My husband Philip, son Conor and I were on our way to visit Michael and Carmel Collins' in Rathmullen, County Donegal. As we drove our car onto the Loch Swilly Ferry, the boat swarmed with foot passengers; young adults and teens headed to the Rathmullen Fair. Once there, the tiny village roads were choked with crowds of people, autos parked on each side of the street and a horse grazing adjacent to the road. Good thing we could park our car at Michael and Carmel's house. For dinner that evening we walked to An Bonnan Bui (the Yellow Bittern) on Pier Road, not far from the Loch. Michael knew the owners, Martin Kelly and Monica Santos. Martin came to our table to greet us. He'd been run off his feet all day with the fair crowds. When Michael devilishly introduced me as a food writer, Martin covered his face with his hands and grimaced: a food writer, eating here after a hugely busy day. Talk about the acid test. I laughed and told Martin not to worry; we'd been here before and the food was delicious. As he walked back to the kitchen, I opened the menu. Rathmullen is on the shores of a lake, so it made sense to order fish, which is what we all did. But something in the dessert section really caught my eye: “A Very Good Chocolate Cake.” Maybe it's a cultural thing. I come from America, where olives are colossal, ice cream is premium, beef is grade A prime and our work ethic is excellence.

In America, describing anything good in less than superlatives equates to heresy. Even in my own work, describing food often becomes a good-better-best proposition. While I'm thinking of it, I rarely order dessert in America for two main reasons. First, I don't need the extra calories; second, few eating establishments—especially high end ones—seem to carry home baked sweets anymore. They buy in desserts, slice them up and resell by the piece. I'm not interested. But this was Ireland, so I asked Martin about his intriguing dessert.

“Why is this called ‘a Very Good Chocolate Cake'? Why isn't it ‘Excellent' or something like ‘Angelic'?” My eyebrows shot up, waiting for the answer. “Well, no” said Martin, opening the window shade by our table. “It's just that it's nice, that's all. And I suppose a description like that gives us some wiggle room, though for what I don't know.” “I see.” But I didn't.

So along with my after dinner coffee, I ordered the Very Good Chocolate Cake. In my mind's eye, I pictured chocolate cakes in America: two and three layers high, glistening with syrupy, sticky frosting. Maybe a dense chocolate slice the texture of cement, thick with butter cream icing guaranteed to clog an artery. Or a flourless chocolate cake: shaped like a hockey puck, sagging in the middle, tasting more like dark fudge than dessert. Martin arrived back with our coffees and placed my cake on the table. It was a small oval, the color of espresso. A fresh cream floret and a mint leaf decorated the plate. As I put my fork into the cake, it yielded to reveal an interior that was warm and moist, substantial without being solid. That was nice. Then I tasted it. Like all good things Irish, the cake was underrated by its description on the menu. Yes, it was very good—but this small cake truly went beyond that. It was redolent of chocolate but not cloying, light and lovely in texture; easy to eat slowly and savor. The Very Good Chocolate Cake harbored an aftertaste that reminded you dreams really are about good things. Like fine wine, exquisite food, good sex, perfect vistas of Italy and autumn leaves at their peak, I never wanted this chocolate cake to end. For a second I envied the entire population of Rathmullen who could order it whenever they wished. Martin showed up again, looking nervous. I told him the cake was wonderful and watched him visibly relax. Even today, it still rates as one of the best desserts I've ever eaten in Ireland.

Some might say this cake at An Bonnan Bui is “too tasty for its own good.” But if you showed up at the Pearly Gates in your afterlife and brought along a piece of Martin's cake, it would be more grace than sin. The kind of grace so fine Saint Peter would let you right into Heaven without question—all for a taste of a Very Good Chocolate Cake.