becoming annoyed with her. “So? Cut it. I want ONE PIECE, please.” Now there are fifteen people in line, waiting, getting very grumpy over this inane verbal exchange.

“Get her the damned piece of cake, will ya? We want our stuff too, we’ve got things to do today!” A giant man has yelled this. He is dressed in plaid pants, everything mismatched, has on a clown wig and is standing behind me, too close. “Come on Lady, cut the cake. I want my coffee and sandwich.”

The whole line began chanting “cut the cake, cut the cake.” The head baker came out, saw what was happening and took the cake out of the case.

“For you, Madame, I will cut this cake. Normally it is only sold as an entire cake, or in half. One piece, for you, Madame, and it will be $16. Is that all right with you, Madame?” His French accent made me want to break out into song. "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"

Instead I nodded mutely in reply, my cheeks bright pink. “Yes, yes, $16 is a fair price for that fine piece, that great slice of a delicious looking delectable dark chocolate gateau!” I was nodding my head rapidly up and down for emphasis.

He sliced it with a huge knife, the biggest one I’ve seen, and grinned at my response. He leaned over to the cashier and I heard him whisper, “Charge her $16 for her entire order. Let’s get her out of here, toute suite.”

I turned to leave with my order, packaged neatly into a large bakery bag with handles. The cake was professionally inserted inside a cardboard container, protecting its many layers. My coffee was in a to-go cup, as there was no chance of me having a seat here now, or maybe ever. “A fork or napkins, M’am?” the cashier asked me. I shook my head no vigorously, cheeks flaming, in a hurry to exit.

The entire bakery, including the cashier, erupted into loud clapping and whooping as I left.

Striding in my spandex capris, as dignified as possible, I found a metal bench out of sight of the bakery, and sat with my goodies. I opened the cake box. There it was! Seven layers of dark cocoa cake with glistening, nearly ebony, frosting. My finger swiped the icing adhered to the box lid and slid into my mouth. The pastry chef had put a silver petite plastic spoon into the box. I dug into the top edge of the cake and took a small piece with thick frosting. It melted at the roof of my mouth. I closed the box carefully, savoring the taste, spoon still in my mouth. My brain was now scheming for a safe place in which to hide it from our evening guests, chilled, and out of sight for the evening. Glorious, gateau au chocolate, unadulterated. C’est si bon!