Reviewing Miami and then some. Gratuitous vulgarity included.

Mr. Ganache Chocolatier

Mr. Ganache is the closest thing to Willy Wonka we’ll ever have. No, he’s not a sociopath who nonchalantly disposes of children using candy, subterfuge, and midgets, he’s just a little French dude who likes making chocolate and chocolate-based shit. And all that shit is good.

Gourmet chocolate shops, theoretically, should draw in more women than Victoria’s Secret. Yet Mr. Ganache’s store in Mary Brickell Village seems to be this magical, wondrous place where every time you walk in you’re alone. I think there’s something magical going on in there. Black magic, even. Like, you walk in, and there are a bunch of other people, but since Mr. Ganache is a dark wizard you don’t see anyone else there and the candy never goes out of stock. It’s like he segregates you to your own dimension where distractions are naught and the power of sweets would turn you into some kind of chocolate fiend version of Gollum.

Mr. Ganache is Lord Saruman.

No, he’s not a sociopath who nonchalantly disposes of children using candy, subterfuge, and midgets…

Anyway, chocolate is tight. Milka, my favorite mass-produced chocolate, makes my taste buds quiver with anticipation, and homeboy Saruman carries that shit. They don’t have the caramel creme one, which is indisputably the greatest chocolate bar of all time, but they’ve got the other popular ones which is enough to keep me from burning the place to the ground. It’s not just chocolate, either. They’ve got those Dutch butter cookies that come in that tin box/can everyone remembers their parents buying at one point. I used to inhale the shit out of those as a kid. There’s also tea, which I’ve become accustomed to classily drinking these days. I get tea, a biscuit or six, and I sit with my legs crossed as I comment about the goings on of the world. Usually the goings on are episodes of Key & Peele, but occasionally more important things are the topic, like episodes of Community. Also, and let’s not forget, they’ve got a fuckton of truffles, hand-made bars, and little choco-bites. Shit is real.

What does early-onset diabetes look like?

Delicious.

But that’s not the main draw of Mr. Ganache. The main event, at least for my wallet, are the macaroons. Fucking macaroons, man. Each one is like $19 and it only gives you seconds of pleasure. I guess it’s like a prostitute. An appetite prostitute. My girlfriend gets these insatiable cravings for appetite prostitutes and Mr. Ganache is the closest pimp to me. The best macaroons are the pistachios. I don’t munch on macaroons too much, I myself am more of a cupcake man and I just now realized how gay that sounded.

Mr. Ganache is an authentic French chocolatier, which means you’re going to pay authentic French chocolatier prices. I suppose it must be expensive because vain Brickell residents care too much about their figure to indulge in chocolatey awesomeness, so their clientele is severely curbed. I don’t think I’ve ever spent less than $15 in that place, and I go through those treats faster than an American child. That may not be my funniest metaphor, but it is the most poignant. Think about that, America, think about that.

Alright, enough talk, go buy that dude’s chocolate so he doesn’t go out of business and I end up having to drive to Sunset Place to get my girlfriend fuckin’ candy.


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