I baked a chocolate tart over the weekend. My first attempt so it wasn’t really good, I thought. The crust was perhaps too short, a little greasier than I would like it to be. The chocolate ganache filling was too sweet; too much milk chocolate and not enough dark. (I should have trusted my gut and gone wild with the bar of 90%.)
Then I cut some slices, put them into containers and gave them to my friends. One immediately asked me what I used for the crust; it was so buttery she swooned. Another had his slice in the wee hours of the morning, while watching soccer on cable.
Who do I trust, their opinion or mine?
I had the very last slice, letting it come to room temperature after removing it from the fridge. It tasted pretty awesome, I had to admit. Maybe it’s because of what my friends said. Maybe it’s because I’m simply eating it and not making (that was a couple of days earlier) – how you approach something colours it, yes?
Or maybe it just tasted better once I stopped thinking so much and I simply enjoyed it. Chocolate tarts are meant to be savoured, girls and boys, not to be analysed.
I can’t wait to make it again.