Chapter Eight
EIGHT
CHARLIE
The Tasting Room is like the automats of old his grandparents used to tell him about, except only for chocolate.
Each table is pressed up against a wall of rainbow-colored, rectangular compartments. A tablet pops out from the table and asks what you’d like to try. Dario prompts Charlie to go first.
“What do I say?” he asks, amazed at the technology.
“Anything your heart desires. We have old treats, new treats, and treats not yet put to market. If we don’t have what you’re craving, our taste lab will concoct something close to what you desire,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows, letting his chin rest on the backs of his clasped hands.
The posture and the direct eye contact make Charlie’s heart squeeze a little.
Charlie rolls through his memory bank of favorite flavors. Saliva floods his mouth. While he’s partial to the classic Amorina bar, he is not averse to trying something specially made for him. “How about dark chocolate with marshmallow and peanut butter?”
The words appear one at a time on the tablet.
A rainbow circle whirls before the name “Snowtop Truffle” glitters across the screen.
Whizzing sounds emanate from behind the wall and then a drawer pops open.
A springy tray slides out with a single truffle on it.
It is about the size of a quarter and pointy at the top like a mountain peak.
The marshmallow is drizzled across the smooth exterior.
“It’s almost too pretty to eat,” says Charlie.
“It’s meant to be eaten,” says Dario. “I would be offended if you let it go to waste.”
Charlie was not expecting this much alone time with the chocolate maker right off the bat, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Unless that mouth is trying to steal his Snowtop Truffle, which he devours whole.
The outer shell melts on his tongue, and the sweetness of the chocolate and marshmallow topping give way to the saltiness of the smooth peanut butter that must be made right here on the premises because it’s so fresh.
“These are artisan batch chocolates, made closer to the way my great-great-grandmother made her first chocolates in the family bakery. From the stories I’ve heard, she was very experimental with her concepts, so I asked my grandfather to hire a group of young, excitable chocolatiers to breathe fresh life into Amorina,” Dario explains.
“Who better to give them ideas than the chocolate lovers who come from all over the world to try out our Tasting Room?”
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Charlie says.
Dario’s cheeks grow pink beneath his smattering of light facial hair.
“That’s how I pitched it to my nonno. Selfishly, it’s a bid for a better sustainability score for the company and a healthier global impact.
There is a ton of waste in chocolate production.
It is a greenhouse gas intensive food. I don’t want my family business to be the reason my children suffer an inevitable heat death. ”
“You want children, then?” Charlie asks, filing this tidbit away.
“I meant if I have children.” Dario’s ears pinken the same shade as his cheeks. “I like the idea of keeping Amorina in the Cotogna family, should there still be an Earth to keep Amorina going on by then.”
“You’re making me feel guilty about wanting to order another chocolate,” Charlie says, eyeing the wall of wonder hiding such scrumptious delights.
Dario makes a clicking sound, and his eyes spark with some idea. “No guilt needed for this next one. Let me order for you,” Dario says before whispering some Italian words into the microphone on the tablet.
A single square of chocolate appears on the next platter.
Charlie inspects it, sensing he’s missing something. “Isn’t this just the regular Amorina bar? I mean, I’m not complaining. I love them…”
“Try it and you tell me,” Dario says, something unnamable glinting in his eyes.
Charlie lets the square linger on his tongue. The flavor remains rich and decadent, but he can tell that the recipe isn’t right. “I like it. It’s good. But it’s not a typical Amorina bar. I’ve had enough of them to tell. Is it…sugar-free?”
“Close!” Dario says, seeming delighted. “I have hired a team of scientists to research uses for more of the cocoa fruit. Seventy-five percent of it gets thrown away in the production process like the husks and the pulp. That kind of waste is unconscionable for an operation as big as ours. I have tasked this specific team with developing creative ways to reduce our eco footprint by adding those parts back into the chocolate-making process. Here, they’ve created a syrup as a sugar replacement meant to replicate our standard flavor. ”
“Hmm,” Charlie says before licking his fingers clean. “Pretty tasty knowing all that.”
Clearly pleased, Dario orders Charlie another. When Charlie bites it, the initial flavor is jarring. “Oh, uh, I’m not sure about this one.”
If he were not trying to win Dario’s affections, he might spit the rest out in one of the compostable napkins stacked nearby. Instead, he muscles through and swallows with a weak smile.
Dario nods, orders a second, and tastes it himself. He barely conceals his own cringe. “What about it isn’t working for you?” he asks.
“It smells like chocolate, but it tastes too tart? I’m not sure that’s the word I’m looking for,” Charlie says.
Dario pulls a small notebook from his pocket and writes down the word TART. He underlines it several times, which makes Charlie feel like his opinion is important.
“That’s good data to have. You see, cocoa only grows in specific climates.
Due to global warming and deforestation, it’s becoming harder to import.
What people don’t realize is that the familiar flavors of chocolate come out through the roasting and fermenting processes, not so much the cocoa bean itself.
Here, our scientists and artisan chocolate makers are working to find a substitute for the cocoa bean.
What else can we roast and ferment to make chocolate?
” he says with mounting enthusiasm. “It might take years to perfect, and many of our competitors are ahead of us, but I think it’s worth the investment and time if we can lessen our carbon footprint with a subset of cocoa-less products. ”
Charlie was never any good at science, but this all makes overwhelming sense to him. “For a chocolate maker, you seem very excited about not-chocolate.”
A glittery feeling spangles inside Charlie’s chest. The whole plane ride over, he assumed he would meet with some standoffish, Lothario billionaire only concerned about the dollars and cents of selling candy. Dario clearly cares about the world at large and is kind of a nerd about it, which is…hot?
Dario licks his pink lips.
Oh, yeah. Definitely hot.
“Not-chocolate is, dare I say, the future of chocolate.” A shadow of contemplation falls over Dario’s face.
“Sounds fake, but I like your passion,” Charlie says. “Mind if I order a normal chocolate now to get this taste off my tongue? It’s starting to sour on me.”
“By all means,” Dario says. “Change does not happen in a day.”
A pleasingly pink confection with swirls of white and grooves of flower petals pops out of the wall. Sweet hibiscus leads the flavors marching along Charlie’s tongue. “Delicious. I’m even tasting some vanilla in here.”
“We haven’t come up with a name for that one yet,” says Dario.
“A rose by any other name would taste as sweet. That play takes place in Italy,” Charlie says, recalling his freshman year English class where he played Romeo in his graded scene presentation.
He got an A, but everybody who actually memorized their lines got an A, so that wasn’t saying too much about his acting skills.
He thought he might need to deploy every ounce of those acting skills to show interest in the chocolate maker, but Dario has made such a strong impression that every interaction has been effortless and comfortable, no performing necessary.
“The scene is laid in fair Verona. Not Perugia,” says Dario.
“But you could call it The Juliet, or something. I don’t know. Just an idea,” Charlie says, self-consciousness creeping into his voice. Dario is a professional, international businessman; he doesn’t want to hear Charlie’s silly thoughts about candy names.
“I really like that,” Dario says, and it sounds sincere. But Charlie still clams up, afraid he’s overstepped. Dario opens his notebook again.
“What’s in there?” Charlie asks, unable to stanch the flow of his curiosity too long.
“Pages of ideas. Everything from the good and the bad, to the outlandish and the simple. My grandfather used to do it, so now I do it as well. He used to say, ‘Tutto fa brodo,’ which means ‘Everything makes broth.’”
“Broth?” Charlie asks, slightly stumped by the connection.
“Every little thing counts toward the big picture. The smallest idea can be the biggest innovation if you believe in it,” says Dario, smiling in a way that makes his handsome face even handsomer.
Charlie has always found passionate people deeply sexy.
Plus, there is a manliness to Dario’s slightly crinkled eyes and facial hair but a boyishness to his rounded, bouncy cheeks and colorful outfits.
At once, Dario seems both wise beyond his years and as playful as a newborn kitten.
That duality is intriguing; it makes him want to lean in and look closer.
What other contrasting traits might make up this successful man?
“I keep a notebook on me at all times, too,” Charlie says, producing his sketchbook with a small charcoal pencil wedged through the spiral, top-side binding.
“Great minds,” Dario says, eyebrows rising and smile expanding.
“You must really love this business,” Charlie says.
Dario looks away contemplatively. “I do. I really do. I love it so much that I’ve agreed to marry for it.”
“You don’t want to be married?” Charlie asks, reading into his dark tone.