Forget family values, writes Kevin Gould. British chocolate - such as that made by quality producer Chantal Coady of London's Rococo - is a sultry and sexy speciality.
It's official: after years of continental noses being turned up at our home-produced, dark brown opiate, it may now be sold to a sugar-saturated European Union under the rather mystifying name of 'Family Chocolate'. Even as we speak, advertising agencies with pan-Continental remits will be re-casting the Milk Tray man as a paternal type who pleasures his partner by keeping the kids sweet with confections that don't melt on the upholstery.
Undetered, however, consenting adults will continue to employ chocolate as the catalyst that'll turn a half-chance into a sure thing. Rather than Family Chocolate, public-minded manufacturers would be well advised to take the precaution of marketing their product with accompanying prophylactics as Family Planning Chocolate. Subject to rigorous quality control, a diy Nuclear Family Chocolate could be sold in Kit-Kat form, with 2.4 bars per pack, and political pre-election pledges could be promoted with chocolate-flavoured Family Values, to be later exposed as hypocrisy, of course, when disgraced ministers end up mired in the stuff.
But perhaps our overseas cousins really do understand chocolate better than us. Our popular cocoa breakfast cereal appears amateur next to the professional-quality dip into which a Spaniard will pop his churros, and the French can hardly suppress a snigger when confronted with our insipid versions of their pain au choc. On feast days, a Mexican will add bitter chocolate to iguana supremes to make a mountain of mole that he'd savour like we would a toad in the hole, and a Sicilian caponata is considered a few panini short of a picnic if served without a shaved chocolate garnish. Even the Mittel-European Swiss, nestling in the Alps, venerate their mountains in triangular form. And it's perhaps unsurprising that such a nation of merchant bankers is even beating us at the numbers game, convincing us that 70 per cent solids mean 100 per cent sophistication, all of which makes After Eight too late by far.
Chocolate to us, however, was something your gran gave you on long journeys, and long after Mr Rowntree had gone to meet his matchmaker, his friend Mr Terry's legacy of a tappable, unwrappable chocolate orange remained firmly lodged in the nation's psyche. Fancy chocolates tended to be Belgian and bought from food halls in smart boxes that bore the imprint of a titled naturist from Coventry. The Heart of England Tourist Board has yet to take advantage of this grand marketing opportunity: 'Eat Godiva truffles and ride naked on horseback through our Fifties shopping centre - the first concrete mall in Europe!'.
Yet, to a generation growing up on Marianne Faithfull and Emanuelle, chocolate's recreational image was enhanced by touchy telly ads that had the nation feeling like it never felt before. But we were still missing the emotional transaction that should have taken place at the point of purchase. After all, your local tobacconist had Number 6 to sell, not sex, and his selection boxes were so plastic-protected (and dusty) that the chance of catching anything communicable from them was slight.
One of the very few to understand that if chocolates are to fulfil their sensate potential that they must be made and sold with love, is the charming Chantal Coady. A talented Camberwell Art College student, she paid her tuition by working on the chocolate counter at Harrods, but soon grew tired of simply selling truffles to the tourists. So 17 years ago, Chantal turned the tiny kitchen in her stylish Vauxhall squat (overlooking the site of the 18th-century Rococo Pleasure Gardens) into a bite-sized confectionery factory, and set about hand-making her Rococo chocolates.
Chantal researched her product thoroughly, and was soon making bars of properly bitter, single-bean chocolate in 18th-century French moulds. Her ever-chic designer's eye for detail saw her packaging evolve into pretty-yet-practical pouches in French blue, festooned with engravings of chocolatiers' apparatus from Letang's catalogue of the late 1800s. These tobacco-like pouches not only protect the glossy bars from extremes of temperature, but also nicely accent the narcotic quality of so strong a chocolate.
A small shop on the King's Road followed and, while some of her sloaney customers favoured sober flavours, Chantal started to offer enhanced versions of her product to the ever-eager crush of cocoaholics for whom SW3 had become suddenly sweet. Because they're made from organic, single-estate beans, and without any horrid added vegetable fats to fill out the mouth-feel, Rococo bars deliver direct, yet complex flavours. Flavoured versions are as astonishing as they are intense. From a milk chocolate bar scented with Bulgarian rose essential oil, to dark chocolate infused with French tarragon or cardamom from Cochin, Chantal's chocolates simply sing in the mouth. With the addition of ingredients such as freshly grated nutmeg, they become edgy and exciting, especially her zingy pink peppercorn or buzzy birds-eye chilli versions. That's right, chilli. After all, if it was good enough to be used as a stimulant during Aztec orgies, there's no earthly reason why chilli chocolate shouldn't be employed as an aphrodisiac today. So, no more reaching for the Milky Way, here's how to get in the Family Way.
Rococo, 321 King's Road, London SW3 5EP. Tel 020 7352 5857.