Chicago is a sad place for chocolate fans these days. We've lost the Frango franchise (now that it is made in Pennsylvania) and now that ubiquitous bastion of classic chocolate goodness, Fannie May, is also coming to an end.

I am no chocolate snob--a handful of Hershey's will do in a pinch. But once or twice a year, in deepest secrecy, I have been known to stop by FM for a half-ounce of vanilla creams in dark chocolate. It has been my reward for myself, once in a while. But now the factory and the stores are closing, and FM fans like me are on their own.

So I stopped in to say goodbye and stock up, if possible. Apparently a lot of people are doing the same. Shelves are half-stocked; bins were full or empty at random. These people are clearly not expecting to make it to Valentine's day.

The two employees behind the counter seem resigned to their fate (it's been reported that more than 600 people will lose their jobs when the factory and stores close next month). Despite (or perhaps because of) the imminent closure, they are as free as ever with the samples, which makes me happy. (I chew to spite The Man.)

The customers, in contrast, are in a complete state of denial. They keep asking for their favorites, suspecting a hidden stash of nut clusters in the back. Do you have Pixies? The clerk sweeps a hand around the room. "just what you see here." Do you have caramels? Again, "Just what you see here."

They don't seem to have vanilla creams, except the sugar-free kind, which makes me sad. Will my last FM memory involve saccharine? I opt for the vanilla cream truffles, which are a fancier version of my old favorite. "I'll miss this store," I say, handing over the money.

The clerk invokes a puzzling metaphor, given the circumstance. "Well, that's the way the cookie crumbles," she sighs, and passes me the box.

I push past my fellow milling, grief-stricken shoppers and head back to work. Up the street a small group of people are protesting. (They are holding signs that, to be blunt, don't make any sense. If I want to find out what they want, I have to go talk to them and read a flyer, which I don't want to do.) They don't seem to be protesting about the loss of local candy institutions, which is all I feel like talking about.

Inevitably, a few cops are stationed nearby, watching the protesters casually. "Aha! So you bought a box!" exclaims a jolly cop, noticing my bag.

Get 'em while they're still here, buddy. Soon they'll be gone.