"A chocolate tasting? Sa-weet!"

My chocolate consumption is usually limited to the odd Wispa (a recent, pretty much life-altering discovery) and the shameful, nightmareish binge on Lindt Santa's every Christmas. But when my dad invited me to a chocalate tasting with a Colombian theme, I decided to go, if only for the free glass of wine.

I got there late, sweaty and out of breath after getting a bit lost and nobody being able to tell me where the street I was looking for was (I guess no real, approachable people actually live in Notting Hill). The guy giving the presentation looked at me like I was a turd in his mousse au chocolate as I took my seat in the front row, managing not to knock over the bowls of cocoa beans lovingly laid out on the table.



The guy doing the talk/presentation, Martin Christy, is the founder and editor of Seventypercent.com , a lovably geeky blog/online community dedicated to the brown gold. Apparently he's also a web technology consultant, but I prefer imagining him as a primary school teacher living in a small house made of brown bricks in Teddington with his golden retriever and constantly having a little chocolate smear on his cheek. A very british, non-creepy Willy Wonka. He told us about how he went to visit this cocoa farm in Santander, in the north east of Colombia, and we got to sample some of the different types of chocolate they made there.

I hadn't had dinner that night, so it was all I could do not to punch the air in delight when Martin said "I think now it's a good time for our first sample...". I had just swallowed my piece of 70%-cocoa goodness whole, when Martin continued: "Have a little smell first... what can you make out?". Everyone else still had their slabs between their fingers, passing it underneath their nose with an air of deep concentration. Patience fail. As people started chewing and making expertly, ruminating facial expressions, Martin asked us how we thought it tasted. "Chocolatey", my dad said, to my horror.

After riding this hurdle of brief but intense embarassment, I kind of got the hang of it. Grab a piece, pretend to smell it (my olfactory sense is incredibly underdeveloped, which has its uses when you live with two other dudes), break the already tiny square in half, then let each half slowly melt in your mouth while trying not to choke. Good thing the chocolate was delicious (apart from one variation which had bits of pineapple inside) and the photos of Colombia and its landscape were pretty amazing. Plus, Martin really seemed to know his Hachez from his Hershey's, and I remember thinking how awesome it was that people can develop a love and an understanding (he clearly had visited a number of factories and could tell you shitloads about the fermentation of the cocoa beans, quality control and fair trade) of something that people like me tend to pass off as an indulgent, overrated comfort food.

O is for Otto

On Sunday, in what might become a regular thing, I went to the BFI to see a film. Thinking that we couldn't bear the 3 hours of cinematic awesome that is 'The Godfather' on a Sunday night, we chose to see 'Rage', about which I only knew that it was shot on a camera phone and didn't show any plot. But it was shorter and it had a pretty hot-looking Lily Cole on the poster, so we had ourselves another beer and went in.

At the time, I followed what happened on the screen (which wasn't much, given that all Jude Law, Judi Dench et al do is look into the camera and talk) with interest. The basic premise is that a schoolboy, about whom we know very little, is spending a week behind the scenes at a fashion show in NYC. He gets to talk to some people - an illegal immigrant who fixes up dresses for the models, the designer of the collection, a jaded photographer (Steve Buscemi looking adequately dishevelled) and a model (Cole), who all become witnesses to a mysterious incident involving a motorcycle (don't ask).

The actors seemed to enjoy the focus and license to overact that the set-up allowed, and the sound effects were used pretty effectively to hint at the off-screen action. It was only with a bit of distance that I realised that this film had so many elements in it that I dislike (fashion, a mobile phone being used as a camera, some vague message about viral advertising campaigning and an even more vague message on fashion and the people who care about it) that it was a bit odd I didn't throw my empty beer cup at the tittering eggheads on the screen. The optics reminded me to a painful degree of iPod adverts, and the role of the black detective responsible of the murder investigation was an absolute shambles in terms of writing, characterisation and acting. Same goes for the character of the designer (called Merlin. No, seriously.), who enthusiastically embraces every single prejudice you might have about a fashion designer.

As I said, I didn't think it was bad at the time, and Jude Law as a transvestite is certainly worth a Google search, but overall, this is a seriously lame attempt at being "edgy" or "innovative". I'll tell you what would've been innovative, Sally Potter: Believable characters involved with fashion. But maybe there is no such thing in real life anyway. Oh well.