Monday, October 09, 2006

L’Art of Almond Eating

From dreary Frankfurt, I’ve flown to the city which once made me pay extra taxes for watching its crappy television. “Bad TV?” you say, “The Moko must be talking about France.” And if she’s talking about France (and given that she’s American and can’t find anything else on the map), she’s surely speaking of Paris.

Tax issues aside, Paris is a beautiful city and a great place to do nothing in. It’s also a great place to have coffee…NOT—as Americans enamored of Paris’ je ne sais quoi will tell you—because you can people watch from the terraces, but rather because many cafes here give you a piece of dark chocolate or a chocolate-covered almond. The latter, which are usually manufactured by Richard, are my favorites. The top layer consists of magic cocoa dust, which dissolves on the tongue in a flirty dance of bitter and smooth. The next layer is pure, dark-chocolate ecstasy.

It takes at least 20 seconds to get past the chocolatey goodness before you hit the almond, which of course comes as a railroad car to the face. As if almonds—and nuts in general—were not dumb enough, the almond lobby has gone and inserted itself into the chocolate industry. Totally outrageous. Each time I hit the almond wall I have to spit it out—which I admit requires a swift yet delicate napkin act on my part in the finest of Parisian establishments.

Still, I like to think that that almond serves for something. It reminds me of the greatness of chocolate…of Paris…of humanity.

And how nothing is ever perfect.

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