Mocha is a religious experience. Divine chocolate snowflakes flutter down from the crystal-clear shaker. They land on my whipped-cream wings, and I take off. The warmth of the rich chocolate espresso bathed in holy cream radiates from my overflowing cup, and I wonder why I ever worried about anything.

Inside the holy Espresso Royale Caf", the superhuman sounds of Miles Davis echo through its never-ending ceiling. An art gallery high above the heads of the worshippers displays the painstaking work of the followers of the mocha-related sects. There are the Latt"s, who believe that there is an element of milk in everything; the Capuccinos, who believe that the deceiving touch of cinnamon that lies atop every thick layer of celestial steamed milk only hides the actual burning temperature of the delicious liquid underneath; the Caf" au Laits, who believe in making their own combination of milk and coffee to create the perfect balance; the Coffeedrinkers, who like all things simple and who are content with what they are given; and the Flavored Mochas, who thrive on the same chocolate and espresso principle as the Mochas, but with a shot of mint, orange, or raspberry.

I belong to the Mochas. I struggle through the entire week until Saturday when I make my pilgrimage to the Mocha Mecca. The blissful marriage of dark chocolate, overwhelmingly flavorful espresso, and purifying white cream helps heal every wound, mend every mishap, and clear my conscience of all the evils of the week. c