There wasn’t anything we didn’t enjoy that fateful night at Roy’s. The martinis were clean and smooth, with nary a bruised olive in sight. The Shrimp & Pork Lumpia with Pineapple Lingham Sauce—a delightful flavor and texture balance of tangy and sweet, crispy and succulent. The Pistachio Wasabi Pea Crusted Yellow Fin Tuna was also perfection, and surprisingly glorious with Roy’s signature pinot noir.
But the souffle… ah, Roy’s Chocolate Souffle merely entranced us.
They make you wait for it, of course, banking on the adage of good things coming to those who do. And even the menu warns oh-so-discreetly on the bottom of its entree page, “Please ask about our signature Melting Hot Dark Chocolate Souffle. We strongly recommend that you order before the arrival of your entrees to allow sufficient preparation time.” The simple words “Melting… Hot… Dark” elicit barely audible moans from deep within our very souls—somewhere beyond the superficial discomfort of a full meal and bloated bellies—and the activation of previously subtle salivary glands.
But the adage underestimates.
A diabolical mound of dark chocolate cake sprinkled with white powder arrives, sitting rather innocuously on a plate drizzled sexily with scarlet-red raspberry puree and a pert scoop of Tahitian vanilla bean ice cream. Good things come in threes? Perhaps. But a frenetic kind of culinary kinesthesia lingers in the space surrounding the cake as we plunge our spoons into it, slowly, methodically releasing the hot, molten lava of chocolate inside.
Possibly a better adage would be “Good things come in small packages.” For certainly, who could imagine the exaltation from such a diminutive three-inch round protuberance? Just six tablespoons of unsalted butter, four wee ounces of semisweet chocolate, a half-cup of sugar, one and a half tablespoons cornstarch and two eggs—with two more egg yolks—somehow magically unite in a concoction worthy of deifying.
And worship it, we did.
My companion and I immersed deeper into our bubble of bliss, occasionally crying out something about the vanilla ice cream scoop being akin to a mother’s breast, the dusty cocoa layer beneath the dense cake like the favorite sand box of our youth, the powdered sugar on top like the fresh flaky snow on a perfect ski mountain—our delirious ramblings momentarily thwarted by the flavorful tang of raspberry.
“Yes, yes!” cried my companion between quickly diminishing mouthfuls. “Don’t stop!”
We noticed a steadily growing crowd of servers and diners stopping to marvel our gastronomic glee—our seemingly very un-private lesbian dessert porn, if you will. But alas! I have another saying for you.
All good things come to an end.
Our server returned with more tempting options for a return trip, as we glowered sullenly over the last red-brown smears of chocolate and berry goo.
“You know you can also do it with Bailey’s or peanut butter or Gran Marnier and light it on fire,” she said. “Just cut a hole in the middle and pour it through.” MTW