Not Quite a Double Double

It was freezing the other day, in a rainy, windy bitter way that is different from the crisp Canadian cold I’m accustomed to. I had to run a bunch of errands down around the European Union and I was going in and out of shops in the shadows of the enormous office towers that dominate that neighbourhood. I was tired, cold and cranky.

Errands done, I thought I’d get something warm to drink, to fortify myself against the 15 minute walk home in the rain. The problem was that I was in a metro station, not exactly a hot bed of culinary delights. I walked over to the little coffee shop, buried in the grottiest part of the metro, by the stairs. Newspapers and dirt blew around in the café’s vestibule. A seedy looking man with a bushy moustache stood behind the counter.

I went through the possibilities: I don’t drink coffee so that eliminates almost everything from the menu – I could have tea or hot chocolate. The tea, I knew would be made with hot, rather than boiled water, it would taste funny in the paper cup and there probably wouldn’t be any milk to put in it, since Belgians seem to like their hot beverages black.

I opted instead for hot chocolate. I figured that even though the seedy man would pour the powdered-Carnation-chocolate into a paper cup and throw some not-quite-boiling-water over it, the drink would keep my hands warm and the sugar would perk me up a bit. Better than nothing.

I placed my order and was surprised when Seedy asked me if I wanted white chocolate or dark. They must have two different kinds of powder. Seeing my confusion he offered to do a mixture. I nodded, not thinking that it would make the tiniest bit of difference. Vaguely sugary hot water is vaguely sugary hot water, whether you call it “white chocolate” or “dark.”

Then the man did something that I will never forget. I can see it now, except in my mind’s eye his actions are happening in slow motion, a wind from nowhere is pushing back his flowing mane of greasy brown hair and a choir of angels has broken into a celestial song of thanksgiving: He reached under the counter and pulled out two Tupperware containers. He opened one and began scooping HUGE SPOONFULS OF DARK CHOCOLATE into a metal mug. He did the same with the white chocolate. He filled up a third of the cup with pure, unadulterated Belgian chocolate. Then this grotty little man in his grotty little metro coffee shop poured MILK in and proceeded to steam the whole mixture.

I stared dumbfounded. He handed me the hot chocolate, its rich, warm, chocolaty odour wafting out in a seductive scent, and I resisted the urge to reach across the counter and plant a giant kiss on his mouth, bushy moustache and all.

The rain had turned to sleet by the time I left the metro station, but I didn’t notice --I floated back to the apartment, sipping a cup of pure bliss.