Anouk reads a book of nursery rhymes behind the counter and keeps an eye on the door for me as I prepare a batch of mendiants in the kitchen. These are my own favourites – thus named because they were sold by beggars and gypsies years ago – biscuit-sized discs of dark, milk or white chocolate upon which have been scattered lemon-rind, almonds and plump Malaga raisins. – Joanne Harris, Chocolat , chapter 7 There is no overt magic in this novel about a chocolatier who wanders into a small French village with her daughter and an imaginary rabbit on a Shrove Tuesday, the day of pancakes. I re-read this book after years, mostly because I'd forgotten large chunks of it and wanted to revisit Lansquenet-sous-Tannes before I read the rest of the series. This was my second "buddy read", which has been great for keeping my reading on track (case in point: the book I'm currently reading is taking far too long.) Vianne's mother was a witch, we are told, but she prefers to not