Mme Chocolat

During the Pandemic (excepting the first, two-month-long ‘confinement‘), I walked once a week from my small apartment in the artsy Vavin neighborhood in the sixth arrondissement to marché Monge, where, in the adjacent fifth, my favorite vendors awaited. Now, back in Paris and alone in my ‘hood’ for the first time since 2021, I’ve resumed my customary activities.

The sun shone and the humid air felt crisp as I walked down rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, where Hemingway and, earlier, a host of Nordic artists once lived. I zig-zagged my way to rue August Comte—the street with the fabulous elephant-head embellished apartment building on the corner—which separates Jardin de Luxembourg from the narrow Gaston Monnerville esplanade and becomes rue de l’Abbé de l’Épée (Street of the Abbot of the Sword – the namesake must have been a Jesuit to be remembered so…militantly). There, I often pause to read the poem by Alfred de Vigny, written in 1939 but also, like all great poetry, universal (my translation):

Children, curse neither God nor your mother

You are happier than Milton and Homer.

You see Nature and can dream there,

without fearing that vulgar words

will dare enter your ear to arrive at your soul.

Eternal silence is your tabernacle,

And your spirit only departs when it wishes,

It works when it pleases and decides when the spectacle ends,

in the book where life chooses its oracle and, of all the available beauty,

drinks only the magic elixir.

Somber words mitigated by invigorating cold and blinding sunshine. I wandered past the laboratories of Marie Curie and Louis Pasteur and crossed rue de l’Ulm, epicenter of scientific and humanistic research, onto rue Erasme, which deadends into a passageway through buildings onto rue Mouffetard, where I turned left.

From there, I saw the sign of my first destination: Mococha. Before entering, I noticed Mme Chocolat: she had a short, sophisticated haircut with feathered bangs and highlights. She appeared more businesslike, mature that the last time our paths crossed. Her eyes lit up in recognition as she viewed me through the display windows.

“Ah, bonjour, Madame! It has been a long time!” she exclaimed as I entered. It was quite a while since I’d seen Mme Chocolat, but  I had visited Mococha several times since departing  Paris in July 2021. I was the proud possessor, after all, of a ‘carte de fidelité’, which entitled me to periodic discounts when I reached predetermined thresholds of spending.

“Bonjour, Madame!” (I still don’t know her given name.)

And, before I could utter another word:

“You’re the one so displeased with my renovations! You posted on social media.”

I am and I did. Mococha stated a Facebook page several months prior to the beginning of renovations, which were chronicled there during subsequent months. As readers of An American in Pandemic Paris may recall, the small shop, in one of medieval buildings lining the serpentine rue Mouffetard, had an elegant, timeless atmosphere, with magnificent, glass-topped, mahogany display tables with brass fittings that I’d assumed might have originated as vitrines for botanical or insect specimens at the nearby Jardin des Plantes (botanical garden). But I was wrong.

Mme Chocolat explained that structural features of the ancient building required amelioration and that the three display tables (now returned to Mme Chocolat’s home, where they originated, although I’m still interested in their origins) provided insufficient space for customers to maneuver. Now, instead of three cabinets—one dedicated to each of the three, renowned, non-Parisian chocolatiers she sells exclusively—there is one, newly constructed, functional, if charmless one. The chocolates are the same as are the distinctive boxes (the importance of beautiful and functional packaging in France cannot be underestimated), but the atmosphere is disappointingly clinical.

I nodded my head understandingly, although still persuaded that people who had difficulty navigating the earlier charming, old-fashioned boutique should have shopped elsewhere or ordered by mail. I retrieved the two-level box I brought with me from the U.S. (My sense of environmental responsibility combines with my parsimony to motivate the preservation of many types of containers for reuse.), which I handed to Mme Chocolat.

“Only dark chocolate, if I remember correctly?”

“Exactly, and also none with gluten or fruit.” [The former out of necessity, the latter out of disgust]. “What a great memory you have!”

Mme Chocolat smiled, her gaze turned downward toward her chocolate treasures in a kind of modest embarrassment. Then, together, we filled my box with chocolates, which originated in distant Madagascar, Peru, and Vietnam, with hints of vanilla, mint, gnash, caramel, coconut (my single fruit exception), identifying each kind by name: Bali, Faustine, Hanoi, Schubert.

“It’s reassuring that the boxes are still the same,” I commented as she arranged my treasures and tied the boite with a ribbon.

“But the ribbons are different, and we have some new types of boxes,” Mme Chocolat confessed sheepishly.

“They’re lovely; sometimes, it’s time for a change,” I reassured, not fully convinced by my words.

Mme Chocolat looked at me and smiled. “It’s true,” she replied.

I left to Mme Chocolat’s discretion the assortment of the small box I’d bring to my hosts on Sunday. After I paid, she placed the boxes in one of those sturdy bags (chocolate brown) engraved with the boutique’s logo and suspended from grey, cotton rope handles that gives their contents the status of a purchase from Chanel or Isabel Marant.

“Un doceur (a sweet)?” she enquired, as Mococha protocol demanded.

“Yes, please!”

“Here’s a mocha one I think you’ll like,” she explained as she grasped the delicacy with silver sugar tongs and offered it to me.

“Merci beaucoup, madame,” I thanked as I accepted it and popped it into my mouth. She left the counter and walked me to the door, carrying my package.

“Goodbye, madame, until very soon,” Mme Chocolat said, as she handed me my package and opened the door. I stepped into the street and continued up the rue Mouffetard. I let the praline melt slowly in my mouth, savoring the flavors thus unleashed. By the time I arrived at marché Monge, two blocks away, the visceral memory of Mococha lingered.

While I will miss and always remember the ‘old’ Mococha, I will continue to patronize the new one. After all, it’s the chocolates (and the deferential, if neighborly, service) that keep me coming back despite the generous assortment of master chocolatiers plying their trade elsewhere Paris. Check it out, the next time you visit (or follow them on FB), and tell Mme Chocolat Michelle the Disgruntled sent you!