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, and ruining their appetite for days. I know what I am talking about, I am a survivor of endless attacks on my veins’ sobriety, afterwards always claiming in vain I would never lose control again—until the next battered defeat. When I left Zurich and Sprüngli for good, I had to set an end to this cake’s power over me, at least symbolically, and so I made myself its executioner. Inspired by the passing of mostly female 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.