I knew Mr. B was going to hate Max Brenner, Chocolate By The Bald Man, I just didn't know how he would express his distaste.
The stupendous lead paragraph: "If we're not vigilant, who knows what could happen? We could wake up one dark chocolate morning to an East River of cocoa and a Hudson of hot fudge, slices of banana bobbing on its surface. The streets would be paved with bonbons, the skyscrapers bricked with fudge. Calorie counts would skyrocket. And a pox of tooth decay would descend."
His take on a congealed lasagna Bolognese: It "could have been the work of that great Italian artisan Chef Boyardee."
His 6-year-old nephew Gavin delivered the coup de grace. After eating a sampler plate studded with candies like Pop Rocks, Gavin doubled over, his hands on his stomach. He let out a pathetic moan, accompanied by words as true as any I've heard spoken. "Not everything," he said, "should be made into a dessert."
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