When I moved to Paris at age 21, I arrived with an imperfect and shamefully limited palate and pedestrian tastes. I was acutely aware of how much I would have to learn about food to feel connected to my new home. To my husband, it was as if I had been living out only a portion of life. How could I not intrinsically appreciate the diversity in cheese, produce, meat and fish? How could I have subsisted on two-to-three-max ingredient dishes for so long? I didn’t have very good answers at the time, except to say that I was finicky to a fault (and damnit, my parents didn’t push me hard enough!), but I was eager to let my adopted city, with its culinary legacy and population of erudite eaters, impart its many lessons on me.
If there is a taste I developed and honed quickly, it was, unsurprisingly, for chocolate. Reared on Hershey’s, Reese’s (which still hold a nostalgic place in my heart) and all manner of artificial chocolate bar, it was a veritable sensory awakening when I was given my first piece of artisanal chocolate. I experienced earthy, red fruit and peppery notes that I didn’t think were possible…
