I believe I’ve hinted here before that, while I’m no teetotaler, I’m generally incapable of drinking more than one alcoholic beverage a night. Give me a glass of chardonnay or rosé, or a Corona, and I’m content… for the next three or four hours.
Give me a glass of hard liquor, though, and I’ll hand it back to you straight away. And I don’t mean empty. I simply cannot stomach strong drinks, much as I’d like to close my eyes and wake up in the world of Mad Men.
I should have known the following chocolate wouldn’t be up my alley, but alas! I was fooled by my prior enjoyment of the Baileys Irish Cream bar.
Villars Larmes de Poire Williams
Translated as “Swiss Milk Chocolate with Williamspear-Brandyfilling”, I broke off a pod of this chocolate with no small measure of enthusiasm. For some reason, I thought pear brandy would work for me. And at first, it almost did.
The chocolate pods are quite large and, inside, contain a sugar shell that protects the chocolate from the Poire Williams liquid filling. My first taste highlighted a strong sweetness, a definitive kick of alcohol, and a smooth creaminess in the chocolate itself.
With the second pod, I popped the whole thing in my mouth to see what would happen.
I lost all ability to enjoy this. The explosion of brandy on my tongue when the chocolate dissolved was too much for me, as I found the alcohol harsh and overpowering. Still, I persevered in the hopes of catching nuances in the chocolate and convincing myself that I could be a sophisticated enjoyer-of-brandy.
There comes a moment in a girl’s life when she has to accept that certain flavours aren’t pleasurable to her. For me, this moment came when I realised I’d eaten nine pods in the following way:
Step 1: Nibble off corner.
Step 2: Tap pod against plate vigorously and repeatedly, forcing out as much liquid filling as possible.
Step 3: Eat empty chocolate pod, grimacing at remnants of brandy.
Yep. Stupid, right? Particularly when the milk chocolate wasn’t great. Eventually I came to my senses, threw out the rest of the bar with a sigh, and cleansed my palate with some trustworthy Michel Cluizel.
Can’t win ’em all, folks. Can’t win ’em all.