The Chocolatier – Part 1: Tempering

"Stop stirring," said Lotte.

"I'm tempering."

"You're panicking." Lotte took the spatula gently out of Sanne's hand. "Chocolate knows."

It was seven in the morning in a narrow shop in Ghent, with canal light on the windows and copper pans gleaming on the wall. Sanne, thirty-one, a food writer from Amsterdam, had arranged a week of research and expected a few quotes and a tray of samples. Instead she was wearing a stiff white apron, holding a bowl of dark chocolate at precisely the wrong temperature, and being quietly corrected by a woman she could not stop looking at.

Lotte, thirty-five, was the chocolatier. She had silver rings on every finger, flour-white wrists and a smile that arrived slowly. She stood behind Sanne, reached around, and guided her hands through the folding motion. "Smooth. Patient. Like you are not afraid of it."

"I'm a little afraid of it."

"I can tell." Lotte's voice was warm near her ear. "It's only chocolate. It forgives."

By Wednesday Sanne had stopped taking notes. By Thursday she was staying after closing, helping wash the copper pans, then drinking hot chocolate at the long wooden counter with the lights low.

"What will you write about me?" asked Lotte.

"That you are generous. That you laugh at my mistakes. That I've never wanted to fail at something so much."

"That is a strange thing to want."

"Then I'd have a reason to stay for another lesson."

Lotte put down her cup. "You do not need a reason. Would you like to stay tonight, Sanne? Only if you do."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Dark and Sweet.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Dark and Sweet.