return and report: hot chocolate edition

After the last post (yikes--that was a while ago), I have taken upon myself the very serious and heavy responsibility of hunting down the best hot chocolate in London. I have amassed quite a bit of information since then (at least about the hot chocolate available around my flat and along my route to the library), though I still have a long and not-so-arduous investigative path ahead of me. I shall update accordingly.

I preface this list with a bit of an explanation: I am quite picky about my hot chocolate. This does not mean that I turn up my nose at the powdered variety--rather, it means that I have an unswerving devotion to Nestle's Rich Milk Chocolate (5 spoonfuls, stirred into water), and have exceeding great difficulty choking down Erik's preferred Swiss Miss. Sister #4 is a devotee of Stephen's, for which I've never really been able to muster up any great affection.

The Cadbury's mix here is serviceable, as long as you get the one that requires milk (the water one is fairly revolting), but it's fairly sweet. To be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for in this great hunt of mine. I like the chocolate fairly to quite dark and extremely pronounced, I like the consistency to be on the thick side, and I don't like a pronounced milkiness. I also like it served extremely hot. And so, that said, in no particular order:

(Most of these run from 2.50 - 3.00)

British Library
This is the worst hot chocolate I have ever had in my entire life. It tastes like perfumed dish soap. It makes me want to die.

Senate House cafe
Cadbury's variety, so fine. Also, cheap.

The Haberdashery (Crouch End)
Excellent. Fairly dark and exceedingly thick--by the time you get to the bottom of the bowl, it's a bit like drinking chocolate pudding. Bonus: when I went in, I discovered after ordering that I didn't have my wallet. They gave it to me anyway. (And a tip: you don't order at the till. You stand awkwardly at the entrance and they show you to a table.) 2.70

Bread & Bean (Archway)
Fine. A little lukewarm, a little milky.

Coffee Circus (Crouch End branch)
Pretty good, though a little on the lukewarm side. The regular isn't anything hugely striking, but go for the chili version, which makes it a bit like mexican hot chocolate.

Bean About Town (Tufnell Park station)
What I remember mostly about this is that it was freezing and rainy and this was hot. So I think it was good. Not the greatest, but good.

Caffe Mike (Kentish Town)
Lukewarm, Cadbury's. Apparently I should go back for the pastries.

Chorak (East Finchley)
I don't remember much about this, except that, once again, it was freezing and raining and I desperately needed something hot because I had forgotten my Oyster Card and was trying to walk to church and took a wrong turn and it was several miles later and I didn't have a coat on and I vaguely recall this not quite hitting the spot--so a bit weak and a bit lukewarm.

Ronis Bagel Bakery (Belsize Park)
I came here on a rather strange day, when I had gone to see about a flat and ended up listening to the landlord talk about his recently deceased mother and the injustices of the inheritance tax for over an hour. I stopped by Ronis on my way back as part of my great bagel quest. Once again, it was freezing and raining, and the hot chocolate was a bit on the lukewarm (and small) side. Decent, though I expected a bit more from the upscale-ness of the place (which surprised me, it being a bagel bakery, but, then again, it is Belsize Park) and the price. Pretty good, though.

La Gourmandina (Bloomsbury)
I stopped by here on yet another cold and rainy day because I was freezing and the chalkboard outside said 'best hot chocolate in London.' It's an upscale French/Italian deli/cafe/restaurant. They asked if I wanted the hot chocolate French style or Italian--apparently the former is milkier, and the latter (for which I opted) is thicker. Anyway, it was quite good, though on the small and expensive side, and not as thick as I thought it would be given the description.

Paul A. Young Fine Chocolate (Soho)
I stopped at this exceedingly fancy chocolate shop after a rather superb performance of the St Matthew Passion. They keep the chocolate warming in some sort of pot by the window, and serve it 'Aztec style', which apparently means that it's made with water rather than milk. They have a host of spices that you can add. I told the guy just to add his favorite, so he put in cinnamon, ginger, and black cardamom, and, frankly, I was a bit underwhelmed--in large part because the spices sort of overwhelmed. So I guess it was partly my fault for letting them add so many spices, but it was all just a bit too floral for me. Also, exceedingly pricey and exceedingly small, and I expected more of a chocolate hit.

Sacred Coffee Cart (Bloomsbury)
I guess there is a kind of order to this list, because I'm ending with my favorite (so far). It's a tiny coffee stand on Torrington Square right behind the Warburg. It's thick and seriously chocolatey, but not cloying. Halfway through pouring in the milk, they stop and sprinkle in more chocolate. It's decently priced and large and I think I like it even more than Ruby and Violet and it's delicious.

on the necessity of excluding hot chocolate from a lenten sugar fast

I woke up on the loveseat this morning knowing that it was going to be a dismal day. It wasn't because I slept on the couch, fully clothed, since that's where I sleep more often than not. But there's waking up on the couch and there's waking up on the couch, and this was definitely the latter. It wasn't that I was angry (though there have been moments today when I've been furious, at all the usual suspects). I just knew I'd be miserable. That I wouldn't get anything done, once again. That the whole day would be suffused with a sense of dread and heaviness.

It's probably because the sun was out today.

Anyway, after forcing myself down to the library, I finally realized after staring out the window for a few hours that I should just give up and head home. And so I dragged myself down the stairs and began the 4.5-mile trek home.

It turns out that once you manage to dodge all the tourists and the shrieking, carefully sullen eye-linered teenagers populating the blight that is Camden, head up the very long and gradual hill of Kentish Town, skirt by the last of the die-hard British punks as they carry their amps into the Boston Music Room, and begin the penultimate leg of your journey through a motley jumble of off-license shops, take-outs, and cozily wall-papered pubs (at least through the windows), you happen upon a tiny slice of dairy heaven on Fortess Road. Sidestep the babbling toddlers and the enormous prams (takes only two to fill up the minute storefront), and order a hot chocolate. It will seem ages until the cheerful but slightly harassed-seeming (the toddlers are loud) girl brings your chocolate out, but that gives you plenty of time to lust the salted caramel ice cream and the blood orange sorbet (or is it the rhubarb ice cream and the lemon and cardamon sorbet?). And then she finally brings it out and you take a sip and it turns out that the whole thing is nothing but melted chocolate--no milk, no sugar, just gently melted straight chocolate, for less than starbucks' burnt-coffee-insult-to-humanity--and as you make your way through Archway, pausing every three steps for another glug, suddenly the moments don't feel so excruciating after all.

And then you stop at the charity shop and find nestled among the trashy romances and pseudo-historical novels a copy of mimesis in danish, which strikes you as hilarious.

shop of the day (oxford edition)

sun of a beach tanning.

moving day (in which it is discovered that london is not, despite most appearances, flat)

as i staggered up the hill to our new flat tonight on my third moving trip of the last 24 hours, i was trying to decide whether pushing or pulling the bulging food cart was less likely to shred my insistently protesting tendons. of course, having been duly reared on the children's songbook, right on cue 'some must push and some must pull' leapt into my head, accompanied by its faithful companion, pioneer-guilt: 'at least you aren't pulling a handcart.' but then, in a moment of inspiration, i finally hit upon a successful counter to the 25-odd years of generational shame born of my inescapable physical, emotional, and spiritual enervation in comparison to my ancestors' indomitable fortitude:

the pioneers didn't have to take the tube.

yes, they did face the wyoming hinterlands. but the northern line at rush hour, pack-muling all one's belongings in various contrivances that insist on encroaching on others' personal space and then making a run for it? when standing at the bottom of 3 flights of grimy, slightly fetid stairs as one lurches through london's labyrinthine bowels, nebraska sounds awfully refreshing.

on a more positive note, i can actually hear a bird outside my window. i think it might even be a nightingale. we're obviously not in whitechapel anymore (i'm in mourning for rinkoff's.).