I set the zipper bag down.“Your lecture on chocolate was really interesting,” I say.“I’m wondering if you can tell me where these chocolates came from.”
“Of course.”
He doesn’t ask where I got them.He doesn’t ask why my mouth is tight.He just lays a clean board on the bench and lines up a paring knife and a tasting spoon.
“Ready?”he says.
“As I’ll ever be.”
He starts at one end.Smell.Snap.Taste.He presses the crumb to his palate with his tongue.Breathes through his nose.
“American.”
“American.”
“American.”
His voice is gentle but sure.“Milk weight.Vanilla.Too much sugar.That faint sour tang you don’t notice until you learn to hate it.”
Four.Five.
He breaks the fifth.“The snap on this one is different.Cleaner.”He examines it, turns it over in his palm.“The inside is a shade darker.The way it fractures is…softer.”
He tastes.Pauses.Tastes again.His eyes close.
“Not American.”He opens his eyes.Looks at me.“Colombian cacao.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the table.“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I get without notes.”He snaps his lips.“Fruit at the front.Floral mid.Earth, but not muddy.Tobacco whisper on the finish.Colombian.I’d bet Santander or Tumaco, depending on the maker.”
He moves on.
“American,” he says each time, almost bored.He taps the odd one with the tip of the knife.“This is the outlier.The rest are domestic blends.Milk-heavy.Sugar-forward.Have you tasted them?”
I nod.Though it’s a lie.
He steps back and washes his hands.“Want me to write this down?”
“No.”My voice is thin, but it holds.“I’ve got it.”
He doesn’t press.Isn’t he the slightest bit curious as to what this “independent project” is about?
“If you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make before class.Go ahead and get your kitchen set up.The other students will start trickling in soon.”
“Of course.Thanks so much, Chef.”
He nods and heads to the door.
I’m alone with a cutting board, a paring knife, and the one truth in a line of lies.
Colombian.
The word is a door.It opens, and I remember another swinging door.
* * *
A Year Earlier…
