Mourning Au Comptoir

It is not for me to speculate on why people choose to run from home. Life is a mélange of contexts, and one can never know the true reasons for the actions of another. Who is to say whether it is the thrill and titillation of new places or the scorn and debauchery of the old that inspires the young bird to leave his nest? The right to explanation rests solely with the bird alone. Still I do have a gnawing curiosity about the whole matter. It is for this reason that I hope there is a god, for I need someone to answer all my questions that sat miserably unanswered all my life. Why does the bird leave its nest? Why do French chefs abandon their familiar, delightful hot chocolate in favour of Vancouver's steamed milk atrocities? Why did they run from so endearing a home as the hot chocolate of angels?

I had the pleasure of visiting Au Comptoir for breakfast, a French restaurant run by French people. I was marvellously pleased with the restaurant in general. It was, in a word, charming. The staff were exceptionally kind, the decor set exactly right, the music just so, and the croissants like clouds. This restaurant had caught my eye for two years - it took leaving a former lover a week prior to provide the needed impetus for me to at last make my way there. For my tormented, lonely soul, it was a very nice way to spend a morning.

But no heartbreak shall cloud my judgement nor seek to elevate to higher ranks hot chocolates that do not deserve it. It is with all melancholy that I announce that Au Comptoir, in all its charm and with all its French staff, has failed in creating an excellent chocolate.

I ordered the chocolat viennois, a classic chocolate with whipped cream (chantilly, as the French call it). It's presentation and price point were quite good for higher end cafés in Vancouver. The chantilly was piled high and littered with chocolate shavings - the presence of real chocolate, perhaps the sign of a hot chocolate worthy of its name! With my little silver spoon, I first tried the cream and chocolate shavings.

Average. I've tasted the same thing a thousand times over - perhaps my palate is ruined for having gone to the actual Chateau de Chantilly and trying the cream there.  Still, hope was not lost on the chocolate itself.

Within three sips it was. 

Oh, Au Comptoir. How extraordinary you wish to be, yet you are frightened to be different. You present the guise of authenticity, only to reveal a corporate North American soul beneath that ornate curtain of lace. Why must you make the same hot chocolate as every other mediocre cafe in this deprived city? You commit the same sin as many establishments that have come before. You fear chocolate. You fear decadence. You cling to frothed milk as though its fluffiness will hide its lack of flavour. You are like a grand renaissance fresco of great artistic prowess, yet one of your characters is drawn as a stick figure.

The milk was steamed well - it was not burnt, and the texture was smooth and consistent. I do not know what to say beyond that. The chocolate flavour was so incredibly subtle, and I hope that this was not intentional. The shavings, with their sharp and flamboyant taste, were the best part. They stood in such stark contrast to the drink itself. The drink flavour could not stand out against pure dark chocolate shavings. And no, melting in the shavings did not help. 

Au Comptoir, I will be back. You have so many beautiful qualities about you, and, as restaurants go, I would spend an afternoon sitting at your tables quite happily. However, as I said to my former lover, while you are the most delightful soul, full of promise and forever holding a small shard of my heart, there is a flaw within you that is so disagreeable to my nature that I cannot commit myself to you while this flaw persists. Change, perhaps, and I may give you another chance.

I therefore sentence you to Purgatory - while your hot chocolate was well-made in the Vancouver sense of the word, you shall not find yourself at the righthand of God anytime soon.