Spoiled Chocolate.

(Pictured is myself as a 15-year-old in a kitchen adventure with Valrhona in Chocolate Friands)

I shuffle my feet down the stairs into a hidden, lower level, humble store a block away from Dupont Circle. As I open the door and probe into the 200 square feet store, my senses pay no attention to the dingling of the entrance bells, the paper I just dropped, or the chapping winter air on my cheeks-- they are now centered on one thing. The smell.

What is so brilliant about the smell of chocolate? Good chocolate, I mean. The roasty-ness, the sweetness, the deep, dark sensual aroma... I have never smelled something so.. thick.. in my life. But in the room, or any where when you smell chocolate, the smell isn't overwhelming. It's complicated yet light. It's refreshing. It's chocolate.

I scan the pristine shelves lined with the contrasting dark-colored chocolate. I see my favorite names. I see brands that make my heart go pitter patter. Amedei. Valrhona. Michel Cluizel.

I've been using Valrhona Manjari for baking for the last 3 years. Manjari is the perfect one for baking-- it is smooth and rich, but it has enough of a bite at the end to give an edge to any chocolate dessert. Now, if I am making a confection, like tonight's truffles, I'll go with an Amedei Chuao. Just because Amedei is so incredible.

The Chuao amazes me. I still have not gotten over how complex a flavor can be from a simple cocoa bean. (Well, maybe the bean isn't so simple at all). The hint of dried fruit (raisins to my personal tongue) is overwhelming. How can a chocolate taste so much like something from which it is so dissimilar? Beats me.

As far as milk chocolate goes, my recent obsession is Valrhona Jivara. Its deep, nutty aroma is way past any other brand I've tasted. I must admit, I haven't ventured far with my milks. But after Jivara, I am encouraged to try more.

The problem is, once you've experienced the magnificence of the cacao bean, it is hard to return to those convenient store candy bars from which no true essence of the bean can be detected. I'm afraid I've been spoiled by chocolate, and it will be hard to return. The problem is, as the shopkeeper at that incredible store in D.C. stated, it isn't real chocolate. Now-a-days, what I taste when I bite into a Crunch bar isn't chocolate, but just lots of butter and sugar. I'm not saying I never eat candy bars, because there are times when I crave those delicious ingredients, but when I want chocolate, I don't go to Texaco.

Thus, I am ruined forever. And I continue to ruin others when I hold tastings. Tasters' senses become awakened and addicted, just as my own nose and tongue had the time of their life years ago. After the tastings, the usual comment I often hear is "I'll never go back."

So, taking a step out into the first-class chocolate world is... well, bittersweet. But I am not remorseful for my chocolate discovery, I am purely thankful. It has enhanced my culinary adventures, opened up my tastebuds, helped me appreciate aromas, and has caused me to see the beauty and complexity in such a small simple bean. And little wonders like these enable me to glorify God a little bit more.