Chocolate mousse belongs in a mould. It should be set in a mould, served in a mould, and eaten out of mould. Yes, there are exceptions like mousse cakes and Swiss rolls and fanciful mousse quenelles on plated desserts, but for the most part, chocolate mousse is, and should be, made and mounted in a mould.

Or so I thought.

Because in the midst of the covid hysteria, I chanced upon a video, a YouTube video I saved a year ago but then forgotten, from a Korean cooking Youtube channel by the name of Cooking tree (or more accurately, “Cooking tree 쿠킹트리”) In it, after 2 minutes and 56 seconds of stirring and whisking and pouring the chocolate mousse paste into a loaf tin to set—done by a pair of nameless hands overlaid with orgasmic ASMR magic—the chocolate mousse is turned out, revealing a great big glistening, sensually wobbly slab of chocolate. And it looks stunning.

So of course after I saw that glistening hunk of chocolate, being the chocolate fiend I am, I set out to make it. I made some minor adjustments—a little less milk, a handful of better chocolate, a little more binding ingredients (I’m in Malaysia after all, where it’s hot and humid and everything cold melts if you even so much as glare at it). And I have to say, the results were sensual.

Fine, I admit, the look of it isn’t one of my finest moments. And despite upping the amount of cornstarch, it still ended up a little too soft and quickly became sloppy from the Malaysian heat. One might call it rustic, but really, let’s just call it what it is—sloppy. But maybe that is the point. Maybe instead of pots de crème and mousse cups served on pearly white porcelain chalice, dug up with silver spoons, put to your mouth with the utmost caution so as not to soil your cravats, mousses are meant to be sloppy and sensual, served in large slabs and slobbered on so the taste of chocolate and cream lingers on on your palate and plate, tempting you to put all manners aside, lick them clean and just indulge.