I Got Drunk on Truffles in Victoria, and Honestly? No Regrets.

I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions in my life. I’ve cut my own bangs. I’ve bought fancy skincare without checking the price tag. I’ve said “you too” to a waiter who told me to enjoy my meal.

But this time? This time, I got drunk on truffles.

Yes, chocolate truffles. With booze in them. This is not a metaphor. This is not an exaggeration. This is a cautionary tale wrapped in foil and filled with brandy.

Enter: Chocolatiere de Victoria, a Dangerously Charming Chocolate Shop

There I was, strolling through Victoria, British Columbia—land of tea rooms, mossy rooftops, and quiet streets that whisper you deserve a treat. I wandered into Chocolatiere de Victoria, a shop that smells like cocoa heaven and looks like it was decorated by a sugar-dusted fairy godmother.

I peered into the display case, eyes wide and soul hungry. That’s when I saw them: truffles… with alcohol. Alcohol! Brandy truffles. Whisky truffles. Rum truffles. Basically, they took the entire liquor shelf and asked, “What if we made this bite-sized and adorable?”

The Problem: I Am a Sugary, Tipsy Icarus

Because I have the self-control of a raccoon in a garbage bin labeled “treats,” I did what any adult with a credit card and no sense of moderation would do.

“One of everything, please.”

One truffle in and I felt cozy. Two in and I was blushing. By truffle three? I was practically flirting with the display case.

Turns out when you’re a lightweight, a ganache is basically a shot glass in disguise. Who knew?

The Aftermath: Tipsy but Triumphant

Did I walk out of there tipsy? Yes. Did I giggle at a passing pigeon? Possibly. Did I regret it? Absolutely not.

But let’s just say, next time I’m sticking with their “virgin” truffle collection. My liver—and my dignity—will thank me.

Final Thoughts: 10/10, Would Buzz Again

Chocolatiere de Victoria, you glorious little enabler, you got me. You got me good. And while I may have stumbled out of your shop with cocoa on my lips and brandy in my bloodstream, I walked out with a story—and isn’t that the best kind of souvenir?

This is a rewrite of a previous post.