The Truffle Hunter

She’ll happily confess to having eaten vast quantities of chocolate in her life, but it was while making truffles with her son that Sam Woulidge finally found The One

- Sam Woulidge

I like to end a meal with coffee and chocolate. I will happily forfeit a good night’s sleep and a thigh gap for caffeine and cacao. A crystal bowl filled with bright, shiny-papered Lindt balls or gold foil-wrapped Ferrero Rocher is my equivalent to my ma’s elegant post-dinner-party treats served with coffee. Marie was partial to Cote d’Or bouchées. Olifantjies, we called them, because they were shaped like elephants. They were unlike any chocolate I had ever tasted. A world away from the fake-flavour staples in our corner café. Nothing like the slabs of Bourneville dark chocolate my Oupa Sam used to hide in his clothes cupboard among his polyester paisley cravats.

My ma always saved an olifantjie for me and I savoured every tiny bite – elephant ears first, slowly allowing the chocolate to melt in my mouth. Bit by bit. And when bouchées weren’t on offer, I would cast my eyes longingly at the box of After Eight Mints that awaited the arrival of my parents’ guests. For those, I could momentarily forget my six-year-old self’s distaste for dark chocolate. Who wouldn’t when faced with those thin, sweet, minty squares concealed in their individual dark-brown sleeves? “How fancy,” I thought, nibbling at the corners of one while furtively reaching for the next.