Chocolate Update!
I had many people ask about my beautiful chocolate and wonder if came from a certain well know Cville chocolatier – no. This is where is came from, another Cville chocolatier not quite so well known – yet.
On Self Control
I met a new friend at Hot Cakes recently. I was just going in for a cup of coffee, but because this is one of those places that employs a barista, not just some schmoe who can pour from pot to cup, I had to wait and wait while this artiste completed his foam masterpiece.
While waiting, I spied a bell jar on the counter sheltering some of the most exquisite hand made chocolates I had ever seen. They had such beautiful designs on them that I decided I had to have one.
When my barista finally deigned to serve me my oh-so-pedestrian cup of coffee, I asked for one of these chocolates. I remarked (OK, I gushed ) about how beautiful they were and said, “It’s almost too pretty to eat. I think I’ll just gaze lovingly at it until I can’t take it anymore.” To which he replied, “I give you 45 seconds.”
Oh. No. He. Di’int!
Just FYI…there was a good three hours of foreplay with this chocolate before I finally succumbed to it’s sublime espresso bliss. That, my friends, is being master of your domain.
Oh, for the love of food!
One of the reasons I love working for Vmeals is that my food obsession seems almost like a professional asset. I’ve always had a profound love of food, but I didn’t really appreciate my affliction until recently when I saw a picture of my brother posted on Facebook.
I’m guessing he was about 7 or 8 years old, and he was wearing my dad’s flight helmet and the pink plaid blanket that he always wore as a cape. He was also holding some kind of weapon, but my eye went immediately to the kitchen counter in the background.
“I remember that hot-air popcorn popper,” I thought to myself.
And then there was this picture:
Adorable, right? Me? I was thinking, “Mmmm…fondue.”
Then I was going through the pictures on my phone. I was aghast to see how many were of food. Here’s my trip to New Orleans, café au lait and beignets. I was there for the IAAP conference where Vmeals exhibited. This is one of FOUR shots I have of my breakfast.![Photo_072708_001[1]](http://mollyfulton.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/photo_072708_00111.jpg?w=495&h=396 "Photo_072708_001[1]")
And my trip to Austin: I suppose I could have gotten more of my beautiful sister in the shot, but this place served flights of wine AND cheese!
I also have pictures of oysters, donuts, ice cream, cupcakes, cotton candy, salads, bread and jam, strawberries, honey, beets, birthday cake, chicken gravy, and cheescake. You get the idea.
So it seems only fitting to make Friday Food Day on the Vmeals blog. We’ll talk food and I’m sure I’ll have pictures of it.
Am I hip enough to buy a cup coffee?
Today I decided to treat myself to some good coffee, so I stopped in at Shenandoah Joe’s on Preston Ave. This was my first visit there, but I am a big fan of their Bo Joe at Bodo’s. As with most coffee places in town, this place is uber cool, and the menu board is overwhelming. I like coffee – no, I love coffee – but I don’t go for anything fancy. No espresso, cappuccino, latte, or the infinite variety of size/flavor shot/caf/half caf/decaf/fat/skinny combinations. Just give me a very large, strong, dark roast with room for cream – real cream, thank you.
Now, I like Starbucks as much as any other red blooded American seduced by earthy mission statements wrapped in super slick packaging, but I am terribly self conscious about ordering a venti anything. I mean how ridiculous and pretentious does that sound? When did the word large become not good enough? So as much as I love the occasional venti skinny mocha, I will only push though the pain of saying the word venti during the holiday season, when it means I can get it in an extra special pretty red cup bedecked in snowflakes.
So if I feel like a jack-ass going into Starbucks and asking for a venti coffee, how much more so is going into an unfamiliar coffee house fraught with anxiety? There are different names for everything. I have to study all the peculiarly named varieties and read descriptions and then hope I make the right pick. So what are they calling just a cup of coffee here? It’s the draft coffee, of course. Oh brother! I am not going to ask the bartender to pull me a pint of draft coffee.
I do manage to squeak out a request for the Smokey Mountain Roast (I know what this is because they have thoughtfully labeled this the dark roast draft coffee of the day). I pay and worry if I should be tipping. I mean, my cup of coffee is not labor intensive like those beautiful cappucinios where the baristas’ can do a quick portrait of me in foam. It’s just a cup of coffee, so I decide: no tip.
The guy behind the counter asks something which sounds to me like, “Do you want that to go?” I answer, “To go,” and then I am immediately sure he has not asked that at all. What did he say? Did I just answer in the most idiotic way possible? Would the answer to that question make a difference, or do they serve every drink in a disposable cup? Maybe he was asking if I need room. I do need room for cream; maybe that’s what he asked, and that is the question to which he applied my answer. Yes, I’m going to go with that.
So now I have my wonderfully dark, fragrant coffee securely in hand. I take a quick look around and cannot immediately identify where the fixin’s station is. I need cream and a lid. I leave without either because I am worried about looking too ignorant and unsophisticated to figure out how to dress my own coffee. If I were cool, I could so totally navigate my way around this place. But I take my steaming hot cup of defeat and head off to the office where at least there, I know where the cream is.
