When I wake up

(March 1st)
In bonds of twisted sheets, the morning's begun with an intent to vanish. It's 10.30 a.m., the alarm must again have gone off unheard, unnoticed. A rare free Sunday, and I filled it to the throat with commitments, like a force-fed goose for foie gras. I need an expeditious take-off to be in town for brunch by noon. A shower, a little concealer, mascara and lipstick, no coffee.

There is a waiting list. At least an hour for a table of three. Fine, we can wait outside. It's a clear day, polished blue skies, but at about one and a half hours, amidst a conversation over meals and clothing, I find myself thinking about my feet, they are numb, it feels like I have no shoes on. 

I have my first bite since yesterday at 2 p.m. It's been about eighteen hours. A stack of pancakes, decent flapjacks, melts under my fork and knife. I also order a bowl of fruit, and coffee, first an espresso, then a filter. 

(March 8th)
The alarm goes off at 3 a.m. My naked arm reaches under the pillow to mute it. It's a wonder I hear it through the thick, sticky sleep. I lie still for a while. Do I even breathe? 

I peel an orange before stepping out through the doorway, its fragrant skin lands in the sink in one twisted ribbon. I'll quickly eat it under the yellow light of the elevator. 

The city is dark, unconscious, the night air soft, pure. The smell of orange lingers on my breath. 

After work I stop by the chocolate store to get more François Pralus. On my way home I pick up roasted chicken and a bottle of Portuguese red. It's International Women's Day, and I feel like a carnivore.

The familiar orange skin is still in the sink.

(March 16th)
It's conventionally early when I wake up, not yet eight. I wish I could sleep in, but my throat's been scoured by sandpaper overnight, or it feels like it was. Raw, swollen, under siege. The bed offers no solace, so I get up and make myself a pot of coffee. Caffeine will kill the pain.

(March 20th)
Bound by sweat-soaked sheets I stay in bed all day. I imagine if somebody ever pierces my ear with a knitting needle it will feel exactly like this: throbbing, high-voltage pain, minus blood gushing out. This is one bitch of a bug.

I order in Chinese. I'm mostly after a chicken soup, but get a dish of chicken and stir-fry vegetables in piquant red-pepper sauce in addition. I can do with more heat, so stir in a spoonful, and then one more, of sambal oelek. 

(March 29th)
An icy beginning for daylight savings. Rain is relentless, wet snow hasn't stayed out of it either. The hair smells of last night, cigarettes, perfume, and tipsy laughter. When I wake up it's already 14.30 p.m. 

I'm taking slow breaths

Hypnotized by it

A rich and modest square of François Pralus Cuba is starting to melt under the impatient tongue. I had to get out and pedal thirty minutes each way to get a bar. The day is tormented by rain and snow, they alternate first, then merge, land angrily on the skin. But I don't mind, have grown used to this. 

I gather speed -- I'll lose it in a minute to the next gust of wind. I only passed four or five blocks and I already feel my shirt slowly starting to dissolve in sweat on my back. I cross a traffic-laden road, the green light disappears quickly in the thick spew of hail. I wear mittens, but the skin on my hands feels raw, it burns. 

Neat, elegant stacks of chocolate bars, thin as ballerina's ribs. The eye stops at each, sends the mind reeling, wanting, in a free fall. I pull a Cuba off the shelf, my favourite. I habitually run my fingers across its wrapper, the paper feels grainier under the wet skin. But I know well what's underneath it: a taste of cigar smoke and rum, not direct, but rather plucked from somebody's lips. Before going back I decide to have a cup of coffee, an espresso. It comes thick as crude oil. The woman across the counter compliments the colour of my lipstick, she would like to know the name of the hue. I say it's dark wine, Merlot. I reach into my coat pocket for change to find a crumpled piece of writing paper, both damp from rain. 

I looked up, it was dark. The night was through, over, down to the last note in my pockets, each spent on wine. I alone must have had a bottle of young red, French, too. It knowingly blazed through the blood and softened the limbs. The phone buzzed and buzzed. I took a piece of paper out of my handbag, still blank but already folded, straightened it and wrote: Remember how you spilled wine over my dress (good it was black) as we stumbled in a dance and we laughed at it and at our ourselves louder than everybody else combined. Then I looked down at it and crumpled it up. The arthritic tree tops span overhead as I was unlocking my bike. I looked up, my head started to spin too, the stomach feeling dangerously close to the throat.

The tongue gives in to the slow dark buttery melt, becomes sedated, hypnotized by it. 

No excuses for bliss

Today is my mother’s birthday, so I figured I would make chocolate truffles for her. Sadly, she will not actually have them, me with my sweet truffles being in Amsterdam, she in Russia. That means that I will be eating the truffles -- all fifty three of them; so many the recipe yielded -- by myself (God help me!), with the help of a few contributors, perhaps. But treat my mother I did anyway. I put the truffles in a bowl, photographed them, then wired the pictures to my dear mama over the internet, and followed-up with a congratulatory phone call, all twenty minutes of which I spent describing in a miniscule detail how the truffles tasted and what I did to make them. My mother said she appreciated the gesture. She is so gracious.

Why chocolate truffles, you may think. Well, why not? The kitchenette in my shared apartment is so ideally imperfect for any confectionary making that an attempt to be coaxing chocolate truffles out from it sounded like an excellent idea to me. I like challenges, along with a view of sinkful of bowls and other kitchen utensils sinfully, shamelessly covered with, dark, silky, melted chocolate. (As the added bonus, I also learnt that to leave greasy from butter finger prints on metallic surfaces such as a fridge door is fun and therapeutic.) Plus, it is my mother’s birthday, you understand. And while at it, I am a big pro in using other people’s birthdays for the sake of culinary, or more appropriate, eating experiences.

For instance, last year today, I marched my birthday mother, my father and my uncle with his wife into the finest bakery in Moscow Volkonsky (co-owned by Erik Kaiser, one of a few best bread makers in the world based in Paris) to have a festive dinner of pastries alone. As you can imagine, I had to speak harsh to each participant of the event to persuade them to not even think of ruining my plans, according to which everybody would have golden croissants, buttery sables, and delicate meringues for dinner that night. Eventually, my mother even forgot for a while how old she became at the time; sweets are better than diamonds in alleviating women’s troubles. She wound up feeling absolutely exhilarated, what with her successive orders of sleek coffee éclairs and more fluffy vanilla meringues; the latter I accidentally ruined with my elbows when frantically making pictures of decorative Provencal tableware that rested on the wooden shelves next to our table.

We had to order more meringues. It felt like falling down a rabbit-hole into a dream world, the one where deserts are served for each course of the meal. Actually, right at this very minute I am on my way to my new dream world, the realm of fifty-three chocolate truffles I feel honoured to eat for my mother. She said she fully supports me in my journey. That's all I needed to hear.

The first impression my mind unleashed after tasting the confection was this: COOL CHOCOLATE BREEZE. (I told my mother that too). It may not be the best chocolate truffle to make a worldly appearance, I know, given that mine were made by a dilettante (me) to a traditional, old-school recipe that has you use only dark chocolate, cream and butter (on which I went a bit too heavy -- lack of kitchen-scales over here), and cocoa powder for coating. But a pure love they are nonetheless. Love that mantles your every taste bud with cool, silky wave of the pleasantly bitter dark chocolate soothed by the grassy, meadow-y butter and thick cream; love that makes you numb and utterly anti-social – to savour the lingering, slightly acid aftertaste of the chocolate truffle is more important, I find, than to deliver mumbling utterances in between the bites. And the way the cocoa powder mischievously dusts your lips so you are forced to lick it off with the tip of your tongue, smacking your lips with gratitude and appreciation as you go -- isn’t it fun? Finally, even one whiff of this pure chocolate decadence is worth your every bead of sweat over melting, whisking, and rolling. In fact, this is all to say, Dear Reader, that you have absolutely no excuses to not make these chocolate truffles, unless you’ve already got a batch or two!! If not, I beseech you do.

French-style chocolate truffles

Adapted from videojug.com

Frankly, the idea to make these did not manifest itself out of the blue, nor did I dream it up (unlike this dish, for instance). I first had to introduce myself to a few dozens of various chocolate truffles, the ones resident in the local pastry shops, before I, irrespective of my own will, gingerly dared to consult Google on how to make chocolate truffles. What I found, or rather, what I was passed down was this video clip at videojug.com, which I estimated as a rather straightforward presentation for emerging chocolate truffle makers such as myself. So the recipe that follows is basically a transcribed version of the filmed performance, although I altered it as I saw fit. One such example, I did not add water to the chocolate (I don’t understand why they would) when melting it; I folded the butter soon after I did the cream, as opposed to the original recipe that instructs you first let the ganache cool and only then incorporate the butter (again, not exactly clear why).

Also, as far as there are only four ingredients, it is only too important that they are of the best quality, or the final product may not be as exciting. And if you ask me, forgettable chocolate truffles can split your otherwise good life asunder, and this is a no-no by all means.

Lastly, I advise that you serve these truffles chilled – the sensation of chilled chocolate softly melting on your tongue is unbeatable. Cartainly, they are still good at room temperature, although not as exciting. In the video clip, they suggest you serve them with coffee or champagne. I am, however, not sure about this. Champagne is not the best complement to the chocolate in general (the red wine is!); and as to the coffee, I haven’t tried it yet, but as opposites go, a steaming cup would be fairly attractive with the cold truffles indeed. In all honesty, however, I think a piece of seasonal fruit will be the best chocolate supporter in this case.

(The recipe yields 50-60 bite-sized truffles)

250 gr dark bittersweet chocolate (not less than 70% cacao content) 165 ml cream, at room temperature
35 gr unsalted butter, at room temperature
80 gr (1/3-1/2 cup) dark cocoa powder (unsweetened!) such as Valrhona 100%

1 L water

First, prepare the bain marie, a heating technique for melting chocolate. In a medium pan, bring the water to a bare simmer; do not let the water boil at any point. While the water is heating, roughly chop the chocolate and put it in a smaller pan which you will then put in the pan with the water, so make sure it fits but does not touch the water!

Once the water is simmering, put the smaller pan into the medium one and melt chocolate, stirring constantly, about 8 mins. When melted, carefully add the cream. Using a whisk, combine well. Fold in the butter and whisk gently to fully incorporate the butter. The final mixture is ganache. It should look glossy. Turn off the heat, and remove the pan with the ganache. Set aside to cool.

Pour the ganache in a medium bowl. Cover with cling film (but only after the ganache is completely cooled) and refrigerate, for 6-8 hours or until the ganache is very firm. I tamed mine in the fridge overnight.

Put the cacao powder in a small wide bowl.

Scoop the chilled ganache with a tsp and using your hands, shape each scoop into petite chocolate balls. For a tidier process, you may use a melon baller, I believe. Yet I must tell that having the chilled chocolate ganache in your palms is thoroughly therapeutic, if only slightly messy! Roll each truffle – be generous -- in cacao powder and place them in a medium serving bowl. Keep in a fridge and serve chilled.

P.S. Witty Julie of Oeufs Mayo thought

Godful Food worth the Lovely blog award.

Thank you, or rather, merci, Julie!

Mini-post

Goodness me it seems to be yet another time when I do want and need (!) to share my newly-acquired impression over the chocolate with you. I know, I know, given my last few posts (this one for instance) that were so massively engaged with chocolate or things chocolate-related, I might really have gone into trouble to employ diversity here. However, I am under the impression, you might want to listen to my rambles. (Of course that's chiefly my hope.)

Friends, here is the situation. I granted myself with a luxury of visiting another location of Puccini Bomboni (Singel 154) and with that, invested a small fortune into an assortment of three bonbons. Among which was aniseed one. And which is why I’m bold enough to bore you with yet another train of words on relatively the same topic within last weeks. I am sorry. But you might really want to hear this, I hasten to add.

Aniseed praline (bonbon). In my imagination, the unknown, enigmatic and capturing is bestowed with aroma as such of the aniseed, also, far countries and continents where miracles of chocolate transform tears into smiles, pain into pleasure, fears into joy. Aniseed flavour is not a convenient spice to everybody’s liking. Indeed, it is a way too persistent and dominating, and seemingly forces chocolate to succumb to a supporting role in this duo. But then, it is only seemingly so. As the first wave of aniseed flavour whooshes away and subsides, it is only a matter of a second (or a few) whence the refined chocolate texture unfolds itself onto your palate and ever so gently wraps you up in a silky blanket of pleasure. You can’t resist it. The only thing you want now is to keep the moment.

Aniseed praline. A purveyor of comfort and idleness. Especially on a chilly, rainy day like today, September 2, 2008. In Amsterdam.

Now, consider me a disbalanced individual with a perverse fixation on chocolate. Which, in fact, is heartbreakingly true.

That was a mini-post, you understand.

... and all that jazz

For everybody who abides by the english grammar rules (I wish to envisage your presence ), any city is a she.

Amsterdam is a city. Hence, it is she? Hm, I like to think of Amsterdam – my Amsterdam at least - as He. He is…

An old friend. Who speaks a different language but, nonetheless, greets me in English. An old artist. Who observes the people and paints his sketches in the wind. A skillful musician. Who plays a snow-white piano on a podium set on one of the canals and fills the air with crystal sounds of music. A sleepless clubber. Who so vehemently enjoys and makes the most out of each passing moment. An old flame that’s my Amsterdam. Who still holds my heart , inspires me, gives me a cheek to stand up and lock eye with challenges (and there are many of the latter, I’d love you to believe).

I seem to be talking romance here. And reasonably so as I have a few. First and foremost, this is my romance with life, otherwise I become defunct. And the other first and foremost (in my world, it’s pretty much possible), my romance with chocolate (of course you saw it coming, didn't you?). Romance, love, penchant, obsession, physocological issue, you name it. On my part, I’ll only tell – with the utmost excitement – I found ze place in Amsterdam where I can step in, anxiously touch and sniff everything, make humming noises that are typical for a neurotic person, get a look of deep appreciation and complete understanding from my fellow-comrades, and feel myself at home.

Before I utter the password combination into THE world, I find it crucial to underscore I wasn’t on the hunt for my daily choco fix when I chanced upon the place. And as I’m saying this, I’m holding my hands crossed on my chest as a sign of being honest and sincere to the core. I merely walked along the streets minding my own business. Ahem. But you know, how it usually happens. You just live calmly, plan your days as you’re used to, and then something comes along your way. And you are not you anymore. Your life changes. You become a different person. A better person. With a bigger supply of chocolate. That’s grand, people. Simply smashing.

Puccini Bomboni. In my vocabulary also known as 'ze place'.

What do you normally say when you discover another place to satiate your longings for things chocolate? Oh la la. Blah blah blah. And all that jazz (I like how it sounds). I think if I paraphrase Aldous Huxley’s words* and say, ‘for every chocolate lover who has any taste of their own, the only memorable taste will be the one they themselves have tasted’, I’d then pursue my intention to urge you, once in Amsterdam, take an action and go there. Go there, you should!

As to me, my natural shyness won’t prevent me from presenting myself on the spot every now and then, and sample every of a few dozens bonbons which are the forte in this place: filled with liquors, spices (thyme, nutmeg, cinnamon or anise, to name a few) and other heart-pulsation elevating combinations. I have yet to eat my way through love-inducing cornucopia that’s so serenely residing at Pucchini Bomboni. One at a time though. One at a time.

For now I’ll run a risk to seem obsessed, and yet I’ll mumble something, hopefully profound and comprehensible. It is about Amaretto Bonbon I gifted myself with the other day: how it sensuously enveloped my palate, how I loved that soft, feathery sensation when cocoa powder that constitutes the toppping landed itself on my lips and how I might as well liken it to a kiss. Now is it normal or what?

*I wasn’t familiar with those either. Untill I got myself a small Moleskine city notebook (I just needed to show off a little bit. Thank you for your genuine understanding.) where the original expression printed on the facing page says, ‘For every traveller who has any taste of his own, the only useful guidebook will be the one which he himself has written’.

Puccini Bomboni (several locations)
Staalstraat 17, tel: 31 (0) 20 6265474
Singel 154, tel: 31 (0) 20 4278341

A very Good Monday!

This is by no means a complaint, but for accurately the whole last week rain and me are going hand in hand. And - as mysterious as it may seem - apart from sunny and dry weather, my wanderlus also reaches its peak when it’s virtually an 'Unwalkable' weather outdoors. So today is not an exception. I woke up to an unsettling feeling that there is a certain place in Moscow I’m still unaware of and yet it is, unquestionably, the place I need to be in. I had no choice but to grab a map, put on my rain boots and set out for a quest. And my Dear Readers, if I didn’t follow the voice of my inner wisdom (*wink*) I would end up the unluckiest girl ever. Why? Listen...

I didn’t know in which direction I had to go. I simply let my feet carry me there. I got on the metro, closed my eyes and got focused on my intuition. After a few metro stations I still didn’t get any coherent answer to my questions. I tried to ease my budding doubts with a thought that a ‘destinationless’ gentle stroll about moscovian narrow alleys and side-streets – which I adore - would also be spectacular; never mind that i’ll have to negotiate a wall of rain and allow wind to to embrace me tightly in between. And here where my napping inner wisdom kindled at me and said: there is a magazine in your bag, so leaf through it and thee will find thy answer.

And my answer I found. In the Perlov’s Tea House* which is, indubitantly, one of the most outstanding and beautiful places in the central part of Moscow.

At the moment I spotted it, I knew it was my place. In glee and at a heartbreaking speed, I propelled my way through to it and presented myself happily in its frontdoor. This is where I learnt how the heavens smell. Interested? *wink, wink, wink* MY heavens smell of CHOCOLATE, RAW and GROUND COFFEE BEANS, TEA LEAVES and LIQUORS. The view of said goodnesses residing on the shelves gently stroke my eyesight while I was standing in the middle of the venue greedily inhaling the exgilirating aromas and odours. And the house’s interior is all but dull. Initially planned as the merchant’s residential house with a teashop on the first floor in mid-18th century, in a run of following years its owner (merchant Perlov) commissioned contemporate architects to decorate the house in the Chinese style (I take it that the intended purpose was to pay reverance to and thus establish closer connections with his chinese partners at that time – smart, huh? *smiles*). Eventually it appeared to look like a Chinese pagoda. Right in the middle of Moscow. I’m telling you, this is THE perfect place to be in on a Good Monday – no, every single day!

The warm and tender aroma of vanilla; from leathery to smoky to woody to fruity aromas of chocolate; the odour of freshly brewed coffee of all imaginable sorts with a possibility to taste a cup before buying beans of your choice; muted voices of customers (mostly french today); bottles of creamy liquors oozing their seducing flammable fumes, the ancient chinese design with dragons painted on the ceiling and mirrows everywhere – I was soaring high, I was speechless, I was under the magic spell, I was in love.

After a numerous efforts I pulled myself up together and invested my money in chocolate (honestly, I sooo needed to refill my stash of chocolate – probably, this is why I felt unsettled in the morning *smile*) and a thumb-nail bottle of old Riga herbal balsam (for coffee rather than plain consumption, though it feels sooo warm when alone in your belly!) *wink, wink, wink*

I came back home absolutely contented (you would guess so, wouldn’t you? *smiles*)! One mission was accomplished. But there was something else...something unnerving, which I, again, didn’t compute right away. The evident explanation to this unease came to me only when I'd stuck my head into a fridge (ha!) wearing a thoughtful what’s-for-dinner expression. I, somehow, completely forgot that a few days back I’d purchased one (1) kilo (please, don’t ask! *wink*) of fresh spring onion at a local farmer’s. Believe me when I say that 1 kilo of spring onion is fairly much. Too much! The time when my lovely onions would start getting rotten was unmercifully approaching ( I virtually heard its footsteps and could even smell). So, I had to take immediate measures. And I did.

*****Onion burgers*****

Yields about 10

Ingredients:

For burgers
500 g white onion, finely chopped
1 medium carrot, finely chopped
5-6 sprigs spring onion, finely chopped
1 egg
4-5 Tsp plain flour
salt and pepper to taste

vegetable oil for frying

For a sauce
2 Tsp tomato paste
1 tsp harrissa
½ cinnamon stick
2-3 cloves of garlic, crashed (or finely chopped)

1 1/2 cup plain water


Method:

1. In a medium bowl, combine onions (both white and spring) and a carrot.

2. To the mixture, add an egg, seasonings and flour and mix very thoroughly.

3. With a tablespoon, scoop a mixture and form small balls. Flour and flatten them slightly.

4. Preheat a non-stick frying pan, and fry your burgers over a high heat (5 mins on each side).

5. Once done, put the burgers on a kitchen paper towel to move away excess oil.

6. Into the same frying pan but over a low heat now (after you are finished with burgers), pour tomato paste mixed with 1 1/2 cup plain water, add garlic, cinnamon stick and harrissa. Stir well. Simmer the mixture until thickened.

7. Put the burgers in a small saucepan, pour the sauce over them and simmer at a low heat for about 10 mins. This will incorporate all the flavours.

8. Serve with steaming rice, or green salad leave, or as you wish.

If I didn’t know that it was onion burgers, I would think it was a fish dish. Seriously!! I absolutely love it. Fiery harrissa adds spiciness to the dish; plus cinnamon and fried onions is a FANTASTIC combination!!!

Such has been my Good Monday!!


*Perlov’s Tea House
Myasnitskaya str.19
Moscow

'Parisian Pleasures' in Moscow and My First Meme

Part 1. ‘Parisian Pleasures’ in Moscow...

Leave home at abour 16-ish on Saturday. Never mind it’s beastly windy and rainy (in February!!!). Go on the metro, make one switch, walk and hold your umbrella REALLY tight when walking against wind. Finally, reach the Tretyakov Gallery, stand for an HOUR (when it’s so bitterly rainy) in a queu to buy a ticket! SURVIVE this hour! Buy yourself a ticket with trembling from cold hands and enjoy an exhibition ‘Parisian Pleasures’ by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec .

Get inspired by the exhibition, rush back home and get yourself a very seducing treat*.

*****PEARS WITH CHOCOLATE*****
(adapted from ‘French Women for All Seasons’ by M. Guiliano’)

Zest of one orange
2 Conference Pears
150 g cane sugar
60 g dark chocolate, coarsely grated

1. Bring 1 litre water with orange zest and sugar to boil. Peel and core the pears. Keep them whole but cutting the core out from the bottom. Place the pears into a boiling syrup and simmer them over low heat for 20 mins. Place each pear on a dessert dish and let cool a bit.
2. Sprinkle grated chocolate over the pears and season with pepper to taste. Enjoy!! Slowly, sensuously, consciously...

When savouring this dessert the first thing you taste is orange flavours that the pear’s absorbed while simmering. But then slowly with self-dignity the chocolate taste makes its entrance and unites with the fragrant pear the subtle flavour of which is highlighted by a freshly ground pepper. Mmmhhhh…

*Yours truly enjoyed it right away, so I simply didn’t have an opportunity to take a photograph. I knew you wouldn’t forgive this to me *wink, wink, wink, wink*, so on Sunday morning I made it for a second time! And of course I enjoyed it AGAIN! *smiles*

Part 2. My First Meme...

On Friday I was TAGGED with a meme for the first time (UPDATE: As I'm writing this I've been TAGGED for a second time! Astra Libris, you are a star! *smiles*). So I’m thrilled and chuffed to divulge to you now, My Dear Readers, 5 things you did not know about me...yet. *wink, wink, wink*

1. I’ve got a BA in linguistics.

2. I sometimes wake up EARLY on a Saturday morning to spend 30 minutes back and forth on the metro with the only purpose to reach the Indian Shop in Moscow and get CHICKPEAS. *nods and smiles*

3. I may laugh out loud when asleep. Isn’t it a cool alternative to snoring? *a smile from ear to ear*

4. In summer 2007 I ate 10 kilos of sour cherries within 4 days. I thought I’d explode. I didn’t, but learnt that pretty much of a VERY GOOD thing might damage your health. *nodding again*

Picking up cherry berries fresh from a tree

5. When i’m upset I watch animated hand-drawn cartoons. *puppy eyes*

And now it's time to TAG! *a smile from ear to ear* Guys, you are all so talented, smart and fabulous, I wish I could tag more than 5, but so are the rules and I’m just limited in my choices. So for now the Meme goes to...

Cookiemouse of Cookiemouse - Amsterdam, the Netherlands

Marieke of Trifles.nl - Amsterdam, the Netherlands

Astra Libris of

Food for Laughter – The Deep South, USA

Ximena of Lobstersquad – Madrid, Spain

Luise of The Wednesday Chef

– New York, USA


P.S. Thank you, Smart and Gorgeous, for visiting, reading and smiling occasionally (I hope you do! *wink*)!

A complete guide to heavens

Are you sure you know how to treat CHOCOLATE right?

Yes, the inevitable is that you will eat it eventually. But ‘how’ means no less than ‘what’! So, before you give your lovely (if you say it is not, I'm no longer your friend!) piece of dark chocolate a mortal status, make sure you stick accurately to the royal ceremony of tasting the divine food bite after bite. When it concerns chocolate I prefer to learn my lessons in practice. So, while writing this post I’m having the object of my never-ending affection right here by my side to accompany me through my chocolate studies. In other words, theory is good, but practice is so much better, isn’t it? *wink, wink, wink, wink* So, let the fairy tasting begin.

This is what I learnt in theory.

The most famous method of evaluating chocolate is known as ‘five senses’. But if the cocoa content is 80% and more, you’ll definitely need much more accurate way to appreciate your treasure. And this is where wine-tasting skills come in oh-so-handy. *smiles*

1. Tactile test (known as gentle touch). *wink* Take the chocolate between your fingers. Do you feel the silkiness? If you do, then it’s an indication of good texture, structure and preservation. If you don’t, then it’s definitely not your piece of chocolate! Definitely!
2. Auditory test (another name is perfect sound). *wink, wink* To be honest, the auditory component is what I’ve learnt about just now. I never listened to my love before. Can you imagine? I feel so guilty. *sigh* So, what you should do is to break chocolate (but make sure, you don’t break its heart, please!). Snap. Do you hear it? If the snap is clear, it indicates a good crystallisation of the cocoa butter.
3. Visual test (or look-me-into-my-eyes-baby)! *wink, wink, wink* Observe the outer surface and the inner break of the chocolate. The colour can tell you so much about its origins, variety and state of preservation of the cocoa. And believe me, in this case appearances are never deceitful. My chocolate and me…we always take such a joy looking into each other’s eyes, ‘cause we never have anything to hide from each other.
4. Now we are moving to the smell. They call it olfactory test (why everything what’s pleasant is called so dreadful in theory? *a question on my face*). Well, breathe in the chocolate odour and in all likelihood you’ll recognise three types of aromas. I personally never cared to count, I simply ENJOY(ed). The primary fragrances indicate the scents peculiar to the origin of a certain cocoa. The secondary fragrances develop during the fermentation, roasting and conching. The tertiary fragrances develop during the aging stage. I’ve never been good at theory. Never. And yet, who cares? I’m a practical girl. *a smile from ear to ear*
5. And now…taste, taste, taste! *smiles* This is my advice: please, let a piece of chocolate melt in your mouth. Do not use your teeth, do not chew on it! Let it melt, let it melt, let it melt! By doing so you’ll feel all the bounty of flavours and aromas. Simple, I know. But hopefully meaningful.

For a moment I’ll step aside (guess where I’m heading now? *mmmhhhhh*) and let the scientists speak out.

So, the scientist’ word: The complete melting creates a patina on your palate and if you "listen" to the taste sensations that develop, you can appreciate the aromatic scale. The first taste test determines the distinctive physical elements: the time it takes to melt, the graininess and palatability, i.e. the whole of tactile sensations perceived inside the oral cavity. The second taste test is of the aromatic complexity determined through the perceptions of taste, persistence and aromatic roots (cocoa, flowery, fruity, vegetal, toasted, spiced). The third and last taste test is the technical-gustative test, which allows you to reach conclusions on the value of the chocolate: sweetness, acidity, savoriness and bitterness.

It’s me speaking again. Did those knowledgeable guys impress you? As to me I didn’t let them stress me out with all the talking, I indulged myself in practice instead. *wink, wink, wink, wink*

And now for those who dare…Please, meet Cheese in Chocolate.

The original recipe you’ll find here. I found the recipe fascinating, ‘cause for a few months I had been toying with the idea to wed cheese (my best friend) to chocolate (my lifetime partner! Oh men, no jealousy, please. THANK YOU!). I don’t declare to be a pioneer in it, but believe me I got struck by this idea when I was on the metro coming home from work (no food magazines or cookbooks in my hands at that moment). So after some time I gave the newly-found recipe my personal thought relying on what I had on hand. And this is what I came up with:

Ingredients

100g of your favourite extra dark chocolate (I blended chocolate with chilli and the one with truffles); 50 g medium aged sheep’s cheese (like, say, Pecorino); 50g Parmesan cheese; 50g medium aged goat’s cheese, 1 pear.

Creation: Cut the hard cheeses into strips, the goat’s cheese into cubes and the pear into quarters. Steam-cook the chocolate, being careful not to exceed 40°C (After the first tasting I thought something was still missing. A touch of acidity, my taste buds were telling me. So I added a few drops of raspberry vinegar into the melted chocolate and mixed it well). Immerse two-thirds of the strips of Pecorino and chocolate. Leave them all to cool on a piece of parchment paper until the chocolate has hardened. Then dare and enjoy! *smiles* If you please, you may also garnish your creation with walnuts and serve it with full-bodied red wine.


*All the chocolate tips and a recipe adapted from sugarcompany.net (cuorenero section)

Scandalous

I love chocolate. Furthermore, I am a chocoholic with purist views. Meaning: I only favour extra-dark, extra bitter (shall I continue?) stuff. Er, suddenly I feel so uncomfortable to call Chocolate ‘stuff’, but what one won’t do to avoid tautology, huh? Moreover, I prefer to find my bliss in a single square of chocolatey darkness (nice twist, isn’t it?) rather than to make something that would include chocolate . Are you already yawning? Wait till I tell you this. Today I committed a thing that changed my chocolate world upside down. Before I confess I’d just like to underscore that I did everything what’s gonna be described below out of purest curiosity. And don’t tell me please that curiosity killed a cat.

Record #1 (this is for a logbook if applicable so far). Occasionally I have a craving to have a piece of chocolate for my breakfast. But I always rush in the morning and I just can’t bring myself to enjoy my treasure in a rush. I’m sorry, but this is the way I am. *wink, wink* I already hear you saying they invented such a thing as chocolate paste long ago. Yes, I say back, but this is just paste, it isn’t real chocolate. It’s winter now and my choco- cravings became more intense, so I got very curious how I could answer my needs. And oh eureka! My chocolate eureka! Hold on please, I just need to clap my hands and dance around my table in joy again…ok, done, I can go on. I took a piece of sugar-free velvety Belgian chocolate (‘Neuhaus’s bar happened to be a guinea pig), grated it finely… Then I took a slice of a good-quality wholegrain sandwich bread (I admit that probably white sandwich bread would fit more to counteract the blackness of the chocolate, but yours truly just loves dark bread so much), buttered it properly…and then…and then…yesssss, I sprinkled my grated chocolate all over the bread slice. At the moment as I was doing this I thought I was committing a crime. So I closed my eyes, asked for forgiveness, folded the ‘chocolated’ bread in two and bid into it. Oh I wished time could stop. It was so so damn good. The bread was very fresh and soft (note: it’s crucial for the effect to use soft bread rather than crispy one), the velvety chocolate melted easily, butter smoothed the fractions between bread and chocolate so nice. I’ll tell you this – such polar sensations are heavenly indeed. Conclusion: I’m definitely a chocoholic with purist views, but I’m gonna enjoy my real chocolate sandwich over and over again. I’ve already included this treat to my weekly breakfast menu!

Scandalous, I know.