Mochas are the worst

Yesterday, my first whole day back in Montreal without packing-related stress in weeks, and full of jetlag and mucous, I dared to venture out for errands and thought I'd treat myself to a spiced hot chocolate. I've been sick on and off for over three weeks, and also travelling for about the same amount of time, first a fun friend vacation, then for work. I can't taste much of anything and thought it would be nice to coddle myself into some sort of warm wellness.

But instead of a chocolat Bogota the barista made me a mocha.

At first I wasn't sure what what wrong. I didn't have a sip, after all, until I was halfway home. This was going to be an accompaniment to curling up peacefully with a new library book before my love came home from work. My nose was plugged, but still, I was tasting more bitterness than I expected... and where was the cinnamon? Surely I would at least taste the cinnamon... 

Was this a cruel trick of my cold? Condemned to misinterpret deliciousness as funk? Or did they get it wrong, after a long wait, after the lady after me got her coffee before me. Oh, the disappointment, the first world injustice of it all!

Husband tasted and confirmed my suspicion, and even went back up to the café for me to see if they could make the right thing, but they had just shut down the machines for the day. They recalled the error and sent him back to me with conciliatory baked goods, which I had for breakfast.

So now here I am with three-quarters of a cold mocha I stashed in the fridge last night, not wanting evening caffeine nor for it to go to waste. It is not good, friends. Not good.

I used to think mochas were magical. Mom always had a little rectangular box of International Delights Swiss Mocha powder in the cupboard and it smelled like heaven. Sometimes I would get a sip, and a sticky residue of oversweetened froth on my little lips. Sometimes the empty box would come my way and I would use it to store treasures while sniffing the marshmallowy lid and dreaming of a day when I could have as much mocha as I wanted.

But real world, grown-up coffee shop mochas turned out to be a sad disappointment. I tried for a while, always expecting the sweet creamy treat it should be, always falling flat from overroasted beans or underdosed chocolate. Truly, it is the worst of all worlds, not chocolaty enough to be chocolate, not bright enough to be coffee - just creamily flat and bitter, a cruel tease and an affront to everything that's good about either.

Have a coffee or have a hot chocolate, but at a certain point you have to quit expecting magic out of a mocha.