Special "Best Pandering" Award by Scott Cameron City Bakery's Hot Chocolate Essay Contest or, Please Pick Me I emphatically believe that hot chocolate should NOT be served with marshmallows, because they distract from the pure chocolatey goodness inherent to the beverage. That said, I would now like to address some other City Bakery-related issues which, unfortunately, have not been given an essay platform of their own.* First, the melted chocolate cookie. I love it. And I don't mean in a kind of "I love a rainy night" way. No, I mean I looooooove it. I'd marry it if I could, but that seems unlikely because, (A.) I'm already married (at least, as Ômarried' as possible for two gay men - but that's a whole 'nother essay), and (B.) even if I were single, I've already made it quite clear to friends and assorted media outlets that I would marry Julia Roberts - assuming she'd have me, and assuming she didn't mind the minor matter of my sexual orientation. And if Julia wouldn't have me, then I've kind of already made a semi-public statement of interest in Hugh Downs, not so much because I think he's hot but because he's probably got nothing to do anymore since being booted off 20/20, and he'd surely be up for buying me all the melted chocolate cookies I wanted... along with countless cups of City Bakery Hot Chocolate - sans marshmallows, of course. (Please note that if Hugh and I were to initiate some kind of relationship, and if he were to buy me unlimited amounts of City Bakery Hot Chocolate, I would forfeit my year's worth of free hot chocolate to a worthy alternate. Or I'd ask for free melted chocolate cookies for a year - which is quite fair, I think.) Second, the pretzel croissant. I'd marry it, too, if I didn't think that everyone - my husband, Julia, melted chocolate cookie, Hugh - would get all bent out of shape about it. Because, truly, there's nothing better than biting into that buttery, flakey, salty exterior and unleashing the earthy pleasures of its pretzelly insides. Sometimes I buy seven or eight and take them home, where I slather them with assorted jams and jellies (raspberry, strawberry, and, on one miserably misguided occasion, mint) and eat them all in quick succession, with the blinds down so my neighbors won't gawk. At other times I huddle in City Bakery's upstairs "is-it-a-bar? Is-it-a-storage-counter?" area by the manager's office and, * This is in no way a criticism of the Honorable Maury Rubin or any other City Bakery employee who may or may not have participated in creating this essay contest. pretending that the pretzel croissant is my little puppet friend, perform my own little musical: SCOTT: PRETZY C: SCOTT: PRETZY C: Hello, little Pretzy C, do you want to go on an adventure? (Pretzy C spins around with glee.) Yes, yes, Mr. Scott! How about going to the Chocolate Room to shoplift! Pretzy C! That's a horrible thing to say! (takes a bite out of Pretzy C) But we can certainly have a cup of hot chocolate, instead! Whaddya' say? (Pretzy C nods vigorously, then bursts into song) (to the tune of Annie's "Tomorrow") Hot chocolate! Hot chocolate! I want some Hot Chocolate! But not with a marsh-mall- ow! Third, peanut butter cookies. Proust had his madeleines, I have City Bakery's peanut butter cookies. They're just like my grandma used to make, only rounder and, I presume, not made with lard and Jiff. Oh, their peanut buttery taste brings me back to my childhood, back to when I was an awkward boy who entered talent contest after talent contest, only to be rejected by braindead judges who couldn't see the artistry behind a twelve year-old boy single-handedly performing all the human and zombie roles in a stage version of Michael Jackson's short film Thriller. But I've finally gotten over that. It's taken years - years - but I'm finally in an emotional space where I can take the risk again, where I can enter, say, an essay contest about hot chocolate. Where I can pin all my hopes and dreams and self-worth onto a few pieces of paper, and just hope for the best, just hope that some kind-hearted judges will read my entry and say, "Hey, this kid deserves a little hope in his life - this kid deserves a year's worth of our deliciously decadent hot chocolate!" But if that doesn't happen, and if I sink into despair and start to feel like a loser all over again, I'll know what to do: go buy myself another twelve peanut butter cookies, along with a large cup of steaming City Bakery Hot Chocolate - sans marshmallows, of course, lest I get filled up on springy white stuff and have no room for peanut butter cookies. Which, incidentally, is another reason why hot chocolate should not be served with marshmallows (at least, not City Bakery's hot chocolate - that Swiss Miss sludge can include whatever it wants): marshmallows take up valuable stomach real estate. With all due respect to the extraordinarily talented marshmallow chef, if I only have a limited amount of digestion time at City Bakery on a given day, I'd rather get full on some succulent soy nut-encrusted chicken from the salad bar than on a marshmallow. (If that statement disqualifies me, I'll gladly recant it.) Particularly when that chicken has to be accompanied by that subtly flavored mango/jicama concoction, and the perfectly-salted guacamole, and the jasmine rice, and the roasted squash, and the roasted eggplant, and... In conclusion, I think that marshmallows have no place in any hot chocolate of mine. Other people can do whatever they please, but I'm a stickler for having it straight up.