Hot Chocolate

Oh the sad life of the hot chocolate drinker. A second— nay, third-class citizen in the world of adult non-alcoholic beverages, behind not just haughty and imperious coffee but that hippie strumpet, tea. Good luck getting a decent hot chocolate at any coffee shop this side of Switzerland. You'll be lucky to get a cup of hot tan milk. Most of the time I drain the liquid only to find a cache of bone dry powder trapped beneath a tarry blanket in the bottom corner. Powder! Like I wanted Tang or Kool-aid.

What I don't understand about this is that in solid form chocolate is like some sort of fetish object. People profess a herion-esque love for the stuff. Godiva sells shiny balls of it that look like brand new engine parts. You can buy emergency chocolate, for situations where you are — heaven forbid — out of chocolate. It comes with bacon, and in the shape of penises. You never see anyone ordering Death by Coffee in a restaurant (and God knows none of us would like to see anyone eat something like that). So why is it that, when the phase change occurs, the quality of chocolate is given no more consideration than the flavor of fish food?