��������

I certainly sought out quality, flavor and functionality in the chocolate I chose to work with, but beyond that, I would have to admit I gave little further thought to where it came from, how it was made or the complex supply chain from the farm to my kitchen. At best, like most pastry chefs, I had a basic textbook knowledge of the process, and often the story began when I opened a fresh bag of chocolate to use in a dessert. I had a blind spot toward understanding and appreciating what it took to get it that far. What did force an important shift of perception was my first visit to cocoa farms in the Dominican Republic.

I jumped at the opportunity to travel to chocolate’s source – specifically a farm that produced the very beans for the chocolate I used every day. This type of farm tour is a bit more common today, but 10 years ago, it was a very rare learning experience. Although I didn’t fully know what to expect once on the ground, I did have a sense that I might bridge what was a significant knowledge gap. The funny thing is, I didn’t know exactly what it was that I didn’t know.

Immediately upon hitting the ground in Santo Domingo, our small group of chefs and chocolatiers boarded a bus and rode two hours deep into the Dominican countryside. Before we even acclimated to the tropical climate – there was our first cocoa tree. Random clusters of brightly colored pods protruded directly from the tree trunks, their reds, yellows and purples standing out among the lush green surrounding them. For three days, every tree we encountered was a photo-opp. The pods begin as tiny white flowers, and the trees were covered with them, too. The real game changer was splitting open a few fresh pods and discovering what was inside: astringent, chalky, purple beans and the odd yet familiar flavor of the sticky pulp that coats them. Suddenly it felt like everything I thought I knew about chocolate was, really, nothing at all.

After seeing the transformation of the cocoa beans from harvesting through to the fermentation and drying processes (which take place long before and thousands of miles away from where most chocolate gets made), I suddenly understood that the true value of the finished product exceeds what we actually pay. The variability of the process and the sheer amount of manual labor behind it forced into me a deeper level of respect, one that I certainly appreciate even more today as a chocolate maker. Another simple but important idea emerged from the visit, during a lunch break in between walking different farms.

As we sat at a table underneath an old mango tree, we sipped fresh young coconut water, and one of our hosts mentioned the many cashew farms in the area. I started thinking about all these flavors, whose source I could practically take in just by turning my head. Chocolate, coconut, mango, cashew – we can easily understand how these ingredients might work well together. But that moment was perhaps the first clear realization that “what grows together” truly “goes together.” The day I returned to the pastry kitchen at Le Bernardin, I instantly began building those flavors into a dish, an homage to terroir – a sense of place – and to chocolate.

One can enjoy this dessert on its face without knowing its origin, but as its creator, I designed the dish to symbolize respect for our ingredients, unexpected inspiration and the never-ending pursuit of knowledge.