Whether or not there are as many isoflavones/antioxidants in the average chocolate bar as was previously thought, there is no doubt the beloved chocolate, savior of our existence, is packed with some other very cool ingredients, such as:
caffeine, which works to reduce swelling of tired muscles, and sugar for short
term energy, and tryptophan, which is what makes you sleepy when you eat turkey at Thanksgiving. There's also a sex drug called phenylethylamine.
This delightful chemical is what science types refer
to as the "chocolate amphetamine." This is why nothing beats dark
chocolate after sex; the sugar gets your post-orgasm blood flowing again, and
the phenylethylamine gooses the post-coitus high. Here's an interesting tidbit:
the ancients Aztecs used cocoa beans as money! They used gold like it was dry
wall, but cocoa was the cigarettes in the jail of their existence.
This would all be great news, except that I like my chocolate to be made in Pennyslvania instead of Germany, and readily available at the local deli for 75 cents, full of nuts (just like Pennsylvania) but no doubt lacking in the phenylethylamine department. As for those Dark Lindt numbers that boast 85% or 70% cocoa in proud white letters on their labels, I can attest to their effect in my own sparkling sex life. But when there ain't no woman around, when it's just me and my Woody Allen stress, I go for the Snickers or Mr. Goodbar, as they both cause and cure, in the true American way.
Those
American chocolate bars, though they got me through the unbearable New
York City heat wave of the past few days, also have left me with a bit
of a gut. Me, who runs up and down his four flights of stairs to his
little studio apartment in the East Village! The trouble is, that urban
stress coupled with simple economics – a GIANT bar of Hershey's with
almonds is cheaper than a small little Lindts. You do the math. But
then I just gulp down half a five ounce Mr. Goodbar while looking
anxiously through my DVD collection and finally settling on nothing.
I've seen it all before, and so nervously I pace around my room. And
then while checking my email for Friendster responses, and getting
none, the other half of this giant sugar catastrophe vanishes.
So then what is left in my refrigerator? A perfectly dignified half of a three ounce bar of Guylian Belgian Dark Chocolate which I bought about a month ago and which has been patiently cooling it's heels in my fridge ever since. Sure, it's dark and pungent and no doubt so rich in tryptophan and phenylethylamine that a single little chocolate square will wipe clean a whole summer Monday worth of stress, but who cares? It's European; it's respectable; it's boring.
But here's where Nutella comes in. For those who don't know, let me school you on this
hazelnut and chocolate spread the European kids all love over there. It
can usually be found near the peanut butter in your non-average grocery
store, and it's sweet enough to be a good yin to the austere and bitter
yang of the dark chocolate (Note:
don’t put the Nutella in the refrigerator after it's opened – put it in
the kitchen cabinet in plain sight so when you open the door to get
sugar for their coffee, your guests think you're European).
Break
up the big squares of an 85% Lindt and spread a bit of Nutella on it,
the way you might put cream cheese on a ritz cracker, then arrange the
squares in an Escher-esque pattern on an ordinary small plate, garnish
with strawberries if available, and serve with either after dinner
coffee, chamomille tea, or Bombay Gin on the rocks with lime.
While
sweet and galvanizing, this is not the sort of thing you're going to
eat three bars of before collapsing into a heap of sugar-buzzed guilt.
Without Nutella, dark chocolate is like an ambassador to the U.N.,
rational, effective, pungent and non-habit forming. Two or three square
max and you'll have forgotten all about the remaining ones, as you'll
be too fascinated by your own toes, or someone else's.
For some reason, though, that sort of contentment can be a downer for me, when I'm alone at any rate. An all-American choco-mofo like me likes to eat the way a wolf eats, ravenous and distracted by the televison. Though that quality Belgian stuff is potent and I feel like a real adult having it around, nothing says "U.S.A." quite like devouring an entire 5 oz. Mr. Goodbar while readjusting to your home after a night on the town. Where the Belgian chocolate ends the craving, the Mr. Goobar merely fuels it. It’s a Bud Light instead of one of those dark beers with a monk on the label, white bread instead of health nut; American cheese food instead of cheese. In the supermarket of life, a real American like me will choose life substitute.
What is it about being an American that makes eating the junky, processed alternative to something real and good (read:European) so much more pleasurable? Sure, we can ween ourselves off Big Macs and mac and cheese and start going to those trendy markets patronized by composed Swiss nannies, and we can learn the names of purple edged lettuces and how to tell if the pine nuts are Spanish or Italian, but we know we're selling out; somewhere a blonde bearded biker is shedding a tear as the American flag bandanna once wrapped proudly around his head falls off and spirals limply to the broken earth.
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