Chocolate

Solnce Dunkle Schokolade mit Fleur de Sel

2008-04-18T17:11:00.000-07:00

Sea salt and chocolate is a relatively new sensation for me, introduced in a lovely little box by my friend Sharla a little over a month ago. But suddenly I'm seeing it everwhere. Andre told me it's all the rage in Germany, and pulled out a bar of this Solnce to prove it.

It's a serious, dark bar, thick and segmented in centimeter-or-so wedgelets and wrapped in a no-nonsense plain white paper sleeve. None of the namby-pamby flowers or evocative pastel graphics for these folks - they have chocolate to deliver, and they're not beating around the bush.

But to the chocolate itself. Previous sea-salt chocolates I've had were topped with crystals of the salt, adding the sharp texture of the salt to the smooth melt of the choco. Visually and texturally a parallel study in the contrasts that sweet-salt taste sets off. In the Solnce, the salt is invisible, either ground so fine as to be invisible, or perhaps even dissolved into the choco itself? So you pop it in your mouth expecting an ordinary cube of German dark. It's smooth and well-conched, not the least bit flakey or chalky, and just as the alkaloid sensors in your tongue wrap around the cacao, this spike of what-the-hell-is-that kicks in and sends your brain scrambling for context.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. Gastronomy is supposed to be an adventure, and adventure thrives on the unknown. So even though my eyes, and some portion of my brain was expecting a salty taste, the lack of what I had normally associated with that mouth-feel caught me by surprise. And it's not at all an unpleasant surprise. You just have to be openminded about what you expect from a chocolate.

Valrhona Estate Grown - Ampamakia, 64%

2005-12-02T11:04:00.000-08:00

Less buttery than most Valrhona, this one sits on your tongue for a moment, crouching, poised to unleash the flavor you'd expect from a dark single bean chocolate. And when it does come, it unwinds slowly - tart, now sweet, now tannic, with a whisper of some lush tropical fruit you've never heard of. Faster now, and stronger, the flavor comes out and changes, and you can't help remembering Kah, from the Jungle Book, staring gently into your eyes, uncoiling, embracing, overpowering until you suddenly pop awake and realize that you're wrapped up neatly into a bite-sized package of python chow.

In my case, it was much more benign - I popped awake to realize that I'd finished the little square of Ampamakia I'd scored from Sharon's collection. And wanted more. This could definitely become an addiction; it's a good thing her desk is so far from mine these days.

Reminiscing over that little square, I find that (like most good addictions) I'm left with an aftertaste - somewhere on the back of my palate is a trace of tannin and the scent of something
faintly aromatic. Must be that lush tropical fruit I've never heard of.

Dagoba - Lavender 59%

2005-09-16T13:25:00.000-07:00

Gack! I'm leery of added flavors, but fond of Dagoba, so I thought it was worth the risk to experiment with their "Lavender" dark chocolate bar.

It must've been that evening at Rob and Pardo's, years ago, the second time (of three, so far) that we moved to California. Was it on alternate Thursdays? Or some fixed schedule at which they gathered large crowds of friends together to dine, drink and discuss, over something that wasn't quite potluck, and always had the feeling of a banquet of homemade foods that traced their origins across distant oceans and deserts.

On one such evening, Stephanie offered up some ice cream she'd just made. What flavor? No, she told us we'd have to guess. It was light, subtle, aromatic - I felt like I had to close my eyes to get a bearing on the source, and even then it eluded me and beckoned me follow.

None of us could guess, so eventually she capitulated and told us that it was made with fresh lavender from her garden.

Since then, lavender has always brought me back to the swirl of conversation and flavors from those now-embellished evenings. So of course I had to try the Dagoba Lavender bar. Right?

Wrong. I've sometimes criticized Cadbury for tasting like it was composed substantially of candle wax, but I will never again be so harsh on them. My first taste of the lavender bar gave me pause to wonder whether I'd just inadvertently eaten a nib of chocolate-flavored hand soap.

Perhaps it was a first impression, left only by the novelty of the flavor? No, the more I rolled it around in my mouth, the more I became convinced that I was munching on a chunk of Dove, or Ivory or the like. The consistency, the heavy perfume masked any indication that what I was eating had any relation to something that came from our beloved Theobroma Cacao. The whole thing, I'm afraid to say is really unpleasant. I'm not sure if I've ever actually tossed a chocolate bar, but this one may be the first.

BruCo Fondente - Anice 72%

2005-09-07T17:03:00.000-07:00

I've been saving this last little piece of BruCo, formally Il Cioccolato di BruCo, on a corner of my desk for a while now. As you know, I tend to be a purist (read: snob); I'm not generally fond of added flavorings, and make exceptions only when they're somehow tied to some memory wrapped deep and tight around my brainstem.

But this chocolate was a gift; it arrived with its sibling - a bar of BruCo 72% straight - on the evening of a musicmaking party close to a year ago. While we made short work of the sibling that night, the exotic anise-flavored bar sat forgotten on the shelf somewhere. I don't remember how it made the trip from there to my desk, but some time, some months ago I remember noticing that I'd been nibbling on it.

As with all habits of our environment, it somehow became familiar, and with the familiarity came some form of comfort. It was nice, pleasant. What - the last piece? No, I'll save it for some other time.

But there are other chocolates waiting, and it is time to finish it and move on:

The bar itself is firm, as you'd expect with such high cocoa content, but pleasantly smooth. None of that flaking pharmaceutical-grade chocolate here. The anise is strong, but then, so is the chocolate. In fact, I think they're an even match. If I were a fan of anise the way I favor chocolate, this would be my bar. As it is, I can appreciate it as someone else's pleasure, the way you can enjoy looking at a fine horse or antique car, without feeling the depth of fanaticism that a horse or car lover might. It's not my chocolate, but it's a fine chocolate nonetheless.

Guittard Ambanja Bittersweet, 65%

2005-03-02T12:58:00.000-08:00

I don't get much Guittard around here; I'm clearly not shopping in the right places.

This particular chocolate claims to be pure Madagascar. My image of Madagascar comes only from the writings of Tom Claytor (here, here and here) - it seems to be a wild and beautiful place where you learn to accept that Nature is in charge and you cherish the brief moments when she favors you.

This chocolate has Madagascar written all over it. The undertones and overtones are a beautiful cacophany of parrots screeching in the trees overhead, while the sweet buttery base carries you like a canoe on a slow river through the heart of the rainforest. Somewhere in the distance you hear splashing. Maybe it's another canoe. Maybe it's one of the unseen denizens of this dark and beautiful place. Maybe it's a waterfall.

This is one of the most complex chocolates I can remember. I grabbed two small squares, so I could revisit it, and I still don't feel like I've tasted everything that's going on. It's a fascinating place. Tom writes that "You can speak about a country when you have been there 15 days or 30 years." I need to spend a bit more time with this chocolate.

Neuhaus Dark, 52%

2005-02-01T14:28:00.000-08:00

This came as a bite-sized wafer of "pure" chocolate in Connie's holiday tin of truffled and liqueured treats. It's a soft chocolate, almost the consistency of a Hershey bar, and melts alarmingly quickly when you pop it in your mouth. Fortunately, I'd broken the wafer into a few pieces, or the entire thing would've been done and gone before I'd had enough time to savor the taste.

As with most "low lead" dark chocolates, this one is quite buttery. It does have a bit of tang to it, but there's not what I would call a smooth response function. First taste is very sweet, and you have to hunt for the actual chocolate flavor. Then, after a second, it comes out all at once, and the sweetness vanishes. Fine if you're averaging, but it never feels like it's got that balance that's so important to me. It's a fine chocolate, and those truffles are pretty awesome, but I think I still tilt my hat toward Lindt for this range.

Scharffen Berger, Chocolate Covered Cacao Nibs

2005-01-31T14:33:00.000-08:00

Chuck brought these in a while back, and I've been meaning to write about them for a while.

Readers may remember my earlier post about Sharffen Berger's Nibby Bar - good chocolate with crushed bits of cocoa bean embedded throughout. I wasn't wild about it, so I approached the latest offering with a bit of hesitation. The CCC Nibs are sort of the opposite end of the chocolate+nibs spectrum: rather than being chocolate with some nibby bits scattered in, these are nibby bits with a bit of chocolate dusted around the outside.

Visually, they're a little disturbing - I can't shake the visual similarity to those little remnants we found in various corners of the house when we had a "mouse problem" a while back. Sorry - didn't mean to make you lose your appetite, but you've got to understand how I found myself approaching these.

Once you get past any psychological baggage from past chocolate and housekeeping experiences, the Nibs are actually a lot of fun. I wouldn't quite call them recreational drugs, but they are, um, an experience. Pop a few of them in your mouth, and you're greeted with the familiar hum of Scharffen Berger's smooth, strong dark chocolate. Sort of like tiny chocolate-covered raisins. Then, absentmindedly chomping down on these innocent little morsels, things change very abruptly. Your teeth crunch into the roast bit of bean within, letting out an electrifying blast of pure bitter cocoa intensity. Eyes pop wide open and the brain snaps 180 degrees, like a toy compass dropped into an MRI machine. Things buzz and rattle around for a few seconds, and then you're done. Sitting up straight, wide awake and ready for more.

I can't in all honesty call this stuff "chocolate", but it is probably worth rating it as a necessary experience for anyone who aspires to be a chocoholic. You appreciate electical engineering a little more if you've ever electrocuted yourself (I have); you'll appreciate chocolate more if you've sampled some of these nibs.

Michel Cluizel, 1er Cru d'Hacienda "Concepcion", 66%

2005-01-13T08:40:00.000-08:00

You could either describe this one as "strong and creamy, with a woody flavor" or "tastes like wood." I'll go with the former. But the flavor is woody - smoky wood. Sort of a Casablanca oak-paneled bar, with Bogart leaning against the piano telling Dooley Wilson to Play it Again, Sam.

Concepcion isn't a casual chocolate - I think you've got to be into chocolate to appreciate the deep, really woody, flavor that permeates this stuff. It's deep and it's good, and it's not one of those add-on flavors - you can tell that flavor comes straight from the bean itself. I'd love to have this as part of a chocolate tasting party to define one corner of the taste spectrum. It settles in low, leans over and starts humming As Time Goes By...

Cote D'Or Intense, 70%

2005-01-11T14:51:00.000-08:00

[Chocolate courtesy of Sharon Perl]

I don't know why the French always seem to look down on Cote D'Or and Poulain - I keep coming back to them as my favorites. It's hard to find in the states, but the 70% is smoother and richer than almost any other "very dark" I've found. The flavor is dominated by the chocolate liqueur; somehow, instead of being cloying the liqueur serves as a vehicle for the chocolateyness of this bar. More than just a "vehicle" - perhaps the TGV? While it doesn't bite, it does let you know it has teeth, and will use them if it needs to.

Years ago, when Devon and I had a couple of hours to spare in Paris before catching our plane back, we went chocolate shopping. Skipped the oh-so-refined chocolatiers of Avenue Montaigne. That stuff is pretty, but too rarified for my chocolate tastes. Instead, we headed to the basement of the local marche and stuffed the remaining free space in our luggage with kilos of Cote D'Or and Poulain. Mmmm, it's probably time to go back...

Vivani, Feine Bitter Schokolade 72%

2004-12-28T13:36:00.000-08:00

Chuck brought this one back from Vancouver too. First I noticed of it was Uri snapping a small square into his mouth and remarking "This is really good. I mean, this is really good." Uri doesn't wax poetic often, so that was invitation enough to give it a try. Not that I need much of an invitation to check out new chocolate of any kind.

But Uri was right. This stuff is really good. Smooth and buttery, with the alkaloid bite of hardcore cocoa growing from a hum in the distance to a full-tilt freight train roar blowing by you in Doppler shift. It doesn't jump you - there are no jolts or surprises. But it does leave you pleasantly dazed, licking your lips and listening longingly for that train in distance.

Nelson's Chocofellar

2004-12-20T13:55:00.000-08:00

I don't normally associate Canada with chocolate (notwithstanding Rogers' in Victoria), but Chuck brought back this great little bar from NIPS. Company address is Nelson, BC, and it claims to be "handmade in the Kootenays using fine quality Belgian chocolate."

Doesn't list a cocoa percentage; I'd put it in the mid 60s - enough to give it a solid dark chocolate feel, but not so much that it bites you back.

The bar itself is narrow and about twice as thick as the canonical chocolate bar about the same dimensions as a granola bar. Requires you to take a sizable bite out, and rewards you nicely. Consistency is smooth and middle of the road: not too buttery, not to chalky. It reminds me of my old standby, Lindt, and had they not listed their source as Belgian, that would have been my first guess. In any case, very tasty, and almost gone.

Moonstruck - Dark Chile Variado, 68%

2004-12-13T09:08:00.000-08:00

Another variation on chili and chocolate. This one from Chicago, and heavier on the bite. The peppers don't actually start with a bite, they quietly sweep in like a flame front. You're letting the soft, buttery chunk of dark chocolate melt in your mouth with only a vague sensation of something amiss in the periphery - like the characters in a slasher movie carrying on, oblivious to the ominous sound of the-footsteps-that-shouldn't-be-there stomping closer. Then suddenly you realize that you're trapped - your mouth is toasting in a capsaicin furnace but unable to back off from the velvet chocolate the torment is coming from. Wonderful.

La Dragee - blind chocolate challenge

2004-12-06T13:38:00.000-08:00

Debby wrote in with a challenge (or was that an opportunity?):

"I have acquired eight dark chocolate bars, each made with only cocoa, sugar, and butter cocoa. The cocoa, however, is from eight different plantations, and the bars taste significantly different from each other."

The chocolate is from La Dragee (http://www.la-dragee.com/); the origins and types of chocolate were hidden on a key that we were not allowed to look at until we had submitted our impressions. In the spirit of the challenge, I avoided reading the labels until I had sampled all eight, and had quite a buzz on by the end of it:

1. Puerto Cabello: Earthy, thick and primitive. A pronounced tannic bite, but it's subdued by the heavy, almost gritty texture. If I had to liken its feel to anything, it would be mud. Tasty mud.

2. Hacienda El Rosario: Pleasant, sweet and refined, like a thin china teacup. Easily crushed, too. I found I was closing my eyes, trying to prevent the delicate undertones and aftertaste from getting trampled by sensations from the outside world. A good chocolate for sitting on the back porch in summer, quietly watching the sun go down.

3. Trinite: Stiff - almost impenetrable at first. The initial flavors that come off as it warms are harsh and bitter, but then suddenly there's a rich, buttery mouth full of cocoa. The brown block of clay transforms into something a little richer and and wilder than my Lindt Bittersweet mainstay. I'm going to have to try another shot, but this may be my favorite of the bunch.

4. Equateur: Mild, almost chalky. But somewhere here, there's a whiff of something exotic and aromatic sneaking past my olfactory nerve ending. It's like that flash of eyes from across the arab market - when you turn to look for it, you're lost in a jumble of other sensations. Pleasant and refreshing. Made me want to try this one again, on a clear palate and someone with whom to muse about the intricacies of chocolate.

5. Chuao: Strong, bitter and just a little gritty. Kinda whacks your tongue like a cricket bat wrapped in sandpaper. The alkaloids leap right out of it, little neurotransmitter commandos off to find and detonate something or another in your brainstem. Whoa... I think I'd better take a break from these until things settle down a bit.

6. Cote D'Ivoire: Light on the tongue and pleasant, with hints of things far away and just a faint bite. Dare I call it fruity? But not the cloying Cadbury "essense of orange" fruity - this one whispers mangosteen, salak and rambutan.

7. Ceylan: Strident, like a macaw's cry echoing through the canopy of a rainforest. The underbrush is alive with hints and nuances of a million different flavors. This chocolate has an attitude, and feels like it knows exactly where it comes from. I like it.

8. Madagascar: Smokey, I'd say. Perhaps a hint of campfire and coffee, in the lazy morning after a hard night on the trail. I got interrupted with a few minor disasters halfway through sampling this one, but what I remember of it was pleasant - strong but muted. Definitely like this one too.

Scharffen Berger Nibby Bar, 62%

2004-12-01T09:58:00.000-08:00

"Nibby" refers to the chocolate nibs, the gritty bits of unprocessed cocoa beans embedded in this tiny bar. As much as I love getting close to the source of anything, I have to say that I'm not fond of this combination. No more fond of it than, say, a wine connoisseur would enjoy a mixture of aged Cabernet and fresh grape juice. One derives from the other, and each is wonderful on its own, but they speak different languages.

I still have, in the top drawer of my dresser, three raw cocoa beans that I inadvertently brought back from Honduras. Some day, when we get around to that long-promised chocolate tasting party, I'm going to break them up into bite-sized bits to explore the raw, bitter, unpolished source of chocolate. We're then going to proceed forward through the process to the final product of all things cocoa-related, and I expect it to be an enlightening and enjoyable experience. But we're going to do it one taste at a time, as a journey; not as a jumbled collage of the primitive and refined rolled into one sensation.

In the meantime, I've got some non-nibby Scharffen Berger, and I expect that will get me through the day nicely.

Mayan pyramids of chocolate death

2004-11-18T14:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, that's not what they're officially called. I think Charlie calls them "Midnight Cakes". But each one is a two inch wide flat-topped pyramid of dense chocolate cake smothered in a dark chocolate fondant, crowned with shards of exquisitely flakey bittersweet at the top (the virgin chocolate sacrifice, perhaps?). Sweet, chewy, crunchy, bittersweet all in a single mouthful, and it's all chocolate - what's not to like?

But you've got to get to lunch early to catch them. I'm not the only one who's discovered the pleasures of this creation, and they don't stay on the dessert counter very long.

Pure Pleasure - Belgian Dark 73%

2004-10-29T10:23:00.000-07:00

I've got to admit I'm torn about this chocolate - had I not been a curious soul (and had not chocolate been involved) I would have laughed at the packaging and gone on by. It's clearly a case of paying too much attention to focus groups. It trumpets its cause as being "Pure Pleasure", but hastily adds, in a not-much-smaller font that it contains a bevy of essential vitamins and minerals. Oh yes, and it's probably organic, too, and harvested from free-range cacao trees by happy socially-empowered communal farmers using traditional, sustainable farming techniques to support local solar-energy redevelopment. Geez. It's chocolate. You're not eating it because it's good for you, you're eating it because it's good.

That being said, it is good. Soft and creamy, but with that unmistakable alkaloid tang as it makes its way to the back of your mouth. A bit like the Lindt extra dark, in fact, perhaps a bit sharper. The sort of thing you'd want a small square of to round out that late afternoon double shot of organically-grown high-mountain Ecuadorean primo espresso.

Vosges Black Pearl, 55%

2004-10-14T09:33:00.000-07:00

Wasabi isn't the first thing that comes to mind when contemplating flavors that go well with chocolate. Nor are ginger and black sesame seeds. But Vosges is all about confounding expectations and pushing limits, so wasabi-ginger-sesame chocolate it is. I will, however, admit to a bit more trepidation on this bar than on the chili-pepper-cinnamon Red Fire bar - my experience with mole poblano and the indigenous chili-chocolate connection left me predisposed to like that one. Nibbling bits of chocolate-covered ginger candy (a fine pastime) was the closest I'd gotten to Black Pearl's taste combination.

The first bite was puzzling - there was a cacophany of flavors that I couldn't clearly identify or separate; my overall impression was of a dense, smooth, but rather bitter mix of chocolate and "other stuff". After waiting a decent interval to let things settle, a second taste was a little better. Yes, there was the wasabi, shrill as a violin above the background. The ginger came in as a low, aromatic cello providing a bottom line. The crunchy, grainy bits - those must be the sesame seeds, punctuating the experience like a snare drum. And the chocolate was just happening all over the place. The flavors are all there, but even on this second pass, they're not playing together. Each is "doing its own thing," and the result doesn't feel like music. I'm afraid I'll pass on this one the next time around.

Vosges Red Fire, 55%

2004-10-11T16:36:00.000-07:00

Chocolate like the Incas ate it: dark and dense with chili pepper and cinnamon, a burn, a buzz and a rush all rolled together, slapping your mouth around in a way that makes you wake up, sit up, pop your eyes wide open and pay attention. The last time I remember feeling this way was that midwinter night when Hannah convinced us to climb out of the cozy hot tub at Whistler, skitter across the ice-covered deck, and dive-roll into the snowbank at pool's edge. My first thought, after I'd scrambled my way back into the refuge of warm water was "What the hell was I thinking!?!?" My second thought (okay, third, after dunking Hannah), was a realization of how relaxed and alert I felt as the residual adrenaline coursed through my slowly thawing limbs. It was, I have to admit, a very pleasant sensation.

This chocolate rolls you in the chili peppers and soaks you in the cinnamon at the same time. It's not quite as shocking as a snowdrift on a midwinter night, but it does pop you a bit. The Vosges folks have their mix just right, if you ask me. This isn't an everyday chocolate, but for those times when you're ready for a bit of adventure, it's hard to beat this bar.

[Note to self: bring a bunch along on the next ski trip]

Rogers' Orange

2004-10-08T10:13:00.000-07:00

The first nibble takes me back 15 years to the Empress Hotel in Victoria, on Vancouver Island. We had just spent three summer days camping and biking through the San Juan Islands, making friends and raising money as part of an annual fundraiser for the American [Heart/Lung/internal organ of choice] Foundation. Now, with two hundred miles of road dirt worn into our jerseys, we stood sore and sweaty in the doorway of Imperial England's farthest-flung outpost of Civilization.

It was Sunday morning, just time for high tea at the Empress. Of course, there was no question of joining in - in our tattered state, Fagin would have turned his back on us. But there was the chocolate shop at the corner. They were happy happy to have us gaze through the glass and empty our wallets for the bags of marzipan confections, truffles, and chocolate-covered orange peel that we would carry off to the ferry for our long ride home. Just as long, I suppose, as we didn't stay too long or block the door.

In retrospect, this shop must have been Rogers' Chocolates, and one taste of the bar that Corey brought down from Vancouver takes me back there in a moment. Strong and dark, with large palpable chunks of candied orange peel mixed throughout. It has a good dose of orange liqueur mixed in, and the aromatic flavor comes out clearly. But in contrast to the peppermint bar, the orange doesn't overpower the underlying chocolate which, as with the other Rogers' offerings, is good and dark, firm without being flakey. Or, as Corey would say, "was". I do wish there were more of this stuff on his desk - next time we need to send him with a bigger suitcase. Or maybe next time I should go. And perhaps I'll bring something nice to wear for high tea.

Splendid Specialties - Emperor's Ginger Tea Chocolate

2004-10-07T14:36:00.000-07:00

Chuck brought in a bar this morning. Apparently, it's made in Novato, of all places. Emperor's is, as they say, a specialty chocolate - a milk chocolate by definition, not just a milk chocolate. The texture is smooth and soft, with no hint of what's mixed in. When you pop it in your mouth, however, the ginger comes alive with a pleasant tingle. Once the ginger settles down, you really can pick up a Chinese (green?) tea flavor. As with most milk chocolates, it's a bit too sweet for me, but the novelty is nice, and no, I wouldn't turn down seconds.

Lindt Swiss Bittersweet

2004-10-06T08:39:00.000-07:00

Lindt has been my standard favorite for a long time. To me, Lindt has always been about balance. Sturdy, balanced by just a touch of cream as it melts pressed in your mouth, with that somehow perfect yet irrational balance between "bitter" and "sweet" that turns those age-olds rivals in to dance with each other.

Long ago, I studied sushi-making from an old Japanese woman in Seattle. She stressed that the proper balance of sugar and vinegar in the rice was as important as the fish you put on top of it (the word "sushi", after all, refers to the sugared, vinegared rice itself, not the topping). I would spend what seemed like forever adding a touch of sugar - no, too much - now a touch of vinegar to reach that balance where the sensations of sweet and sour perched on top of each other like a Bill Dan sculpture. Then, magically, the individual sensations of sweet and sour disappeared into something completely different and wonderful.

In high school chemistry class, we did the same sort of thing. We carefully mixed just the right amount of hydrochloric acid (HCl) and sodium hydroxide (NaOH) - both extreme and exceedingly nasty on their own - to make a beaker of innocuous, though arguably not wonderful, saltwater (NaCl + H2O).

I'm not saying that Lindt Bittersweet should be compared with a beaker of saltwater; just that you should never underestimate the difficulty and beauty of achieving a delicate balance of opposites.

Dove "Dark Promises"

2004-10-04T13:38:00.000-07:00

Ah, Dove chocolates - the sweet, too sweet, creamy slippery slope down from milk chocolate candy to the art that is The Real Thing. I'll always think of Dove chocolate as the stuff that surrounds the rich vanilla melting off a Dove bar on the last day of Bumbershoot. Memories of chocolate are like this - a three synapse hop from tastebud to brain connecting right into deep storage: this is where you were when you first tasted this taste.

With Dove, I was coming out of the Erica Wheeler show with a new CD and a handful of dollars in my pocket to get me home and through the rest of the day. I wasn't yet what you'd call a "chocolate person" - it was the promise of the ice cream that lured me. Three bucks for the bar seemed outrageous at the time, but the decadence of the price also appealed to me; I had enough money for the bus, so why the heck not?

But back to the chocolate. It is too sweet for my tastes, but it's meant to be sweet, perhaps even seductively so. As I said, I've always seen Dove as a "pathway" chocolate. Creamy to the extent that it can almost pass for a fudge. I do like the stuff, though - it's fun.

Chocolove 65%

2004-09-30T09:26:00.000-07:00

Three summers ago, as my n'th startup fell away into oblivion, my student intern presented me with a going-away gift: a stack of black-and-white composition notebooks and a stack of Chocolove bars. The notebooks were in response to her observation that my notebooks invariably lasted longer than the startups for which I was using them, and the chocolate - well, she said it was just damned good chocolate.

By my reckoning, I still have three years of notebooks left for my time at Google, but those Chocolove bars went quickly. Even faster than my old startups. I don't think I'm alone in listing this as one of my favorites, so when the occasional bit Chocolove shows up, it doesn't stick around for long.

The current sample is from Sharon's office (another excellent source of tasty chocolates). For my tastes, the 65% bar is close to my proverbial sweet spot - creamy, smooth and rich, with just the right amount of spark to get you rolling. It's not what I'd call a functional chocolate - it's not going to a) satisfy your sweet tooth, b) get you out of bed in the morning c) rattle your brain with an overpowering buzz. It's not going to do anything for you other than make you want to kick back in that comfy chair, close your eyes, and just enjoy the sensation of eating chocolate.

El Rey Apamate, Carenero Superior, 73.5%

2004-09-29T13:53:00.000-07:00

A "Venezuelan Single Bean Origin" chocolate - dark, flakey and maybe even a bit waxy. If I had to pick a single adjective for Apamate, I think it would have to be "robust". I might be imagining things, but if I close my eyes, I can almost smell the smoke of a campfire through the mist of a cool, damp tropical hillside. And we hear Juan Valdez tramping toward us in the distance - but shouldn't he be over in Colombia, picking coffee? Nevermind. The smokey feeling and Juan's gentle footsteps give way to a growing rumble as the avalanche of alkaloids and caffeine pours down from the hillside and buries my brainstem in neuromodulators. Boy, that's a strong kick.

Organic Chocolate-covered Raisins

2004-09-28T06:27:00.000-07:00

I suspect Jim's getting funding from Stanford for doing psychology experiments on us - every couple of weeks, the supply of munchies in the snack bins changes around. Two weeks ago, the cruel hoax of carob-covered* raisins appeared in the 2nd-floor bins. It was only a few days later, by happy chance, that I stumbled across the stash of dark chocolate-covered raisins in the 3rd floor bins. I loaded up with a handful, but left them pretty much alone until yesterday afternoon, when the pagerank woes afflicting Chuck, Alexis and myself cried out for a good medicinal dose of Theobroma Cacao. We'd exhausted the office's local stash over the weekend, so I scurried up to the 3rd floor to bring down a bowl of these yummy memories from my misspent youth.

Anyhow. Chocolate-covered raisins are not for the purist, but I've never been a purist. These are not your ordinary Raisinets. Cocoa content unknown, but it's definitely the dark stuff. Glazed and polished to a shiny coat that crunches satisfyingly on that first bite. Once inside, it's a bit too sweet, thanks perhaps to the raisin interior or the organic cane juice that stands in for refined sugar, but it's a nice diversion. Sort of like a dessert wine in place of that classic Cabernet.

(*"Carob is a brown powder made from the pulverized fruit of a Mediterranean evergreen. Some consider carob an adequate substitute for chocolate because it has some similar nutrients (calcium, phosphorus), and because it can, when combined with vegetable fat and sugar, be made to approximate the color and consistency of chocolate. Of course, the same arguments can as persuasively be made in favor of dirt." - S. Boynton)

Roger's Peppermint & Dark

2004-09-21T13:54:00.000-07:00

Less emphasis on the dark, and with good reason: the peppermint oil easily overpowers the more subtle nuances of the chocolate. But a perfectly pleasurable combination of the two, which makes (er, made -- sorry, it's all gone) for a fine after dinner treat. Or before meal pre-dessert and appetite quencher.

Rogers' Mystere, 77%

2004-09-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

Made in Victoria, BC and brought in by Corey.

A good swift kick, as you'd expect from a 77% bar, but not bitter at all. Veeeery nice, almost - dare I say it - sophisticated? The sort of thing you'd want to dig into during the intermission of a really long opera, assuming that you're the kind of person who doesn't "get" opera, but feels obliged to behave yourself when dragged to see one by friends who do.

Green and Black's Organic, 70%

2004-09-20T14:02:00.000-07:00

Brought in by Chuck today, who mentioned we really ought to have a chocolate blog. Done.

G&B's is fairly soft, with a bitter kick (I think). Not as flakey as some other 70%'s I've had - I'd almost call it buttery. Big thick bars that don't break well along the lines. An interesting change from the milder Ghiradelli stuff we've had here for the past week.