My father’s love of dark chocolate began in the 1960s, when our family of four would pile into the car and drive an hour to the only local shop that made chocolate from scratch. It was a special outing. My parents would buy a few pounds of the darkest chocolate almond bark, while I hovered, desperate for a free sample that never came. The chocolate was packed in a crisp white box tied with a ribbon.
Back home, my father would ceremoniously open the box, break a few slabs into smaller pieces, and place them in a cut-glass candy dish in the living room. He’d then break off a piece with exactly two almonds – never more – and devour it in a single bite. He ate everything quickly and precisely, famous for his four-bite lunches: two seven-minute eggs, halved and consumed in one bite each. That, I suppose, was the engineer in him.
My mother, more interested in the nuts than the chocolate, would nibble just one almond. I followed her lead. I didn’t love dark chocolate – it tasted bitter to me – but I wanted to share in the ritual and feel closer to him.
Why We Wrote This
In good times and bad, the love of chocolate has bound one writer’s family together. This Valentine’s Day, she remembers that enduring love.
My father could be stern, sometimes even frightening when he got angry about work or some other frustration. But when he ate chocolate, he softened. His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled – a deep, contented smile I came to crave. I loved that version of him, and chocolate was my window into that gentleness.
After dinner, he’d often say, “I think it’s chocolate time,” and we’d all drift into the living room for a piece. It was never just about the candy. It was about being together.
Friends and family knew my father loved chocolate, but few noticed how specific his tastes were. He didn’t care for sugary or filled chocolates; he liked them strong and unadorned. When gifted boxes of assortments, he would carefully extract the darkest, plainest pieces and leave the caramels, cordials, and buttercreams for the rest of us. We were more than happy to help.
As the years went on, and high-quality dark chocolate became easier to find, he no longer needed to make long trips for his purchases. He began buying bars of Ghirardelli and Lindt from the supermarket. The fancy candy dish eventually disappeared, replaced by a Tupperware container in the kitchen cabinet. But the ritual remained.
My children always adored their grandfather. They saw through his strict demeanor – which had softened with age – and delighted in their own special traditions with him. Their favorite part of visiting was raiding his chocolate stash. It didn’t matter that dark chocolate was now everywhere. Grandpa’s chocolate was something else entirely. It was sacred.
I, too, continued to raid it – despite having my own supply at home.
After my mother passed away, and I was a divorced empty nester, Dad and I grew especially close. We talked more. Laughed more. And always, we ate chocolate – an indulgence he kept up until the very end of his life.
When my sister flew in from Australia for the funeral, we honored him in the only way that felt right: We ate chocolate together.
Now, my grown children know they can always find an 86% cacao chocolate bar in my kitchen, just like in their grandfather’s. Eating chocolate together has become part of our family heritage – a quiet ritual that binds us across generations. It’s sweet. It’s bitter. It’s ours.
A few months ago, my daughter ran the Paris marathon. When she returned home, she handed me a small shopping bag from the city’s oldest chocolate shop.
“I brought this home for you,” she said.
Inside was a carefully wrapped bundle of chocolat noir. My eyes welled up.
It wasn’t just the chocolate. It was the legacy. I could almost feel my father standing behind me, smiling his special chocolate smile. And in that moment, it was clear – this was the most enduring kind of love: simple and sweet.