Thierry: A Future Prodigal Son?

I suspect I understand how the Romans felt as they watched their empire crumble, witnessing the cataclysmic fall of Jupiter and all their gods yet obstinately attempting to keep alive Rome’s ever fading glory. Indeed I liken it to a woman driven mad with denial at the sight of her lover’s funeral. She feigns that he is still alive, yet none can stop the rotting of a corpse. So it is with a once beloved hot chocolate.

Thierry Chocolates was once a great love. Many an afternoon passed by in its oasis of little chocolates and macarons. Thierry has witnessed the rise and fall of empires in my own life, from friendships to lovers to changing ambitions. My constant companion in all of these undulations was the half-size dark liquid chocolate. It is a simple creation that lesser cafes simply cannot understand: chocolate melted directly into milk. Still it was brilliant. Thierry, as a chocolatier, is the incarnation of Apollo. The taste was not an array of vibrant colours, but like the soft sunlight of a golden morning. The portion size is, quite honestly, the best portion size that I have ever been served: it is exactly sized to leave me wanting more whilst still offering satisfaction.

Why was it that one day I watched the hot chocolate take on a miserable form? Did the curtain fall? Did the glamour fade?

I noticed one day that something was off; the drink tasted burnt, and a skin had formed on the surface, a symptom of milk heated above 65°C (150°F) and far too quickly. I convinced myself it was only a wrinkle in an otherwise lovely tapestry. I returned again, only to find the exact same fault. I returned again and again and again. It became clear to me that Thierry was no tortured artist but rather a fallen angel. I believe that God had a heavy heart when he exiled Satan to Hell. Perhaps it is the human within me that wishes the devil would be forgiven.

Thus it with a heavy heart that I ask Thierry to leave my heavenly court, but I do not wish that this chocolate burn in a hell hotter than 65°C (150°F). I loved it once; I believe this is a rectifiable fault. Thierry, spend some years in Purgatory. Lower the maximum temperature of your milk steaming, and you shall once more reclaim your glory. Return to me, like a prodigal son, cleansed of your faults and regretful of your past. I shall welcome you with open arms.