We were supposed to get together to make chili last night. Then I got a message on Facebook:
“Do you want to go for pizza now in Melita? M. just arrived, and they need some good company. We can cut the carrots later if you don't mind.”
I was in the middle of fixing a family problem and trying to sort out a school assignment. I could go to Melita for pizza, but it would have to be later. The family issue was really important, and the assignment needed some work:
“Do you mind if we cut the carrots later and eat pizza first? You can join us in 15 min.”
Pizza first it was. I finished what I had to do and headed down to Melita about four blocks from where I live. In spite of what I was lead to believe, only two of us ordered pizza. I also got onion rings to share, mostly with myself. I ate about three slices of pizza because I wanted dessert.
From the menu, written in Italian, I couldn’t tell if there was alcohol in the hot chocolate. No one else spoke enough Italian to make a difference. So when I chose the baked cheesecake, I asked. The waitress gave me a funny look, paused and said, “Well, we could put alcohol in it [frown], but it doesn’t normally come that way.”
“No. No, that’s great. I don’t want any alcohol.” I ordered the coconut hot chocolate that evidently came directly from Hawaii.
When it arrived at the table, I was shocked. Not because it was delivered by a hula girl or a fire eater or anything like that; this was much more shocking. I didn’t get a hot chocolate. I got a drinking chocolate – a thick, rich mouth nirvana, zone inducing drinking chocolate. One sip and I was back in the best of places. I was in heaven.