Another Thursday night with the evening minyan crowd. This time, Greenwood’s on Green Street: perfect place for an upscale meat ’n’ three (actually, meat ’n’ two, but the cornbread muffins more than make up for the difference). She Who Must Be Obeyed was at a school inservice dinner function, so it was just me and the boys. Mostly boys, anyway.
The majority of the gang opted for the grilled salmon; Irwin and I dared to be different and ordered the rotisserie chicken in plum sauce. That’s half a chicken, folks, and we’re not talking about some dinky pullet. This was a hen that could have ripped Foghorn Leghorn a new one.
However, nobody really cares about my chicken dinner, not even me. Good food, but it’s just food. And it’s not why I’m writing this post. I’m writing this post on account of the pie.
Greenwood’s Holy Shit Chocolate by Gawd Cream Pie.
Mere mortals cannot eat a whole slice. It is far too dense, too rich, too obscene. No, one slice, passed around the table about five times, allows each of us to get just enough.
Most people have no idea what a real chocolate pie is, or should taste like. They have been raised on graham cracker crusted monstrosities filled with (gasp) instant chocolate pudding. Feh.
This was a pie. Real pastry crust. A filling – how to describe it? – a filling that seemingly contained the output of all the cacao plantations of West Africa, the egg yolks of all the chickens of North America. Bittersweet. Glossy. Smooth.
Hey, I know it’s fattening. I only had three, maybe four forkfuls. And, hell, I ain’t eating or drinking for 26 hours or so, beginning tomorrow evening. So don’t bust my chops.
You’re just seething with envy. And you should be.
2 years ago