“Audrey! Jack Torres is here! Come take a look!” (Well, yes, on TV his French friends do pronounce it “Jack,” but without the Long Island nasal twang.)

As an excuse to leave my home county every once in a while, I decided to hell with rousing up my friends, I was going to venture off-island by myself and check out the Jacques Torres Chocolate Factory in D.U.M.B.O., wandering aimlessly to and from on my way.

I decided to turn left rather than right as I got out of the subway (simply because the buildings looked more interesting in that direction) and found that I was in Brooklyn Heights. Hints of the Upper West Side, suggestions of the West Village, but far more authentic and lived in than either; ghosts of a past century: a clapboard house or two nestled between the brownstones to the east or between warehouses to the west—maybe a little like the older neighborhoods in Hoboken, but in better repair. I walked up Montague Street and decided that its only use for me today was the HSBC at the end of the block. Back-tracked past my starting point of Henry Street to the Brooklyn Promenade. Great views of lower Manhattan (I still feel like there’s a hole in my skyline), but once one gets over that, it’s pretty much the same as any riverfront promenade in Manhattan. Back to the tree-lined side streets. After a couple of wrong turns and a dead end at the River Café, I find Water Street: a desolate, beat up back-alley-looking row of warehouse posteriors. I need to find number 66. Stop in a place called Smackmelon Art Gallery. I liked the scale model of the docks and buildings and piers made out of black plastic desk accessories. “It’s a Thin Line Between Love and Hate” (yes, just that sentence overandoverandoveragain) droned from two speakers that flanked a white canvas that had only what on it? Come on kids, take a guess… I thought the building itself was the most interesting: it had a loft and a rickety wooden staircase—had it been a barn? But what was that rusty mechanical apparatus in the ceiling? Whatever. By my mere presence in the space, I have officially Supported Art in Downtown Brooklyn. The chocolate factory was next door.

There was a line out the door and the people in front of me—locals, probably—decided not to wait. Tiny shop, two tiny café tables in the front, truffle case at 12o’clock, pastries to the left, and a viewing window onto the actual factory to the right. Except that it was under construction, so there was nothing to see but a guy in a hairnet rushing by, talking into a walkie-talkie: Jacques Torres himself! Yay! Nice to see the celebrity chef is in the house, tending to my chocolate.

I put my glasses on pull out a book as I waited on line. Five minutes or so… an eternity when you’re jonesin’ for chocolate. I picked out some dark chocolate and port wine chocolate and rum chocolate and three other kinds of chocolate truffles, some with genuine gold dust on them (As much gold as I wear, I’m sure I’ve absorbed more than that into my system over the years). What’s that in the pastry case? Brioche with a layer of chocolate cream? Yes, I’d like one of those. And do I order my latte at the register? Thank you. Oh, but the chocolate bars! Is one of them dark chocolate? Thanks. Unfortunately, the lady in front of me is not so happy. She’s had to wait on line twice and the girl at the beverage counter refused to give her daughter a sample of the Cold Hot Chocolate. There is a man behind/beside/around me who seems not to recognize the existence of a line. I needn’t pause in my attack on the chocolate cream brioche to give him a pointed stare. He steps behind me. Disgruntled Lady ahead of me has to repeat a couple of times that she’s waiting for “two Cold Hot Chocolates,” to which Man Behind Me chimes in “three.” I turn to him and ask, “Are you with her? Then I think I’m next.” I had not waited to begin mainlining chocolate, so I was calm, yet stern. “Well, if they’re making two, can’t they make three?” DL comes to my defense, “I don’t think so.” DL, approaching her last nerve waiting for her brown liquid fix, sounded a bit sharp; but I’m sure she’s a dear under normal circumstances. I offer a look of gratitude and commiseration. To their credit, the Oompa-Loompahs behind the counter maintain their chocolatey composure throughout. They know they serve up healing power in a cup.

Outside the factory, the windowsills are deep, clearly it is intended that chocoholics not have to take more than a step or two before they can collapse and let the rush kick in. I find myself next to a small herb pot: basil, lavender, rosemary, oregano, lemon thyme. A lady in wacky pants sits on the other side: Audrey, as I am soon to learn. A bunch of Chinese kids take pictures and then ride of on identical leaf-green bicycles. It is at this point that Audrey is summoned to see Jacques Torres. She brushes against the lemon thyme as she jumps up. It releases a waft of fragrance.

[If this were an essay and not just a blog entry, I’d tie this up neatly and then go back and fix the verbs so that everything is in the present tense. But it isn’t and I’m not.]

Oh, and see accompanying pictures below. (Not the presentation I would have liked, but I'll get over it somehow.)