Chocoholics Unite!

Saturday was a beautiful day in London. The air was crisp and fresh and the sun shone brilliantly, turning the sky deep turquoise. Autumn in London is just as gorgeous as it is back on the Homeworld.

And what more perfect way could there be to celebrate Autumn in London than a tour of her most delicious chocolatieries? Frankly, I can't think of any.

I met up with the London Chocolate Group at the gates of Hyde Park and we wended our way through the shining streets (It's a posh part of town, so things tend to sparkle.) to the adorable Rococo.

Warning: Site contains scenes of a chocolaty nature and may incite thoughts of a covetous nature.

Rococo was first opened 26 years ago in London by a French lady who decided the British didn't know how to do chocolate properly. She had a point. Cadbury was king, and while Cadbury has it's own charm, it's essentially the British version of Hersheys. Comparing Cadbury (or Hersheys, for that matter) to Rococo is like comparing a rusted out, beat up, 80s era pinto to the sleek Bond-fave Aston Martin. There IS no comparison.

After a brief chat about the founding of Rococo and the making of chocolate, we were handed 'round samples of manna from Heaven. I mean chocolate.

We started off with a couple different varieties of dark chocolate followed by some milk chocolate. Then it was on to the jazzy stuff with dark chocolate infused with rosewater, milk chocolate spiced with nutmeg, cinnamon and clove, dark chocolate with chili (I kid you not, and yes, it was delish!), and white chocolate with cardamom (to sooth the mouth after the chili). Then came the truffles: chocolate, walnut and fig, passion fruit and mango.

The chocolates melted over the tongue, swirling over the palate in a joyous dance. Ah, chocolate, how we love thee! I'm pretty sure heaven has a Rococo store. Only everything is free.

To walk off at least one of the truffles, we rolled ourselves out the door and headed to Kensington and Demarquette. This guy is nuts about his chocolate and sources all ingredients himself. He even has his own beehives in France and uses the honey to sweeten the chocolate in lieu of sugar.

As passionate as he was, I just didn't find his chocolates as tasty as those at Rococo. It's not to say I didn't enjoy it, I just enjoyed Rococo's more! It could be in part because his prices nearly sent me to the cardiac unit. Good chocolate costs and I'm ok with that. I am not ok with having to sell a kidney in order to afford said chocolate.

On to Harrod's Chocolate Bar! It's tight and cramped and overflowing with tourists. It does, however, have some seriously deadly hot chocolate. I had mine infused with rosewater (I've a thing for the flowers.). Divine! Though Beth and I decided we'd have to come back for the chocolate fondue sometime...

All in all it was a lovely day out. I met some great people, had a nice stroll about London, and let's face it, I ate some darn good chocolate. And that, my peeps, is really what's important. ;-)

Will Walk For Chocolate

This weekend holds some excitement. Saturday afternoon I'm joining The London Chocolate Group for a chocolate walking tour. You read right. A walking tour which involves chocolate.

Last year I joined a site called Meetup.com. Wherever you live in the world, whatever your interests, there's probably a group for that. Live in Los Angeles and love to Salsa? There's a group for that. Live in Paris and love coffee? There's a group for that. Originally from New York, but just moved to Rome? Yep, there's a group. Living in Outer Mongolia (Ahem. I mean, northern Idaho.)and into knitting? Probably, yes.

Anyway, one of the groups I belong to is for chocolate lovers, of which I am one. Unfortunately I've never been able to make it to a meetup. At least, until this Saturday.

Apparently we meet at an agreed location and stroll through town, popping into pre-selected chocolaterieres for chocolate "talks" and samples. Sounds like heave to me!

A'bathing We Will Go

As some of you may recall, I blogged about my first trip to Bath back in April of 2007. Pretty much, I loved the place. Unfortunately, other than a drive by with Lili and Shirley, I hadn't been back until this September.

This time I decided, come hell or high water, I was going to visit the Thermae Bath Spa and pamper myself properly. After all, when in Rome...

The hot springs in bath are the only hot springs found in the UK, so you can imagine the Romans (bathing addicts that they were) went pretty nuts about it. Hence the settlement of Aquae Sulis, which still stands today. Only we call it Bath.

You know me and my history thing. Not only have I got to hit every single bit of Really Old Roman... um... Stuff... within a 100 mile radius, I have to know just what exactly they did there. Which is probably why I adore R. S. Downie's mystery novels about a "Roman medic and reluctant sleuth" stationed in ancient Britain during the Roman occupation (The author actually lives not to far from my former abode in Denham and I've talked shop with her via email. Very nice lady.). But I digress...

I found myself with my bag slung over my shoulder, tromping through cobbled streets, the golden Bath stone of Georgian walls glowing softly in the gloomy gray afternoon. The sheer glass walls of the spa sparkled before me, the dichotomy of ultra modern surrounded by time-mellowed Georgian works in an odd sort of way. The air, heavy with mist from the geothermal springs, tickles my nose. This I remember well. Even the name, Thermae Bath Spa, denotes it's ancient origins. Thermae was the word the Romans used for their bathing complexes, the ruins of which still stand mere feet from the modern spa.

Like the Roman legions before me, I gird myself with toga and sandals (Ok, bathrobe and slippers.) and with fluffy towel clutched to my chest, I head for the hot springs. Unlike the Romans before me, I take the elevator. To the roof.

Admittedly, this picture was taken on a much nicer day, but I am undaunted by roiling black clouds. I am made of sterner stuff. The roof top pool is amazing, though only about room temp. Downright chilly on such a gloomy afternoon, but I soon get used to it and bob along calmly, enjoying the view. At least until the dark clouds turn to rain clouds and I head for warmer climes.

Another elevator ride takes me here:

The belly of the beast, as it were. The air is thick and heavy with the zing of minerals and the beautifully warm water stings my bare legs (Note to self: Next time don't shave the morning you plan to hit the hot springs.). I find a warm bubbling corner and relax with my own bright-blue pool noodle.

After awhile the clouds open up and dump rain on the city of Bath. I love it as the ceiling above is made of glass and I can see and hear the rain splatting against the steel and glass, but I am warm and dry. Well, not dry, but certainly warm. And drowsy. And very reluctant to leave when my 2 hour session is over, despite the fact I've turned downright pruny.

I drowsily make my way back to my little changing stall and get myself dried off and back in my street clothes, my very un-Roman swim suit safely sealed in a plastic bag. Still drowsy, I hit the now sunny street and the bright, fresh air.

No wonder the Romans dug this place so much.