F is for Friend, H is for Husband

Friends come in all sorts of packages. Some are little “f” friends. You know them, their number is in your cell phone, you might someday randomly call them for a movie. If you won the lottery, eventually you would tell them, but probably not right away. There are friends that are really an “a” (acquaintance) or a “c” (colleague). And then there are big “F” friends.

I am lucky, blessed if you will, because I have a lot of big “F” friends. This includes a friend who was willing to break and enter and trespass just to reenter my wedding reception. It also includes a friend who volunteered to clean my bathroom the day I moved into my condo. Most definitely, in this category, are the friends who I joined in NYC for a quick getaway this past weekend.

I hesitate to call it a tradition for fear it will go away, but for a couple years now, I’ve found myself on a train to NYC the second weekend in December to meet up with some of my friends from DC. Usually, I only go for the day, sometimes only a meal, as I have work and school. By the way, if you’re thinking of entering the hospitality industry, then know this: you will never think of weekends the same way again and you will hardly ever have a traditional weekend.

This year, though, I was able to spend the night, and it was great. It was great because we had a delicious brunch at Norma’s in midtown Manhattan. It was great because after the terrible ice storm last week, the sun was shining on Saturday. It was great because we got to see the Rockefeller Christmas tree. It was great because we found ourselves in Soho Saturday afternoon, far away from the Fifth Avenue crowds. It was great because the friend who doesn’t really like chocolate is the one who suggested we go to Jacques Torres Chocolate.

Jacques Torres Chocolate was an item on my lifetime to do list. The man himself is one of the most accomplished pastry chefs France has ever produced, and that’s saying a lot. His store on Hudson Street in SoHo actually sits in the middle of his chocolate factory. As the store is glass enclosed, there is ample opportunity to press your nose to the window and witness cacao beans being roasted, chocolate molds being prepped, and chocolates being boxed. It is a beautiful sight!

I could have spent the whole day there! Oh, and the friend who does not consider chocolate a food group, she too ordered hot chocolate with everyone else. And all the friends were happy to let me peruse the selections of chocolates and candies, to revel in the wonder of all. Just check out the hot chocolate:


For those of you who have been to Spain, this hot chocolate will be somewhat familiar to you. It is the kind usually paired with churros, almost too thick to drink but perfect for dunking. This hot chocolate has a base of real chocolate, not cocoa powder, which explains the thickness. It is meant to be sipped and consumed in small quantities. I cannot imagine guzzling it. Swiss Miss it is not.

I chose the wicked hot chocolate, which contains both ancho and chipotle chiles ground, plus cinnamon and allspice. I can just feel a few of you wrinkling your noses and thinking “Ewww.” However, single-varietal chile powder (not the mishmash of stuff thrown into a jar that you purchase at the grocery store) is a spice like any other in that it can contribute flavor that is complimentary. In this case, it brightens the hot chocolate, and the spice strikes playful notes on the tongue. Spicy hot chocolate is offered at lots of places. While I enjoyed the version at Jacques Torres, my all-time favorite is found at Slitti, the Italian chocolate house in Tuscany, west of Florence. Slitti also uses pure chocolate as a base so I can assure you it is an apples to apples comparison. In fact, here, see for yourself (photo by K. Magovern, 10/22/05):



There were lots of other great things that happened in the City this past weekend. We saw a Broadway show, my first time since January 1994 when I took my then-boyfriend and now-husband to see Les Miserables. We ate well, walked much, laughed often. And then it was time to return to the Hudson Valley, to homework and home.

This very weekend, one year ago, when I returned home from gallivanting with my girlfriends in the city, Brian was making enchiladas and telling me he had a surprise for me. And I just brushed him off. I told him I did not have his Christmas present ready. He told me the surprise was not my Christmas present. I told him I was grimy from slogging around the city and so I took a shower. I told him I couldn’t possibly embrace my surprise after the shower because I just had to do my piping homework. He was so excited about the surprise, and had made the enchiladas as part of the surprise, and there were flowers on the table (and we never have fresh flowers in the house), and he even came to greet me at my car when I arrived home. I was having none of it.

After dinner, I finally relented on the surprise. He brought out a box that sure looked like a Christmas present, in metallic blue wrapping with a silver bow on it. You just have to know where this is going. I unwrapped the box and opened it: sitting atop a platform inside the box was a small wooden box, secured to its stage with white ribbon, and inside the wooden box, was a ring.

Much has happened since that wonderful Sunday a year ago, including our wedding. When I returned from the city this past Sunday, Brian was in the kitchen prepping ingredients for enchiladas, and that is why big “H” is for husband. Of course, there are no little “h’s.” Just Brian. Brian who was happy to send me off for a weekend in the city with the girls. Brian who makes me coffee every morning. Brian who packs my lunch for work when I am running late. Brian who makes me enchiladas to welcome me home. Brian who hugs me and laughs with me when I am felled by something as simple as tiramisu. Brian. The big H.