Chocolate

It’s always been chocolate. For as long as I can remember, like a lifelong love affair, chocolate always ends up on my cone. I’ve tried to experiment, tried to live a polygamous life, but it’s impossible. If there’s more than one scoop, chocolate is in the mix. And if a single scoop is the order of the day, it’s chocolate, always chocolate.

I have matured a little bit, though. Whereas in my childhood the scoop was a pale brown affair from the local milk bar, hinting at chocolate flavouring without really being it, these days it tends to be a richer, darker, more real indulgence from a gelato bar.

And the best gelato in Sydney, everyone knows, is from Bar Italia on Norton Street. It wasn’t hard to convince Lola to join me for a Sunday afternoon indulgence. She’s made it to nearly three thinking the ultimate in dessert is yoghurt and fruit, so I was surprised when she seemed to be so knowledgeable on the subject of ice-cream. She nattered away in the car on the way to Leichhardt, and when I asked what flavour she wanted, she didn’t hesitate – “Pink.”

And pink it was. Nothing artificially flavoured or coloured from our gelato bar, though. Her ice-cream was a deep strawberry colour with chunks of fruit in it. As for me, I had plenty of gourmet flavours to choose from – tiramisu, hazelnut, pistachio, panna cotta. But I didn’t even have to look. I ordered chocolate. It’s always been chocolate.