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Part one. I can’t believe there’s a Zumbo in my fridge.

Everytime I go to the fridge (shutup! It’s not that often!) I am confronted with a big white box with a plastic covering over it, labelled with the all too familiar black and pink writing from the patissier Adriano Zumbo. This time, it’s not macaroons that are lurking beneath the cardboard, but layers of Flourless chocolate, Chocolate crunch, Burnt choc brulee, Choc macaron, Choc jelly, Choc creamaux, Choc chantilly.

YES way. The v8 diesel.

My delightful and somewhat mad best buddies, teamed up to splurge on me for some unknown reason. One did her part from another state, mind you. The other left work in the middle of the day in order to navigate her way to the small tasty nook in Manly and pick up the baby. And she can’t find her driveway sometimes.

Part two. Lick the knife after each cutting of piece in order to gain maximum consumption and taste testing ability.

As one could imagine, bringing the knife to the throat was most difficult. I couldn’t bare to see the chocolate bleed inside and break the seal, yet so much of me couldn’t wait to see the incredible architecture of these 8 layers. Upon descent into the mouth with aid of tablespoon (no, sorry…ladel), I realised that the cake was for “up to ten people” and the two hovering over my shoulder were not worried about the chocolate stain already on my top and intended to be part of that sum. Oh right, yes sharing the cake is what was involved next.

Part three. Ownership is involved when it comes to chocolate and me. Thus by means of ownership, I mean entitlement.

Not really that selfish. How could you believe such a thing. How could I enjoy the delight of the v8 diesel without gorging on this chocolate sensation with my buddies?

It’s been less than 48 hours and my oh my there is 1/3 left. I can’t believe it. I’m still dreaming about each layer and trying to decide whether it’s the outer layer of rich mousse or the crunchy, salted chocolate biscuit base that is the best. Each time I have a slice I am up in arms about what part to leave till last and secretly inside of me, I am fearing for the worst.

When the box is empty.

Part four. Tick tock tick tock. Who made dessert time post-dinner???