Choccywoccydoodah!

Sure there are things more healing and wholesome than chocolate. I do not know of any though. Call me an ignoramus or just stubborn, but really, what can stand tall in the way of a hard bar of dark chocolate, bittersweet, hell, like life itself! And have you ever seen a man, woman, old or young, resist the ultimate temptation for long?

This show on TLC has captured my rapt attention every evening after I'm back from work. It's called Choccywoccydoodah and profiles the daily exploits of a creative confectionery by the same name in the coastal town of Brighton that delivers custom-designed wedding and birthday cakes of every size and theme imaginable. I have never attributed my 'devotion to something afar' [god, my obsession with PB Shelley and my prospective tattoo are taking over] as when I do to this hour-long show. Choccywoccydoodah takes you through the motions of client profiles, the designing, the hard work of melting and etching and carving slabs of chocolate into sculptures of awe. Their goal, the beholder must go, "wow!"

Not many of us remember our first trysts with chocolate. No one really cares about its damn history either. But isn’t it amazing, when whether you’re pmsing, or need to get out of break up blues, or want some after-dinner मीठा, and chocolate suddenly acquires gargantuan dimensions of eminence in the scheme of things? So I’ve decided to put down five of my favourite chocolate desserts with which my spirit soared when the going was good and sailed me through when times decided to act tough.

Tiramisu

Before all of you pounce on me, yes yes, Tiramisu’s prime flavour is not cocoa, I’m aware. It’s only the side spike along with liquor skirting the strong incense of espresso soaked cookies slathered top ‘n bottom with heavenly cream. But as are all things Italian, aphrodisiacs are integral to our Miss T as well. The chocolate is not invasive; it’s just that light banter that verges on flirting with your palate whilst sending your senses on a gastronomic frenzy.

Belgian Dark Chocolate ice cream

This is a dessert I would never forget for I only had it in Hyderabad. The Cream Stone at Banjara Hills whipped up these dollops of rough, creamy and heavily textured Belgian Dark Chocolate ice cream with roasted peanuts crumbled for the extra effect. I believe both Baskin & Robbins and Scoops have the flavour, but they’re not quite there. Of course BDC (in thick Dharam pa’ji accent) became a staple for many a late night jaunts at the township with my roomies. Sushmita and I have walked eons since – she has a marriage for a milestone crossed, me a new city, and we still miss each other over the lecherous BDC!

Chocolate éclair

For long enough, Chocolate Éclairs made my post-split closure. I was even superstitious about it and never touched it until the end of another heart-breaking romance. The teenage therapy has now become a sacred affair every time I’m in Baroda. Goodies’ restaurant may have begun to suck big time, but their confectionary and bakery still rocks with the thick chocolate dipped palm-sized light cream stuffed pastry.

Hot Chocolate Fudge

I think every Delhiite swears by Nirula’s Hot Chocolate Fudge sundae with its insane toppings of roughly chopped peanuts cannot be had enough of. When I was first taught to have this ice cream, the principle to keep in mind – 10 seconds in the microwave and let it melt a little before you begin the feast! Now I just can’t have ice cream in its stony ice-crystal-ly form.

Chocolate Cookies

Subway probably made chocolate chip cookies ‘world famous in India’, but Hide-n-Seek brought them to the bag and haversack of every college-goer, budget traveller, and kiddie lunch box. They made it the go-to midnight snack for every hostelite inn her/ his rich days (read – the first three days of the month). And then of course there came the biscuit variants with Desire and Milano and now Oreo making it to the top of the elitist chocolate biscuit charts. And then humble old me chances upon a sidey confectioner at JM Road whose name I remember not, and decides to pick up a pack of chocolate cream cookies and voila! These turn out to be the mood lifters of the subsequent few days for both occupants of the office cabin along with friendly nibbles for those who care to visit.

Even as I wrap up this little missive about the to-die-for grain, infinite images of god awesome chocolate lendings come to mind. The chilli chocolate bar of which I had copious cups melted in milk, with Neel, and the Death-by-Chocolate at Chocolate Room and the chocolate mousse I devoured at Brugge’s early this week… Oh! Stop me!

Song for all seasons

Concert going audiences across this country, it can be safely concluded now, are alike. They can be identified explicitly by their body language. Something in their eyes, their gait, their stance speaks of their discernment. They may not walk straight, or walk at all, they may speak their strange dialects, they may squint despite bottle thick spectacles or stoop from being a genetically mad race, but they all know their ‘shit’.

If they have come especially for the concert, they’ll most definitely be at the very least jacketed or cocktail dressed, flannel trousered or silk stoled. If they have reading glasses, they will be tipped low on the bridges of their noses to read the evening’s programme. They will look for seats farthest from the exits and respect each movement with appropriate applause.

Even pre-performance drone will be in hushed whispers, not cacophonic banter, they will discuss common acquaintances too, but it all stems from a musical reference on the menu. Their next choice, if they’re young, will be jazz or opera. Somehow, Rahul Khanna’s Kabir in Wake Up Sid was highly reminiscent of this profile (of which I stole some snatches last evening with Anjie).

I was at a soprano performance on Saturday when these thoughts intermingled with my sense of gratitude to Aditya for probing me into making it even on my own (much like my good old MA-in-Hyderabad days) came visiting with soul-stirring music for background. Of course, Aditya as well as Veeram were of the opinion that I should have stuck to just enjoying my privilege. But perhaps it was a bigger kick for me to know that I could write with such superior music in the background. Sometimes the focal point of an event makes for stimulating background for another concurrent activity.

Patricia Rozario, Joanne D’Mello and Susanna Hurrel were accompanied by Mark Troop on the piano, bringing songs composed by Handel, Mozart, Bizet, Dvorak, Puccini, Johann Strauss II and more to my ears. More than the music, though, it was a bringing to fore of emotions from history like I may never know. These sopranos sing as if they express in song. The way you and I may animatedly describe our favourite books or films, or weep in excruciating melancholy or even scream in menacing rage.

And in the classical tradition of students carrying their teachers’ legacy a notch higher in quality, Joanne and Susanna carried forward what teacher Patricia probably taught them to toil after. The matronly Rosario on the other hand is no dull wad. Here’s a weathered voice rippling with experience not only of men, and the world, but also of being drenched in her own emotions, prodding all those who will listen or care, or both, to take that risk around the blind bend.

And Mark Troop’s piano work on the Bluthner brought back an old fantasy. Sometimes I imagined being in company of a pianist. One who knew what to do with his lambs and not stand around like a dandy. Nimble fingers, quick on feet. Always a tune on his notes stand, forever ready to break into a number. I recently realized pianists can be of the soul as well. Slender hands and lithe palms trace their way even in the most velvet darkness, a song that is meant only for me. Just like Saturday night.

What shall I say about the songs themselves? From the show, I mean. Mentioning each one would mean nothing. I’m an illiterate. But let it suffice to say that each one was sung with a certain abandonment of inhibition of the beholder: a flamboyance that was meant to be felt, rather than witnessed. The experience of so many travails, practicing in so many halls, trials in so many green rooms and post-performance cuisines from a hundred backstage dinners came through in the level of confidence each performance exuded.

After what also seems like an eternity of the commencement of my quest for the perfect live performance. Mazda Hall in the Dastur School compound seems to have presented itself as the prize for all the years of waiting, struggling through commutes, risking late nights, suffering some atrocious fusions and even more irksome pure forms, and worst of all, tolerating the most ill mannered and uninformed audiences in Hyderabad and Mumbai.

As I stood on the lawns outside the hall under an ominously beaming moon, I awaited the opening of the second part before leaving the delightful show. Yes, show. The women didn’t just sing, they enacted each song to the hilt. They became the song. They became Cleopatra, Juliet, queen and pauper…