“My God, woman!” Esther exclaimed. “They’re not just ‘candies’! They’re Voss chocolates! Mini masterpieces. Where are they? What did they send?”
“Calm down,” I said. “They’re right here.”
The top half of the bakery cart held black, glossy boxes. Esther, Tucker, and I carried them to the serving trays and peeked inside.
“Petit Nibs!” Esther yipped.
“Baby chocolate bars with crunchy cocoa nibs,” I explained to Tuck and Nancy. “The chocolate in these is seventy-two percent cocoa.”
“Hearts of Darkness!”
“These are intense,” I warned. “Eighty percent cocoa.”
“Mocha-Mint Squares!”
“Flavored with white crème de menthe and our espresso.”
“Caramel Latte Cups!”
“Quarter-sized cups of milk chocolate laced with Village Blend espresso and liberally drizzled with fleur de sel caramel.”
“Chocolate-Dipped Cinnamon Sticks! Be still my heart!”
I smiled. They were one of my favorites, too. Placed on the tongue, the treat delivered a sensual, sensory experience of quality chocolate and spicy cinnamon—two ancient aphrodisiacs in themselves. Used to stir a cup of hot coffee, the melting chocolate became an instant stick of delectable mocha.
“Voss Chocolate, I love you!” Esther cried.
“One more box, Ms. Cosi.” Nancy reached down to a lower shelf of the cart and brought up a black box with the letters REF written in white grease pencil.
When we opened it, all of us frowned. The Raspberry-Espresso Flowers inside were not glossy and smooth like the other chocolates. They were mottled with dull white streaks.
I shook my head. “What a shame.”
“What happened to these chocolate flowers?” Tuck asked.
“Bloom,” I replied.
“Is that a joke?”
I pointed to the milky lines. “This is either fat bloom or sugar bloom. Both look the same.”
“So what’s the difference?”
“Fat bloom happens when chocolate hasn’t been properly tempered—”
“And tempering is?”
“Basically, a process of heating, cooling, and mixing chocolate—it’s what pastry chefs do before they mold it—and when chocolate isn’t tempered correctly, the fats don’t properly emulsify. When the cocoa butter rises to the surface and sets, you get fat bloom. Sugar bloom looks the same, but it’s caused by condensation from improper storage.” I sighed. The deduction was easy enough. “Given Voss’s expertise in tempering, I doubt this is fat bloom.”
I turned to Nancy. “Why wasn’t this box on the same shelf with the others?”
She pointed at the box. “Someone in the kitchen saw the REF label and thought it meant to refrigerate.”
“So this box has been in the fridge for hours?”
Nancy nodded.
“That’s a shame,” I said. “But it makes sense.”
“I don’t understand,” Nancy said. “Why would putting chocolate in the fridge cause this sugar-bloom stuff?”
“When you store chocolate in a cold, humid environment and then return it to a warm room, you sometimes get condensation on the surface. As the water evaporates, the sugar in the chocolate crystallizes. That’s what causes the white streaks. It’s perfectly safe to eat—but the texture and mouth-feel are ruined. We can’t serve this.” I handed it back to Nancy. “Set it aside, okay?”
“Too bad,” Nancy said, frowning. “The flowers were cute, like little hex signs.”
“Hex signs?” Esther said. “What’s up with that? Are you a Wiccan?”
“Not hex like a witch. Hex sign like from Pennsylvania Dutch country. American folk art, you know? Those cute little designs on houses and barns. I use them in my quilting and embroidery.”
“So now you lived in eastern PA?” Tuck asked.
Nancy shrugged again.
“Well, I hope nobody tells Voss Chocolate what happened.” Esther shook her head. “They’re perfectionists at Voss!”
Tucker covered his ears. “‘Voss Chocolate. Voss Chocolate.’ You sound like a corrupt audio file. If you love this stuff so much, why don’t you get your rapper boyfriend to buy you a truckload of champagne truffles the next time you visit his man cave?”
“I know you’re Manhattan-centric, Tuck, but Boris lives in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, which is not Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It isn’t even close to Williamsburg, and Williamsburg is where Voss Chocolate has its only retail store.”
“Whatever.”
“Anyway, Boris can barely pay the rent on his Brighton Beach walk-up,” Esther said. “So ten-dollar chocolate bars from Hipster Haven are definitely out.”
Before Tuck could reply, a familiar song began to play.
We exchanged glances. “Isn’t that ‘You Light Up My Life’?” I asked.
Tuck nodded. “That’s the third time I’ve heard that thing since we got here. I’d swear it was a ringtone, but whose phone would have a song that sappy on it?” He shifted his gaze to Esther.
Her pale cheeks reddened. “Boris put it on there while I was sleeping, okay? He thought it would be funny to have this dopey tune play whenever he calls me, but obviously, it’s just embarrassing.”
Tuck stared at Esther. “Debby Boone?”
“He heard the song on the oldies station at the bakery and liked it. I guess they didn’t allow schmaltz in the former Soviet Union, so he was never exposed to the disease that is Debby Boone.”
“If it upsets you that much,” Tuck said, “why don’t you change the ringtone?”
She threw up her hands. “Because Boris used a password to lock it in!”
I touched Esther’s arm. “Please tell your boyfriend that we’re going to be very busy, very soon, okay? Make your plans, then turn off your phone and let the rest of your calls go to voice mail.”
Esther whipped the cell out of her pocket, cooed her regrets to Boris, and clapped her hands. “So are we going to taste this java-love-potion stuff or what?”
I tensed. By now, I’d sampled a few spoonfuls of a budino and small bites of the pastries prepared by Voss. All were borderline orgasmic—in flavor but not so much in any other way. Frankly, the aphrodisiac part of the equation seemed rather tepid, which was what I’d feared all along (the claims were likely bogus).
I did feel a very slight tingling on my skin and a little flushed, but that was it. Maybe I needed a bigger dose for a bigger reaction? Or maybe it didn’t work without an object of affection. Unfortunately, mine had yet to arrive—even worse, after the day he had, I doubted he’d be in the mood to take our featured product out for a private test drive.
As a flavoring agent, however, Mocha Magic was a raving success, and that provided a modicum of relief to my Atlas-level worries. As for the instant powdered-coffee version of the thing, the verdict was still out, and I honestly wasn’t feeling up to hearing it.
“To tell you the truth, I’m a little apprehensive about sampling it,” I confessed to my crew.
“Well, naturally you are!” Nancy cried. “The last thing you want is to go all dizzy act, before the guests arrive!”
Tucker, Esther, and I turned to face the young woman.
“What?” Esther said.
“Dizzy act,” Nancy said. “The stuff in these pastries is an herb from Africa, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been saying all night. This stuff is supposed to make you act dizzy, right?”
Tucker took hold of Nancy’s shoulders. “Sweetie, the word is not Afro-dizzy-act. It’s aphrodisiac.”
She frowned and folded her arms. “So what’s it supposed to do then, if it doesn’t make you act dizzy?”
“Oy,” Esther said.
“Nancy!” I cut in (before Esther could say any more). “We’re going to need more cups. Would you get them?”
“No problem!”
Esther held her head as Nancy dashed off. “That girl can’t possibly be that naive. It has to be an act—a really dizzy one.”