Thursday, November 04, 2004
rococo vanilla fresh cream truffle
i thought i had no use for truffles nor white chocolate until this was plonked in front of me. unassuming lump of white, passively sitting, not tempting me at all. i thought, okay, let's get rid of it and i can move on.
a not-too-thin shell of ivory--after all, it is hand-dipped--gives with the merest pressure. tiny shards almost evaporate as they touch an already salivating tongue. the creaminess overwhelms, but only fleetingly, and primes the tastebuds for what is to come. the interior is like biting into a form of silk. cool, and smoother than one could ever imagine its ingredients--sugar, cream, vanilla--could ever hope to become. despite its substance it is not pasty, not sticky, not heavy. it melts on the tongue like dreams fade into sleep. despite its substance it is not cloying, not perfumey, not overwhelmingly sweet or milky. the flavour is more subtle than one could ever imagine its ingredients could ever hope to become. am i repeating myself? ah. that's it: it echoes. it whispers. it beckons.
the secret, perhaps, is what is not there. what it is, is what it is not. not chocolate, not white.
good thing there was only one. it will remain a beautiful dream.