The Louis Vuitton logo sat on a plate in front of me. With heavy silver utensils, I broke it into gooey chunks, shoving forkfuls into my mouth. Fluffy chocolate cream. The crunch of cookie. An oily slick of ganache. I ate and ate and ate. When the waiter returned to take it all away, he looked at me admiringly: “Nicely done.”
Was it a scene from one of Karl Marx’s nightmares? Nope. Just a delectable, branded entremets at the end of a recent dinner at Le Café Louis Vuitton, in New York.
