On cocoa and airports

It is mid-morning, time for my cocoa break, and my thoughts logically turn to cocoa experiences on the road.

A cup of cocoa at an airport Starbucks was predictably disappointing. While not more overpriced than normal, the pale drink was bland enough that even Number One took one sip and asked, “Is there any chocolate in here?” I was relieved to know it wasn’t just me, but the long line at the counter (the fog had delayed many flights other than ours) dissuaded me from returning and demanding more chocolate.

As I reach into the cupboard for cocoa, I hesitate between Ghirardelli and Green & Black. Against my better judgment, I took the boys to Ghirardelli Square, which one tour guide now rates as “nothing more than a shopping mall.” The child in me recalls the factory that produced chocolate stars, and if you were lucky, Mom would spring for the little cardboard box shaped like the chocolate factory. The chocolate tastes different, and the place has truly become a tourist trap. I caved and bought the kids overpriced ice cream (at least it was Dreyer’s, from Berkeley); while we were waiting, Number One noted that a waitress was assembling a massive clutch of balloons in the back corner. Hoping to avoid a balloon Grinch incident I hailed our wait staff, and let her know of my allergy, but to no avail. Ten bites into my eight-dollar sundae, the latex-bearing waitress headed straight to our alcove. I picked up my bag and dashed to the nearest exit, but the clueless cookie followed, wanting to ask how far away she needed to be to keep from causing a reaction. If she’d had an ounce of sense, she would have been able to deduce the correct distance by how far from her I kept backing away—on the sidewalk. And Little One was clearly torn: here was his well-earned ice cream, and leaving it wasn’t something he wanted to do. Balloon Lady was standing between us, waving kryptonite at this Mama Bear. Not a good situation.

Then Number One, now officially a teenager, did something to make my heart soar: he barked at the waitress, forcing her to back off, then proceeded to find a paper cup and transfer Little One’s ice cream sundae to it. Unable to locate a spoon, he grabbed a straw. I am immensely proud of his composure in this situation, especially given that I would think having your mother freaking out on the sidewalk would be socially mortifying. I do have to add that I was extremely disappointed at the restaurant: no wait staff offered to help him, or even acknowledged that there was a problem that might require a manager (or a refund). Even the surly cable car brakemen could teach them something about customer service.

On the last day of the conference, my favorite waiter added a few cocoa packets to the breakfast buffet. Nestlé’s in a pouch is not my idea of real cocoa (nor is anything declaring “just add water” truly food), but I discovered it could be made relatively palatable with the addition of cream from the coffee station.

I decide on the Ghirardelli this morning, but make a note to myself to try the Dagoba drinking chocolate that I’ve seen appearing on market shelves recently. They’re in Ashland, and they may have the space on the shelf that was once reserved for my childhood.