I, like most Westerners, have been led to believe that a woman wants chocolate like a man wants sex. But I’m not nuts about chocolate; I am outside the sisterhood of the travelling truffle. After a long day at work, I don’t want Godiva and a glass of wine; I crave bread and cheese with tea, or ramen with friends.
So I wonder if this is what women who have intense chocolate cravings actually picture when they eat chocolate, or consider when deciding which chocolate to buy: Was this lovingly made by a handsome foreign chef who, if we ever ran into each other in a market on a sleepy Sunday morning in a small hamlet in France, would have something to talk about because I saw him on this box at Ralphs that one time? Yes. I will buy and eat this chocolate over all others because this one was made my the gorgeous, Caucasian, whisk-wielding father of our inevitably brilliant future offspring.
This doesn’t strike me as a reasonable thought process (especially since I think we all know that there is no way in hell every single piece of this chocolate was pain-stakingly filled with more chocolate by some high-paid chocolatier with a fucking whisk), but it’s chocolate, not rocket science. Reason is not exactly part of the equation.