White Chocolate Mousse White Chocolate

I travelled this week. A lot. I ventured over to the Western Balkans, a process that requires a stop off in Vienna. Vienna International Airport may at some point around 20 years ago have been able to cope with the volume of passenger traffic but it certainly can't now. It is probably the only airport in the Northern Hemisphere that I know, which has absolutely no seats by the departure gates, except for those taken up by tired Japanese tourists who have arrived three hours early for their return flight to Tokyo. But it is The Gateway to Eastern Europe so that is where I find myself undressing in front of two impassive strangers at security whose hand held security gadgets have bleeped loudly and fiercely on contact with my new foot. I make the horrendous mistake of saying that I have metal in my foot and this probably explains the bleeping. From their reaction I deduce that they have decided I have swallowed metal explosives from the way in which I am frogmarched summarily to a cubby hole that looks not unlike a communal changing room in Top Shop. There I am asked to strip off, and these two women take my clothes and run their buzzer over them, and then hand them back one by one. It's not fun,this experience - it is mildly humiliating, a bit bewildering as nobody explains to you what will happen or how long you will be there - and, surreally, they insist you leave your belongings sitting abandoned, bumping against the edge of the x ray conveyor belt, screaming STEAL ME, or at least they might as well be, since my IPad, watch, toiletries and phone are on display in one tray while my bag with passport, credit cards and cash gapes open in another. Luckily nobody takes advantage of this unasked for opportunity - I am given back my clothes, thanked, and asked to leave, which I do, very quickly, before they can change their minds. In the course of this business trip I take four flights, and go through four sets of security, and in three out of four I am marched to The Cubby Hole. It is tiring, but mostly it is demoralising, and when I am demoralised, chocolate is the answer. Luckily even a jaded, dated, overrun airport like Vienna has lots of chocolate in its tiny Duty Free shop but I shun this - Cadburys isn't going to cut it after the day I have had, so I head to the deli shop which appears to be bursting with Mozartkugel. I tried these when I was studying German in Salzburg and I thought they were disgusting. Gloopy, marzipan, yukky...but behind them, I Spy Lindt. I Love Lindt. I am totally seduced by their adverts depicting this single chocolate chef stirring a mesmerising concoction of runny melted milk chocolate. Even though I know he cannot possibly have made every single Lindt chocolate bunny by himself, the personal pride that he radiates as he lifts one up touches every chocolate urge I have. So, I make my way to the Lindt shelf and there I find one I haven't tried before (which is a reason to buy it on its own) - white chocolate mousse white chocolate bars. Each piece of white chocolate has fluffy white chocolate mousse inside it. Oh, and there's a milk chocolate one. And a dark chocolate one! I buy all of them. Then I see Lindt pistachio chocolate so I buy that, and then I notice that Milka does a great line in chocolate coated popcorn so I buy that too. I shlep the lot all the way home- yes, they survive the flight, although not intentionally - my plan was to dispatch a whole bar while watching Howards End on my IPad which is my idea of inflight heaven, but within 2 minutes of takeoff I am put off all food by my disgusting neighbour who snarfs down two gin and tonics in rapid succession, then falls asleep almost instantly, snoring and belching inflight jungle nuts. So, I bring my chocolate home, and with hitherto unmatched self control, keep it in the fridge till dinner, when I bring it out, rip open the white chocolate bar, and three out of the four of us snarf the lot down. And it's fabulous. I realise there are people out there who could not begin to understand how a person who appreciates Montezuma and Valrhona could be entirely content with the cocoa butter concoction that is white chocolate, but I am one of those people. I am discerning about my chocolate, but I am not discriminating. Now, where is that milk chocolate mousse bar?