Parla cioccolata?

Last spring, upon the recommendation of my Italian-Aussie (Itozzy? Ozzalian?) friend Luisa, I flew all the way to Florence to sample the legendary white hot chocolate at Chiaroscuro on Via del Corso.

Ok, I was in Florence anyway.

Due cioccolata calda bianca, per favore, and make it snappy.

Upon receipt, all the signs were good: thick, smooth, piping hot.

 

There is something deliciously elegant about a hot drink in a glass.

However it pains me to say that the contents of the glass fell short.

Let me make something very clear. I can handle a lot of sugar. Certainly more than the average person. When people casually mention that they simply don’t have a sweet tooth, my brain cannot compute what it has just heard.

Recently a colleague complained of a vending machine beverage: “It’s too sweet!”

I squinted, inwardly cursed her weak moral fibre, and put her on my blacklist.

It therefore pains me to reveal that this white hot chocolate was too sweet.

Luckily my Milky Bar Kid didn’t agree, and polished off his and mine in quick succession.