Julia over at Relookage has asked for everyone's favorite hot chocolate stories, after regaling us with a tale of how she valiantly sipped one down in the summer heat on the terrace of the Cafe de Flore, then chased it with kir and coffee, all to continue participate in that time-honored Parisian sport of people-watching in the place in Paris to watch the people, Saint Germain-des-Pres.
I've had some great hot chocolate in my day, and much of it has been consumed here in Paris-- most recently at Angelina's with my friend Wendy, visiting from New York; then there was another hot chocolate where I remember actually contemplating licking the inside of the porcelain pitcher when the chocolate ran out. Unfortunately I've forgotten which cafe that near-lapse of etiquette transpired in, maybe Les Editeurs.
But the most memorable cups of hot chocolate of my life had to be the ones my mom would make during the winters when I was growing up on Long Island. My parents would take my sister and I sledding on the hills at Indian Hollow, my elementary school, and after we tired ourselves out with scooting down what seemed to be the most enormous inclines in our green plastic sleds, they'd take us home, get us out of our ski suits, and my mom would make hot chocolate and put the big marshmallows in it, the kind that get all melty and fuzzy on the outside and lend a marshmallow aura to the top of the cocoa.
I believe my mom's method was to heat the milk on the stove and add Nestle Quick, the powdered kind, not the syrup. It was the best thing ever, and all the gourmet chocolat à l'ancienne I'll drink in Paris will never top it.