Seduction
Do you know any place that serves Mexican hot chocolate? I ask the driver.
My girlfriends and I sit squished like marshmallows inside an Uber that emanates with the tangy combination of athletic socks and air freshener.
Can’t say I do, the driver says. Never really think much about hot cocoa in Austin, Texas.
I suppose this makes sense on some level, but I am determined.
Once, long ago in a café somewhere in the Yucatan peninsula, I drank a singularly sensory cup of traditional Mexican hot chocolate. Until that moment, I’d never imagined myself swimming inside of a drink; but had I been able to backstroke within those exquisite eddies of dark chocolate, vanilla, cinnamon, and ancho chili pepper, I surely would have.
That particular cup of hot chocolate glowed in my brain like a warm lava lamp for more than two decades. Now, many years later, I want to replicate the seduction for myself and my girlfriends, while on vacation in Austin.
The ingredients of seduction are fairly straightforward: time and place are important, mood is essential. We’ve got all three going for us, I tell my girlfriends.
It’s autumn in Austin: the city is festooned with colorful banners; and the streets bustle with tourists, music, food, and art. All over town, restaurants have set out altars speckled with religious candles, beaded necklaces, and vibrant textiles, mesmerizing the patrons who eagerly await the promise of a table, while the smell of Mexican cooking wafts through the air.
My girlfriends and I find a funky taqueria, which I’m hopeful will serve the same kind of intoxicating confection I remember. Alas, despite the establishment’s authentic cuisine, I notice a box of powdered Nestle Abuelita on the back kitchen counter and my optimism dims. As suspected, the hot chocolate is thin and watery. I am deflated, and my girlfriends (I sense) are now mildly suspicious of my memory.
Still, we press on with my passion project. Back at the Airbnb we rented for our long weekend together, I strive to simulate my fleeting, cocoa-dusted dream. But supplies are meager: a few crunchy, old envelopes of Swiss Miss, 2% milk, some mini packets of black pepper, a sprinkle of ground cinnamon. Drinkable, to be sure, but not what I’d hoped for.
The moment passes and our collective interest wanes. My girlfriends and I return to our respective homes and lives, and the calendar rolls on. Even I begin to doubt the reality of my memory.
Until November 1st of the following year, on the Day of the Dead.
It’s a weird and windy late afternoon. My husband is at the gym, and I’m home alone. Outside, autumn leaves whip around in circles before carpeting the ground in a tapestry of rust and gold reminding me of the low-lit altars back in Austin.
Bare branches tap at the windowpane, summoning me like bony fingers. Even my own Polish ancestors, who wouldn’t have even known such a thing as Mexican hot chocolate even existed, implore me from the stillness of picture frames. Try…try again.
Time and place are important. Mood is essential.
I find an online recipe for Mexican hot chocolate and vigorously commit myself to technique—but more importantly, time.
Grate a cup of dark cocoa nibs.
Melt nibs long and slow into a pot of hot, whole milk.
Whisk in dark cocoa powder and sugar.
Infuse with split vanilla bean and a cinnamon stick.
Just before serving, brighten with hot Ancho chili pepper.
Luxuriate in the pour.
One hour later, the liquid folds into my mug like a long, brown velvet ribbon. All defenses are abandoned. This is no mere cup of hot chocolate: it is perfume, as ancient and deep as the power of memory.
I swim in the currents of cocoa, reveling in the long-sought reward of my heroine’s journey. Sometimes we must orchestrate our own seduction.
