TODAY The Taster will sit down for half an hour to view many, many pictures I have prepared for his Eminence. They feature chocolate cake, chocolate pieces, broken chocolate bars photographed in arty half-light, chocolate truffles, chocolate profiteroles with cream, and many, many chocolate eggs. (The current contender for the next front cover is a dripping chocolate liqueur speared on a gleaming silver fork; yum!)
I have read of so many odd chocolate food pairings I am ready to consider the delights of a little simmered turnip enrobed in chocolate ganache and sealed in a crisp candy shell.
And I’m on a diet. Despite what appeared in the last issue, about January being a terrible month to try to lose weight in. Lunch at my desk is typically a bowl of chicken stock and whole boiled sprouts, enriched with a chopped-up mini-cheese. Hey, it’s filling and warm; and I don’t mind brassicas.
And yet. I suddenly realise where I am. Sitting at a desk, looking at endless pictures of chocolate through a miasmic haze of sprouty steam.
. . . How did it come to this?