“What makes pie so good?” Paul asked as we walked out. The sugar had wound him up. He was doing a little jig of ecstasy, hopping from foot to foot, flapping his fingertips. “It’s in the name,” I said. “Chocolate?” “Mousse.” I raised my eyebrows. Paul looked up at the moose head mounted over the door, antlers wide as a man’s flung-open arms, nostrils big as bowls.
