belgian hot chocolate


Premium Belgian chocolatier, Godiva, is thrilled to announce an exciting new partnership with 20th Century Fox for the much-anticipated film Murder on the Orient Express, a big screen reimaging of the classic mystery novel by master storyteller Agatha Christie.

A perfect match for two timeless icons, the film introduces Godiva as the chocolate of choice for the film.  Hercule Poirot is the Belgian private detective, famed for his discerning taste and his penchant for the beautiful and the luxurious.

In honour of the collaboration, Godiva’s talented chef chocolatiers have crafted a new Chocolate Collection. All indulgent new pieces are decorated with a whimsical moustache motif, inspired by Poirot’s own distinguishable whiskers. The unique limited edition collection includes three new chocolate pieces in delicious flavours including: an intense dark chocolate ganache encased in a white chocolate shell, a tangy raspberry ganache sheathed in a milk chocolate shell and a creamy almond praline encased in a sweet milk chocolate shell. Synonymous with the craftsmanship, quality and chocolate artistry for which Godiva is renowned, the delicious chocolates are presented in a stunning, vintage-inspired, limited edition gold gift boxes that features a stylish Orient Express-themed design.

The chocolatier will also celebrate its first movie collaboration with a delicious Belgian speculoos-flavoured hot chocolate with an eye-catching new sleeve, playful chocolate moustaches on sticks and a bundle of four of Godiva’s exquisite G Collection tablets, which are presented in a beautiful train-inspired packaging.

Murder on the Orient Express launches on November 10.

Godiva’s Orient Express-themed products are available for purchase beginning October 22. [x]

Friendly Comforts

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“I don’t know… just a vibe.” She shrugged and settled down next to him, the blanket in hand large enough for them both. “You sometimes seem like you need a blanket and hot chocolate.” Sometimes she did too, but she worried far more about other people than herself. If they were good, the people she cared about then she was good too.

“It’s Belgian hot chocolate by the way. A little something to make up for me being off doing things and not letting anyone know I was.” She did that and she had a tendency not to mention it when she did them. It was a problem, one she always means to work on. She just isn’t used to telling someone she’s going off, she used to just doing it, going and leaving it at that.


It’s funny how shopping adventures with one of my friends often turn out into us trying interesting cafes we’ve never been to. I guess because she loves coffee, and I love trying sweets.

Yesterday we went to… I forgot. But it was somewhere in Westfield Centrepoint again, and I tried the mixed berry tart, which was delicious, and also a pot of Belgian hot chocolate. It is odd for me to say anything is too sweet. But this was honestly too sweet (but in a thick, bitter way– since it was dark chocolate), it gave me a headache. Well then, maybe it wasn’t the sweetness that gave me the headache. Anyway, I’ve learnt to not pour the whole thing in next time. 

You said you liked my hair better blonde, so I dyed it so dark that it matched the marks you were responsible for leaving on my skin.

Black, ombre’d blue.

You said you loved how little I was, and how short my legs were, due to me being a petite five foot so now not a day goes by when I don’t wear shoes with some sort of platform or heel.

You said you preferred my red lipstick, to any other colour I ever wore. You said when you kissed me it tasted like strawberries, so sweet and delicious. You said it made you ravenous for more, that it was what you craved when you were sober and when you were wasted. You said my kisses were rough and yet my lips were so soft, you told me you weren’t quite sure what to make of that. Not sure at all.

I wear darker lipstick now, or somedays I just won’t wear any at all. If you were to kiss me now, which I couldn’t imagine you doing, you would burn the back of your throat on my whiskey breath and you would smell only the two hundred and eighty eight cigarettes I have smoked since you left. My kisses are no longer sweet rather they are the epitome of lonely; the mark of a person looking for nothing more than a quickie, a one night stand. No longer do I wish to be held in someones arms or have them kiss my knuckles or my hand, like you did. Now I am okay with just fucking around because now I know that no one ever does bother to stick around.

You told me that you liked the way my voice sounded because it wasn’t high pitched like other girls. You said you liked that my accent was a mix of the places I’ve lived in, because you knew that I hated the fact I had moved one too many times and you wanted me to feel some comfort in knowing that it made me who I am. You described my voice as low and husky and claimed it played at your heart strings as though everything I ever said to you was a soft, rich in substance, beautiful melody.

I remember you telling me that I smelled of candy, one that you had forgotten the name of yet loved as a child. You told me that the scent was something you lusted after when I wasn’t around - you muttered almost inaudibly that when I left that night, I left your covers and your pillows reeking of me and that it wasn’t unpleasant and yet it was because it made you think about the fact that I probably wasn’t coming back to you. But I did. And you told me you loved me for that. You told me you loved me for coming back and making you whole again.

But to piece you back together I had to tear parts of my own soul apart and latch them onto you. I had to give you all that I had left so that you could be intact again, and that - that left me broken. That caused me to no longer be that same person you had fallen for in the first place.

You commented once on the way my eyes reminded you of swirling, Belgian hot chocolate and that you could get lost in their vastness, make yourself at home in them on a Winters day. You admitted that you thought they were breathtaking and that they made you feel warm inside, carrying on your analogy of cocoa. But what about when Summer came would my eyes still be diamonds to you, you never said.

I wear coloured contact lenses now.

It’s a year later, Winter again and my eyes are ice cold and blue like the snowflakes that fall, reminding me that falling can only be followed by shattering. I conclude, that you did in fact no longer love me when Summer came.

My concealed eyes have gone black, and so has my frail, old hidden soul and the half a heart I have been forsaken with. There is no longer any light shining in me, my spark gone. I gave it to you when I mended your broken parts with my own, losing myself in the process.

And I am beyond happy to not recognise myself in the mirror because seeing the me you once loved would only strengthen this dull ache I feel inside of me. It would only remind me that although you liked my parts and claimed to love me; never was I, or my chocolate brown eyes or my golden blonde hair, or my intoxicating kisses, never ever were they quite good enough to make you stay.

—  “You left and you took my spark of creativity and individuality with you” - H.B