While pie is undoubtedly better than cake any day of the week, this cake is always welcome to sit on my uncomfortable sectional couch.
Unlike many chocolate cakes, it’s not super dense, but surprisingly light. The less-sugary nature of the cake means that everything tastes more intensely of chocolate, as does the fact that it’s served slightly chilled, which also makes it unusually refreshing for something so rich. The allure of the cake is mainly in how different the textures of the ganache, the icing and the cake are each layer is crisp and distinct. It’s an unassuming-looking layer cake, with a dark chocolate ganache on top and inner layers that are exquisitely soft, not too sweet, and of a sort of mousse-like consistency. The coffee is weirdly good, and very cheap, the food is plentiful, and the yellow cast of the lighting makes everything feel like a mundane yet alluring dream.īut the real charm, for me anyway, is the Conspiracy Cake, which is better than any cafeteria dessert has any right to be. The experience is, overall, demonic, and I welcome the eventual life stage and income bracket where I no longer have to undergo it.īut the cafeteria has tremendous charms, particularly if you pretend to be a detective in a tidy Scandanavian detective novel, one where you meditatively eat a plate of plant balls and slightly limp green beans while pondering the tragic dismemberment of an elderly woman. You will then spend the next six and a half weeks constructing heavy yet still flimsy furniture you didn’t really want, made entirely of particle board and spite, using instructions only slightly more legible than the Zodiac Killer’s cipher. Defeated already, you’ll buy something else. While in said bowels, you’re also likely to discover that only about half of what’s supposed to be in stock is actually there, making the time you spent getting to the store more or less a waste. That’s quickly followed by a descent into the bowels of hell, where you try desperately to find the enormous cardboard box you need, then maneuver it onto a wheeled cart without concussing yourself. First, you're shown tantalizing glimpses of what your life would look like with a perfectly laid out home, minimal possessions and a functioning social safety net. I realize that all of this might sound like some poorly disguised attempt at sponsored content, so before we continue, a few points of order: no gigantic Swedish furniture companies paid me to write this, and, moreover, it is a mistake to say that IKEA’s food is, in any sense of the word, “good.” The cafeteria is a place where you eat 20 meatballs soaked in mashed potatoes to soothe what’s about to come next: a frustratingly long journey through a layout that is literally designed to psychologically manipulate you. This was, as it would turn out, ill-advised. In a fit of pique, I also attempted to make it myself. IKEA calls this cake-I am not making this up-the Chocolate Conspiracy Cake, and despite my best and occasionally intrusive efforts, I cannot get them to tell me where it came from or what, precisely, makes it so delicious.
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