Recchiuti Chocolate

They sent me a survey about what I think of their fine chocolate

photo by author

I didn’t know what I think of their chocolate because Linda does not share them with me. She hasn’t since the first time she gave me one and I popped it in my mouth and swallowed it. She was aghast. “You ate that like a dog,” she said. She bought me some cheap, waxy chocolate, and sent me off to a consultant to learn how to eat the good stuff.

The consultant was a woman of a certain age, one of which she is doubtless certain but I’m not. She’s Asian. I, also, am of a certain age, one at which life begins to revolve around food instead of sex, and habits are jettisoned like cargo from a capsizing ship. Smoking pot, for example, was my favorite thing, but after just one hit my throat began to make squeaky noises when I talked. It was like speaking after inhaling helium.

There was a time when I had a sonorous voice and a rich vocabulary, but things turn into their opposite at the extremes. Now I think more about what goes in than what comes out of my mouth. Should I eat eggs for lunch or make a big salad? Do I take vitamin D or am I overdoing it on the fat soluble vitamins? Will kelp tablets hurt or help my thyroid? Do these Basis NMN capsules do anything or are they a scam? And why is Mrs. Woo wearing white sunglasses with blue wings on the brace bar? She never takes them off. It’s spooky. I can’t tell if she’s looking at me, when she says:

“You were referred (she put a slight emphasis on the word) to me because you eat like a dog” she said. “So the first thing we need to do is talk about portion size and control.” She held up a bonbon with a ganache center and told us what was in her hand. “A treat,” she said, “but not for dogs.” There were four men in the room, all with their mouths slightly open, salivating at the sight of the bonbon. Henry, who had tight knit black curls, was making mewling sounds. “And,” she continued, “we need to talk about quality versus quantity. You can have it all but it will cost you approximately four hundred dollars a week.”

Mrs. Woo was no caricature of an Asian. She was born and raised in San Francisco and spoke unaccented English. “Most women who like fine chocolate feed their husbands Hershey bars,” she said, “in the same way they might throw a pork chop to distract a menacing Staffordshire Terrier.”

Henry said, “I don’t get it.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Woo said. “You’ll never get it if you go for the pork chop every time. You are not a dog and you must not eat like a dog. You have to learn to eat chocolate like a lady. Now, watch carefully, I take a very small bite of this fine, very expensive, chocolate, and let it melt in my mouth before swallowing.” It took her almost a minute. The class watched in awe. This was the kind of storied self-control for which Asians are famous.

When I got home I showed Linda the Certificate of Completion, expecting that she would give me one of the chocolates, but she avoided my eyes. “Look what I bought for you,” she said. “It’s stone-ground ninety-five percent extremely dark chocolate.” It was a chocolate bar. I opened my mouth to bite into it, but she was staring so I broke off one of the defined pieces and took a modest taste. I swallowed and made a face. “Jesus Christ,” I said. “This tastes like medicine.”

“It is medicine,” she said. “It has flavonoids with heart-protective properties to help improve blood vessel function, plus, magnesium, iron, copper, and zinc for bone health and immune function, plus, a surprising amount of fiber.”

“I still don’t get the Recchiuti, then?”

“You’re not ready yet.”