Criminal Confections

by Colette London

  Instead, I was appearing as an expert panelist on Lemaître Chocolates’ “Name That Chocolate!” It was a game-show-inspired session that had been planned by Nina, cunningly designed to highlight all the most self-aggrandizing chocolatiers present.

  Oh, and me, too. I was appearing among them.

  I’m not much for self-promotion. I can’t be. The name of my game is discretion. I can’t very well shout from the rooftops about the famous chocolate companies, restaurants, and fine-food purveyors that have had their big-time goofs corrected by me. That would be a recipe for nonreferrals. Mostly, I do my job and then keep my mouth shut, trusting word to get out when it needs to.

  It works, too. That’s why you won’t see me taking out ads in trade press outlets or (God forbid) Tweeting about my know-how to any schmo who’ll listen. I don’t have to. One way or another, people who need my help find a way to throw out a Bat-Signal, then I come and magically make everything better.

  Today, though, Nina had begged me to join the panel. Armed with both her phones, a headset, and two fresh clipboards, she’d cornered me after a tasty breakfast of cocoa-hazelnut granola and a gallon of coffee (these early mornings were killers, no pun intended) and applied her best PR mojo to the task. Not that any persuasive machinations were necessary. I’d taken one look at Nina’s noticeable new (and unfortunate) stress-related eye twitch and agreed to get my taste test on for the public.

  The whole endeavor had two parts. First, a chocolate tasting featuring multiple rounds, with one panelist being eliminated after each round. Second, a wagering component that enabled retreat attendees to “sponsor” the panelist of their choice. The whole endeavor was meant to funnel donations toward Bernard Lemaître’s culinary arts charity—which I still refused to believe was a tax dodge. There were several disadvantaged high-school students in attendance at Maison Lemaître to enjoy the spectacle. I’d spoken with a few of them beforehand. They’d impressed me with their diligence, curiosity, and enthusiasm.

  I wished I could say the same thing for my fellow panelists. Six rounds in—sans blindfold now—I was feeling the pressure. Not because anyone intimidated me—just because no one else seemed to be taking the job at hand very seriously (so far). Didn’t they realize there were donations at stake? Kids’ futures?

  With my footloose ways, I’d probably never have any kids of my own. So I did my best to buckle down on behalf of everyone.

  The accoutrements of each round were a nameplate (mine read HAYDEN MANDY MORE, a classic but typical gaffe), a glass of room-temperature sparkling springwater (it couldn’t be cold, or it would obliterate the temperature-sensitive qualities of the cacao), and a stack of bland, palate-cleansing water crackers.

  You might think that tasting chocolate is a dream job. You wouldn’t be far off. When I’m focused on a nice French mendiant studded with dried figs and almonds or a plain tablette of 73 percent dark bittersweet, my monkey mind finally shuts up. Everything falls away. All that exists is me and the Theobroma cacao.

  Tasting chocolate—even publicly—is the closest I ever come to achieving nirvana . . . at least outside of the bedroom, that is. It’s the only time I’m not thinking about anything else.

  I was looking forward to shutting out the crowd and getting in the groove as the next volunteer charity student made his way down the panelists’ table, carefully distributing silver-domed trays of chocolate samples—each of which had been donated by a different company or artisan. I transferred my attention from the thronged ballroom to the shiny challenge in front of me.

  Already, we’d been through simple carrés—bite-size squares—of varietal chocolates, which presented minimal challenge to a knowledgeable taster. Now we’d progressed to truffles. They were more complex and subsequently harder to evaluate. A hush fell over the retreat attendees as we prepared to do exactly that.

  Nearby, Rex’s (least favorite) reporter did a roadie walk toward the stage. Partially hunched, she snapped a flash photo.

  Apparently, our antics were being documented for Chocolat Monthly. I hoped my hair looked good. At least I wasn’t wearing chef’s whites and a pair of kitchen clogs. My navy wrap dress was crushable, packable, hand-washable, and reasonably chic.

  “All right, panelists! Get ready!” Nina strode the length of the panel, acting as volunteer emcee. Her clip-on mic made her voice boom through the ballroom. “Time for another round!”

  I’d be lying if I said anticipation didn’t buzz through the place. Everyone on the panel was a professional. Screwing up would make any of us look bad. I wanted to ace this.

  I glanced sideways. Remaining on the panel with me were Rex Rader, a rep from Torrance Chocolates, someone from a cocoa bean supply company, and Christian. (That’s right—just as with the scavenger hunt, he’d joined his own challenge.) The five of us were instructed to lift the silver domes of our samples.

  As I did, the lush scent of chocolate struck me. Hard. I knew better than to be seduced right away. There was a protocol here, starting with evaluating the chocolate’s appearance. It needed to exhibit a shiny gloss, which indicated good tempering. It needed to display a nice color—although contrary to popular belief, darker chocolate isn’t necessarily better; some very good cacao beans are quite pale. If it was a bar (or slender French bâton) of chocolate, it needed to demonstrate a clean snap when broken in half, with no discernible bending or crumbling. That meant the sample had a proper cacao content.

  After I’d evaluated the appearance and snap, then it was finally time to contemplate the aroma. It’s always seductive, but it’s never simple. Not for me. Whether in a varietal or a cuvée, it should be possible to pick up notes ranging from floral to fruity, smoky to spicy, malty to earthy to herbaceous.

  Just like wine, each chocolate carries a unique fingerprint. Fortunately for me, I’d learned to ID several.

  Today I was under the microscope. That meant I wanted to really excel. So while my fellow panelists bit right into their samples, trying to beat the game clock, I picked up my knife and carefully bisected the truffle I’d been given. I studied it. With bars, it’s possible to evaluate the chocolate’s grain—the pattern of crystallization that develops among the components of cocoa butter, cocoa liquor, and (sometimes) sugar. With truffles, though, the chocolate coating isn’t thick enough for such intricacies. All I wanted to do was release more aroma.

  Inhaling it (but not necessarily expecting to taste its constituents in the finished truffle), I cut off a diminutive bite. I let it melt on my tongue, checking that it liquefied appropriately. Some of the chocolates we’d tried had tasted flat—probably due to an omission of vanilla, misguidedly intended to enhance the chocolate’s bitter notes—but this one didn’t. It melted like a dream, tasting of berries and spice.

  In that melting bite, I experienced the stars of the show: mouthfeel and taste. Playing it safe, I chewed my next bite. The flavor was complex, the aftertaste clean, the finish long.

  You may have had chocolate that’s waxy, gritty, or grainy. That means it’s cheap, old, or both. This truffle was neither.

  I punched my buzzer. (Yes, we each had one; however cheesy, it was all for the sake of charity.) “Cacao from Colombia. The Chucureno region. Light roast.” That made it trickier. “With a filling of lime-infused ganache lightened with cajeta.”

  Nina’s eyes lit up. “Right again, Hayden!”

  The other panelists groaned. Have I mentioned that this was a timed session? Whoever got the right answer first won the round—and kept the attendees who’d sponsored them paying up.

  I was safe again. The same couldn’t be said for Rex, though, who—according to the rules—was eliminated. He had the fewest sponsors paying for him, and he hadn’t identified the chocolate sample in time. He tossed me a hostile look, then took a seat in the audience. I felt his animosity radiating toward me.

  With only four of us remaining, the audience’s interest was increasing. Another of the volunteer students circulated among them with labeled
and branded promotional samples of curry and basil truffles from a New York confectioner, each enrobed with a hand-ground mortar-and-pestle bittersweet couverture. I saw Danny shake his head to (unbelievably) pass on one. Cretin.

  Catching me watching, he made a face. I noticed he was seated next to the Chocolat Monthly reporter. She’d angled her whole body toward Danny with interest. If he wanted, he could really clean up at the retreat. First Nina, now . . . I really needed to learn the name of Rex’s nemesis. Maybe after the panel.

  First, there was another sample to taste. Nina amped up the attendees’ enthusiasm with an anecdote about Point Reyes—a scenic area nearby—encouraging them to visit after the retreat was finished. (I wondered if the California tourism board had sponsored her emceeing gig.) While we panelists chewed unsalted crackers and sipped sparkling water to prepare, more silver-domed trays emerged from the ballroom kitchen. My mouth watered.

  I lifted my tray’s dome. Greeting me, atop a paper doily, was another chocolate truffle. Its surface was milky brown, dusted with vibrant, almost neon green particles. Its interior, when I cut into it, looked like vanilla cream. I knew it wasn’t.

  At an event like this one, nobody was trotting out a sample that could have been crafted at an old-timey seaside candy shop.

  While I was still tasting, the supplier smacked her buzzer.

  “I’m detecting . . . tangerine!” she said, nearly on her feet with zeal. “Hints of cedar . . . raw sugar . . . it’s Ecuadorian cacao!”

  Nina shook her head. Automatically, so did I.

  “Venezuelan,” I identified, “from the Sur del Lago region. Another light roast.” I gave her a sympathetic look. “The matcha dusting and Camembert filling are probably throwing you off.”

  I felt rushed making the assessment, but the retreat attendees were impressed, anyway. An approving murmur swept the ballroom. I don’t often receive public recognition for my work, so I appreciated the approval—until the cocoa bean supplier shot me a disgruntled glance and left the stage. If looks could kill, I’d have been to the pearly gates and back again twice today.

  I hadn’t come here to make enemies. Couldn’t they all just lighten up? I was only serving on the panel as a favor to Nina; I hadn’t even had time to collect more than a few token sponsorships beforehand (including one from Danny). Plus, I couldn’t help being good at my job. I have a talent for cacao, sure. But it’s not as if I can do something really crucial, like perform successful brain surgery or pilot a Boeing 747-400.

  You’ve probably guessed by this point that chocolate-industry types can be somewhat tantrum prone. That person in your office who just can’t let go of the fact that someone else ate the last “everything” bagel or didn’t chip in for the coffee fund? That person would have been celebrated for their “vision” and “attention to detail” in my biz. Creative pursuits tend to reward idiosyncrasies and encourage prima donna behavior. In the world of chocolate, “difficult” is a synonym for “talented.”

  A subsequent (and straightforward) round of chocolates paired with liquor knocked out the rep from Torrance Chocolates. Felled by the palate-confusing (but orgasmic) combo of single-malt finish rum plus litchi truffle—which we three dutifully sipped, bit, sipped, and chewed—she left the panel, too.

  At least she didn’t shoot me daggers on her way. She gave me a bubbly thumbs-up before taking her place in the audience.

  It was down to me . . . and Christian Lemaître. Seated way down the panelist’s table from me, he frowned and cracked his neck like a boxer in the ring. Oh, brother. Wanting this over with, I watched the next volunteer student distribute silver-domed samples to us both. No one in the room needed either of the stimulants—theobromine and caffeine—that were naturally present in cacao beans to perk up for the final round. It was on.

  Refraining from delivering a few Rocky air punches, I found Danny in the crowd. I grinned at him. He gave me a somber nod. That grounded me. With a start, I remembered everything that had been going on. Danny probably thought I’d be sniper shot if I won the tasting. He might not be far wrong, either.

  But I wanted to win anyway. I know I’ve told you how competitive I am. Plus, once my chocolate sample was unveiled, I forgot anything else existed. All there was, for me, was cacao.

  I took my time, examining the sample’s appearance, aroma, snap, and mouthfeel. I’d just started on its taste when Christian yelped beside me. He slammed his hand on his buzzer.

  “Trinitario beans!” he shouted. “Likely sourced from Venezuela, with Tahitian vanilla and crushed cacao nib filling.”

  He shot me a triumphant glance. The crowd applauded. A few people even started gathering their things for the next session.

  I held back, though, even as Nina turned expectantly.

  “Hayden, if Christian is right, you’re eliminated. You don’t have enough sponsors to tie the round. But if you—”

  “I’m right!” her boss crowed. “This one’s easy.”

  “—do have the correct answer,” Nina rushed to say, “and Christian doesn’t, you’ll win the round and the tasting, bringing your sponsors and their donations with you. Well?”

  I drew in a deep breath, considering. If Christian was a secret murderer, I probably didn’t want to antagonize him.

  On the other hand, competitiveness isn’t easily squashed. There was no way I was taking a dive. It just wasn’t in me.

  “Criollo beans,” I disagreed, “with a medium roast.” I don’t know how I can detect these specifics. I just know that I can. “Likely sourced from Madagascar. The vodka fragrance and woody notes—the hint of spice and cedar—give it away.”

  I didn’t dare look at Christian. He was probably seething.

  At least he was . . . if I was right. I knew I was.

  “But the filling—that’s the tricky part,” I went on. I pointed at it. “Modern palates identify that texture as cacao nibs, but I’ve got to say . . .” I paused to take another nibble.

  “She’s cheating!” Christian fumed. “That’s cheating!”

  “. . . that tastes like good old-fashioned praline to me.” I smiled. “In a world full of habanero-guava chocolate bars and wood-smoke-infused salted ganache, that’s . . . perfectly delicious.”

  Bernard stood amid the crowd. “You’re damn right it is!” he yelled, pointing at my truffle. “That’s tradition, right there!”

  Taken aback, I glanced again at the truffle I’d neatly sliced in two. Yep. If you paired those halves and then studied the squiggly swirl on top, it formed a distinctive letter L.

  Christian had failed to identify a Lemaître Chocolate—one that Bernard had apparently entered in the tasting on the sly.

  The crowd realized what had happened at the same time I did. A rumble swept through the attendees. Isabel gave Bernard a forcible yank back into his chair, then gave me an apologetic shrug. She seemed at a loss to explain her husband’s outburst. If Bernard had planned this, he hadn’t included his wife.

  Bernard himself seemed as pleased as punch. He sat there beside Isabel, looking giddy, not talking to anyone. I have to say, his behavior only made it appear more likely that he was suffering from some form of cognitive deterioration. Either that or he really wanted to stick it to his nephew. Publicly.

  If getting revenge on Christian was Bernard’s goal, though, this stunt was small potatoes. Retaking his own company was going to be the most effective tactic. Maybe, I mused, with Rex’s underhanded assistance, Bernard meant to do both?

  Glancing at Rex’s unreadable face, I simply couldn’t tell—not even when Rex got to his feet and left the ballroom. He might have wanted to celebrate Bernard’s coup in private. Or he might have been annoyed that Bernard had embarrassed Christian.

  For all I knew, Isabel was wrong, and Rex was scheming with Christian, instead of Bernard. I would have believed either.

  For that matter, Adrienne could have been partnering with Bernard to sabotage Christian . . . and somehow Christian had found out—hence h
is (brief) tirade to me about Adrienne yesterday.

  Danny believed that Adrienne had probably been selling secrets to Melt. But he hadn’t known Adrienne as well as I had. I couldn’t see her conspiring with Rex.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lemaître,” Nina told Christian in a newly subdued voice. “Hayden is right. I’m afraid you’re eliminated.”

  As far as I was concerned, we both should have been able to identify that chocolate—even to distinguish it from its purer-bred Venezuelan Porcelana strain, which delivered heady (but very different) aromas of butter, strawberries, and cream.

  Trying to put aside the tasting now that it was finished, I got up to shake Christian’s hand. “Nice job,” I said. “I’m sure you garnered more sponsorship votes, anyway, so everyone wins.”

  At least they would, if he did the right thing and channeled all the donations into Bernard’s culinary charity.

  Christian didn’t see things quite so prosaically. He pointedly ignored my outstretched hand. He humphed, then ripped off his clipped-on mic. “Nobody likes a show-off. Nobody.”

  Was Christian kidding me? After all the showboating he’d done, now he had the nerve to lecture me about hamming it up?

  I considered apologizing—just for my business’s sake—but Christian stormed off before I could. Left stranded on the panel with a befuddled teenage culinary student and Nina, I smiled.

  It would take more than Christian Lemaître’s temper tantrum to take down Hayden Mundy Moore. Especially for charity’s sake.

  “Let’s hear it for our host, Christian Lemaître!” I said into my mic, leading the applause myself. “A fine chocolatier, a supporter of charity, and a brilliant and accomplished man!”

  I was freestyling, sure, but that last bit came a little too easily to mind. Too late, I realized I’d parroted this week’s favorite description of Christian—just as Nina and Bernard had. All the same, everyone dutifully clapped. A few quizzical looks did come my way, though. Bernard frowned. Danny squinted at me, obviously lost in thought. Isabel comically rolled her eyes. (I could count on her to lighten the mood.)