I was on an Alaska cruise a few years ago, on a certain Mouse themed ship. We had sprung for dinner in the pay-an-extra-$20-adults-only-shirt-and-tie-Italian place.

2 fist sized lamb chops later, I was convinced into ordering a chocolate souffle for dessert. “Souffle is awesome!”, I thought, in my boat induced state of idiocy. The horrible bitch of an ex I was with was a vegan, so I was alone on this one. And so, I wait for it to be made.



As I’m waiting, behind me I hear our server telling another table about what a great dessert it is, and how it serves two to four people.



>mfw

>whathaveidone.jpg



It arrived. An enormous, molten, fragrant puff of heaven that he cracked and poured additional chocolate sauce and whythefucknot crème anglaise into it. I got about a quarter of the way through before it started to hurt. Like, I could taste chocolate with my eyes and experiencing some extraordinary levels of divine chocolate pain. I refused to leave my seat until the challenge was met, and about 45 minutes later I rolled my ass through the door. A couple, man and woman, asked us how it was. As if I were dying and these were my last words, I put my hand on his shoulder and said “Don’t attempt the souffle alone.”





And that is the story of the best dessert I ever had.





