My sugar-obsessed inner child has survived into adulthood and then developed a sophisticated, Detroit-style bank account to fund its most dangerous habits.
I know I should be watching my intake, my doctor’s voice is a faint, nagging hum in the back of my mind, but the moment I turn onto Canfield in Midtown, all resolve vanishes.
There is a tiny, brick-walled shop where chocolate is elevated to a playful, bite-sized science. Walking in feels like a heist on a jewelry store, except the gems are made of hand-tempered ganache and toasted toffee…