Pano

Laura Jonsson

August 19, 2018

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On an adventure to find chocolate, I found an old friend. Well, he was no friend of mine when we met but he was indeed old.

After a musical-like-walk from the Oval to downtown Palo Alto as I bounced to The Police and The Head and the Heart, I stood outside a chocolate shop, my eyes sifting through the display boxes in the window and narrowing in on the man who sat perched on a wooden stool. A beige hat rested on his white hair. Some strands of hair peeped out but most were hidden in the shadow of the rim. My first thought was that this hat of his must have traveled on his head for decades; each needed the other. He intrigued me, and so did the chocolate. After all, that was what I was hunting for. So I walked in.

“What are you looking for today?” he asked as I shuffled into his shop. “Well, chocolate sir! I am surprising my best friend from high school and need a gift to thank his family for hosting me,” I responded as I put down my backpack and settled into a seat of my own. Apart from the hollowed-out cacao pod, the stone table between us was immaculate. He pulled out a drawer and offered me a shard of 73.5% chocolate. I started to chew the chocolate and he jumped, “No! Let it melt in your mouth.” So, I let it. The chocolate holding the cocoa nibs softened then disappeared in my mouth while the nibs started to dance with my taste buds.

Quite the description, I know, but this is at least how my “old friend” described it as he ate a bite himself. He offered me another sliver of chocolate; 6 more actually. With each piece on our tongues, questions rolled off about his life and mine. I asked about the history of his shop; he asked the history of my life. I asked about the man standing in the photos with him hung up around the room; he asked about the man to whom I was delivering the chocolate and about his Arab family. I asked for his name; he asked for mine. “My name is Laura.” “My name is Pano, pleasure to meet you.”

Pano is the old friend who you could talk to for hours on end without even a pause in the conversation. So, I did. I stayed in his shop–not checking my phone, the time, or the email I was expecting from my boss – for close to two hours. This encounter reminded me of the joy of talking to strangers and using something so sweet and simple as chocolate to peer into each others’ lives. Who’s to say we can’t do this more often?

As I was packing up my bag and paying for the chocolate, he told me to wait. There was one more thing. He scurried to the corner of the shop, drew out a stapled, printed article published by The Guardian about Claudio, Pano’s partner in the chocolate company, and folded it ever so carefully into a white business envelope. Here’s the cherry on top; he sealed the envelope shut with hot wax, pressing a stamp of a cacao tree into the heavy liquid. It dried and he peeled the stamp off to expose the beautiful seal. This was artistry. He was artistry. It was clear that he was not in the business of selling chocolate without his customers knowing where it came from and who was making it. He shared his sweet world of chocolate, one in which he spent the last several decades of his life, one that I may now share with you all.

Before I left the shop, I asked to take a photo of him to show my friend, whom I was going to visit. Pano responded, “Of course, but only if you get this small tree in it too.”

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