Sprüngli’s truffes cake is a serious matter. It’s heavy duty. It’s heavy weight. It’s nothing but cream and sugar and cocoa and butter and eggs, some flour, more cocoa and cream, and some almonds and hazelnuts. It was obviously made to kill people, to instantly clog their arteries, fatten their hips, ruining their appetite for days, I know what I am talking about, I am a survivor, I survived these monstrous attacks on numerous occasions, claiming I would never eat again, until the next battered defeat, and when I left Zurich and Sprüngli for good last year, I had to set an end to it, at least symbolically, I made myself its hangman, the executioner of the Sprüngli butcher, the delinquent guilty of numerous killings, dozens of breaking and enterings, first into its victim’s mind and then into its house, turning us all into slaves, letting us loose for some days, sometimes even weeks, pure torture, but there never was a turning back for me, my willpower had died long before me, my defeat was an eternal one, in endless repetition, and so I finally had to dispense some justice. Inspired by the passing of English royalty like Mary Stuart and Lady Jane Grey, I put Sprüngli’s truffes cake to death with my cheese cleaver. It took even more attempts to break its neck than poor Anne Boleyn’s.