#30 - Malaco Gott & Blandat (original)

From my earliest days, I have always had a fondness (i.e., obsession) for candy. That should be obvious to even the most oblivious of human beings. I should know, as I have, from my earliest days, been one of those oblivious people I speak of. Case in point: I had spent many years enjoying Good & Plenty candies before coming to the realization (even though it was clearly stated on the box) that they were actually licorice (I was also clueless to the fact that their catchy song was based upon the tragic, yet heroic story of Casey Jones; way to make light of death, Good & Plenty!). Perhaps it was the candy coating, or their resemblance to pills (I'm a little surprised that's never been an issue, to be honest; there's nothing like encouraging kids to pop pills!), or even Jason Alexander's endorsement, but, whatever the reason, I was convinced they possessed their own unique taste. Which I guess is a win for them.

Anyhow, it is an embarrassing and disgraceful tale (in particular for a sweets fiend) which I would like to forget (hence my immortalizing it on the world wide web), but I had the pleasure of reliving it anew with today's candy: Malaco Gott & Blandat (original)!

Shame comes in many languages.

Now, Google's flawless translator tells me "Gott & Blandat" (which sounds like a Swedish crime-fighting duo to me) means "Well (or 'good') & Mixed." If you ask me (and you should), that's awfully close to "Good & Plenty," and, given that a little internet research suggests that the two candies share a common ancestor (from an ownership standpoint), it's not too much of a stretch to imagine that this may be a descendant of the product responsible for (or, rather, involved in) my aforementioned humiliation.

In spite of this, and in spite of the fact that once again licorice-like items are clearly displayed on the packaging (not to mention the transparent window showcasing the candy itself in all its glory), it did not occur to me that Gott & Blandat might contain (at least in part) licorice, which is quickly becoming my frenemy in the world of sweets.

Fool me twice, shame on me. Or something like that.

At any rate, back to the packaging... It's fairly well done; the colors are bright, the name is prominently displayed, and the artwork is appealing. It is also nice to be able to see the actual product via the handy "window" already mentioned. But its solid blue motif doesn't exactly wow the consumer. It is almost a tad bland, one might say (or "blandat," if one happened to be Swedish). So, it's a solid effort, but some minor adjustments wouldn't be out of order.

Fun game: try to spot the "best before" date!

The "best before" date is on the back of the package, practically hidden (though in plain sight) within a block of numbers and letters. As usual, I started on the bag a couple of days before finishing this review, so I just barely made it in time. That is always a relief!

Beneath the date (and mass of the package) is a little box suggesting other versions of Gott & Blandat (in this case, "salt" and "favorit mix;" they've recently announced a fruit salad version, too!). I know it's meant to entice the consumer into buying additional products, but at times it can seem to imply "Why didn't you buy one of these instead?"

Still, I am glad to have received a bag of the original flavor, as I feel it should provide the purest Gott & Blandat experience.

On a side note, I would like to mention that the name Malaco (owned by Cloetta, who I've come across with some success once or twice) comes from the first two letters of each of the words in "Malmö Lakrits Compani" (Malmö is one of the largest cities in Sweden, and "lakrits" means "licorice"). So they're pretty serious about their licorice. I don't know how serious they are about their fruit-flavored gummy candies, but I'm hoping for my sake that they're not a one trick pony (or one-way monkey, if you prefer).

WARNING: Staring at this photo may cause depression.

The nutrition facts section is about as dull as any I've ever seen. No frills here! Just... blue. And, I should probably point out that I've slightly brightened the informational images for easier reading; in even slightly dim lighting, the tiny black text on deep blue background can be a real challenge to read. It also brings an almost overwhelming drabness to the back of the package (and a sense of hopelessness to the consumer). Imagine a child sadly looking out a window pane dripping with rain and you will have a general idea of the feelings brought forth by the design (and I use that term very loosely) of the bag's posterior.

I could find no suggested serving size (unless the 100g is it, though that refers to over 60% of the bag), so I guess one is just meant to eat until one has had one's fill of the snacks. The Calorie count is higher than in, say, a typical gummy bear, but I believe this may be a different type of gummy, so that might account for it. We shall see. Then again, it might just be a less healthy alternative to normal American gummy candy. That would be a real feat!

At this point in my life, I have sampled a handful of Swedish candies, so I know to expect an ingredients list in no less than three languages. Gott & Blandat does not disappoint. At least, I don't think it does; as I've said, it can be difficult to read what's written on the packaging.

Drab times three.

Seeing sugar as the first ingredient is always encouraging. There are also ingredients some might find frightening, like E153, E140, and E120, to name a few. Those are just European secret code names for food additives. Because I guess "E320" sounds less scary than "Butylated hydroxyanisole" or something.

What can I say, government agencies excel at obfuscation.

The nice thing about having the list in multiple languages is that it increases the likelihood of recognizing words even if one is not well versed in any of the supplied languages. For instance, I notice the candy contains ammonium chloride, which I first encountered in Cloetta's Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits. I am not so sure I am happy about that (I have "blandat" feelings about it), as I had blamed that particular chemical (possibly without justification) for spoiling the taste of the licorice.

Given the mixed shapes and colors of the candies featured on (and within) the packaging, the ingredients list actually seems a bit short. How can they get so many hues (and presumably flavors) with such a limited array of ingredients? That's Malaco's secret (but maybe it has something to do with all those E numbers).

Having exhausted the data on the back of the bag, there was nothing left to do but tear it open and see for myself what Gott & Blandat was all about.

So I did just that.

Fruits, animals, forms of transportation... Gott & Blandat has it all!

I was pleasantly surprised by the variety in the forms taken by the candy. True, I knew there would be a mix (it's in the name, after all), but I did not expect a truck. Generally speaking, I never expect a truck in a bag of candy. But lo and behold, there it was, along with a fish, a sailboat, and (everyone's favorite, I'm sure), a black cat (who obviously warranted his/her own picture).

In addition to the various sights, the bag released the familiar bouquet of scents common in any such bag of gummy candy. Overall, the "grand opening" was a pleasant affair. A closer inspection, however, revealed a disproportionate distribution of flavors. My package was dominated by black and yellow pieces, with hardly a green or orange to be found. Maybe the green and orange pieces are more expensive to produce. Whatever the reason, it was just as well, as they did not do much for my taste buds.

The candies were denser and tougher to chew than I'd have thought, but not to the point of diminishing one's enjoyment. As each color had its own flavor (any difference in taste due to shape is a figment of the imagination), I will offer a brief description of each:

• BLACK: Probably the most plentiful in my bag, and unfortunately my least favorite (also the toughest to chew). They were far more like the Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits licorice (which I should have surmised) than the Good & Plenty type I was so hoping for. If you're Swedish, you may consider that a good thing. I am not, and I don't. To be blunt, I did not like them.
• RED: Totally unsurprising, but comfortably so. The flavor was exactly as one would anticipate a red gummy candy to have. They were nothing special, but probably my second favorite nonetheless.
• ORANGE: Decent orange flavor. There were not many of these at all, so my experience with them was limited, but they were fine. I'd place them right smack in the middle, taste-wise.
• YELLOW: Easily my favorite. The lemon flavor was rich and satisfying. I could have eaten an entire bag of just the yellow candies and was glad to find that my package contained a healthy supply of them.
• GREEN: Not much to say about this one. I believe I only received two in the bag, and neither left an impression on me. They are quite forgettable with an uninteresting taste.

As a whole, I found Malaco's Gott & Blandat underwhelming. Aside from the yellow pieces, the candies were average at best (and sub-par at worst). Thus, I rate this candy a 2; I would not feel compelled to purchase another package, but if I came across a bowlful, I wouldn't mind snagging one of the better pieces, particularly a lemon-flavored one.

That's always the risk in a mixed candy: some flavors will be better than others, and some may not be very good at all (hence the term "mixed bag"). With this in mind, Gott & Blandat is aptly named. One just needs to understand that "good" and "mixed" might be mutually exclusive.

I should have seen that coming.

Forever oblivious,
The Sweets Fiend

I would eat four of these. Five if I were desperate.

#29 - La Corona Paletón

Today is Cinco de Mayo (or May 5th), a day commemorating Mexico's defeat of France (which is sort of a coming-of-age ritual among countries) at the Battle of Puebla.  That is, unless you are a citizen of the United States of America, where Cinco de Mayo is a day commemorating Mexico's independence (we invented that aspect ourselves) and the availability of alcoholic beverages of Mexican (or even semi-Mexican) origin.  Anyhow, once upon a time (circa 1861) Mexico was facing financial struggles (to put it lightly) and was unable to pay back its debts to its European lenders.  Britain and Spain decided to come to a non-violent agreement, but France, under the ambitious rule of Napoléon Bonaparte (perhaps known best for getting Bugs Bunny into drugs), was unwilling to negotiate and launched an ill-fated attack.

Mexico celebrated heartily (much as you would if you refused to pay your bills and then fought off your creditors when they came to your door)!  Sure, the victory was short-lived (again, much as yours would be after fighting off your creditors), but Mexico was decidedly the underdog in the battle, and everyone loves to root for the underdog (as countless movies prove).

Now, Mexico has had its share of wins, but thus far none have been over my palate.  It is my sincere hope that, in the spirit of the day, today's candy will rectify that situation (I am slightly French, after all), for it is none other than La Corona's Paletón!

Either this is going to be fantastic, or that boy is a no-good liar.

My first thought upon seeing the packaging was "Well, this sure looks easy to tamper with!"  But that is not unusual for candy on a stick, and I do welcome the free twist tie.  What a bonus!  Once I got past that, I was able to appreciate the artwork on the wrapper: an enthusiastic child with what looks like an ice cream bar with a bite taken out of it (but is in reality a Paletón, if I'm not mistaken; I'm hoping it does not come pre-eaten like that).  It is all very colorful (and shiny, ooh) and, if I may say so, masterfully done; there's a refreshing lightheartedness to it that grabs the consumer's attention, and I think everyone longs to be like that smiling boy, able to enjoy the simpler things in life.  Well done, La Corona!

Despite knowing at least two individuals who have done (or still do) professional Spanish-to-English translating, I decided to trust Google with my translation needs.  It suggested that "paletón" means "pin," which is an inexcusably terrible name for a product, particularly when one considers all the horror stories/urban legends regarding maniacal fiends hiding needles in candy.  I can only assume Google didn't know the answer and just made something up; either that, or La Corona has a very twisted sense of humor (in which case I wonder if they're hiring).

Is this some sort of eye test?

The "best before" date can be found (if one looks very, very carefully) at the top portion of the wrapper.  It would seem La Corona is licensing (or infringing upon) Cloetta's vanishing ink patent, because the day is nearly unreadable.  Luckily, there's enough left to assure me my Paletón is still in its prime, though I am once again cutting it close.

Then again, it's always a possibility that they've decided to go against convention and put the year first, meaning I'm about five years too late.  I can't imagine that would happen, but then, until this moment, I had never imagined a candy company would release a product entitled "Pin."  La Corona is full of surprises!

This hardly seems worth all the secrecy.

Speaking of surprises, the nutritional information is completely obscured until the wrapper is released from its twist tie bondage, so one will not know what one is getting into until the product has been purchased (or one opens it, reads the data, and then reties it; I presume that does happen on occasion).

That is a shame, because the Paletón is a mere 74 Calories (assuming the serving size is an entire bar; I would hate to think the single bite depicted in the package art is meant to portray a suggested serving size), which is not too shabby at all for a sweet of its size.  I would think La Corona would want to advertise that fact with all the usual fanfare of a Mexican victory (in this case over high Calorie counts).

Then again, maybe the low Calorie count is at the expense of taste.  Just what is the Paletón made of, anyway?  A look at the ingredients list (also hidden by the mischievous twist tie) should shed some light on the subject.

CAUTION: Reading the entire list may cause blindness!

Despite being in Spanish (and in really-difficult-to-read gold foil wrapping, which was no treat to photograph, either), I was able to make out some recognizable words, but they produced questions more than answers.  Everything about the ingredients list section (and, to be honest, all the other on-package info) leads me to believe its existence is merely a formality rather than a true attempt at providing useful data.  It is actually fairly well done in a way, but not readily accessible as it should be (not to mention a tad hard on the eyes).

So, still not entirely sure what this "Paletón" was all about, I had no choice but to forge ahead and examine the candy itself...

My Paletón moonlights as a boxer.

I'm not going to lie, I had my reservations at first (no, not to a restaurant, but that wouldn't have been a bad idea); my specimen was nowhere near as pretty as the little boy's in the graphics (it appeared to have taken quite the beating in transit, and the general shape fell short of my hopes), and the smell was more indicative of dark chocolate than I'd have liked (though I've nothing against dark chocolate, I prefer it tempered with a bit more sweetness; I am, after all, a sweets fiend).  And I had been, to put it nicely, let down by a Mexican product before.

Quite frankly, I, like the Mexican Army at the Battle of Puebla, expected a disappointment.

Fortunately, La Corona once again surprised me; it was, believe it or not, quite good!  The inside turned out to be delectable marshmallow (I probably should have guessed), the consistency was spot-on, and the chocolate, though indeed bearing a hint of the bitterness that comes with darker chocolates, was balanced well by the filling.  It really caught me off guard in the best way.  The only thing working against it was the fact that, while I enjoy a tasty chocolate-covered marshmallow treat now and then, it's not the sort of treat I generally seek out.

I struggled with the score on this one; its taste was firmly in the 3 territory, but did it fulfill the "I'd buy it again" qualification, or must it settle for a mere 2?  After much deliberation, I decided that, yes, it is within the realm of possibilities (if not too likely) that I would some day purchase another for myself, and so I rate the La Corona Paletón a 3.  I definitely wouldn't mind having another sometime.

So, once again, the fifth of May has proven to be a red letter day for Mexico: my tastes buds have waved the white flag of sweet satisfaction!

Let's just hope this victory has a longer shelf life...

Heading off to celebrate appropriately (i.e., with more candy),
The Sweets Fiend

Now THAT is a bite!  Cartoon boy, take note.

#28 - Nobel Super Lemon Candy

In the popular blockbuster action film Iron Man, Tony Stark is a wealthy armaments tycoon whose weapons are so destructive that they earn him the title "Merchant of Death." During the movie (SPOILER ALERT), he experiences a moment of enlightenment wherein he realizes the legacy he has thus far been establishing (death and destruction) is perhaps less than ideal. Therefore, he undergoes a reformation, deciding to devote his vast fortune and resources to the benefit of mankind.

Alfred Bernhard Nobel was a wealthy armaments (dealing largely with iron, mind you) tycoon (known in particular for inventing dynamite). Due to journalistic negligence (good to know that's been around for more than a century), he had the rare opportunity to read his obituary while still alive (being confused with a brother who had died), where he was given the title "Merchant of Death." This brought him to a moment of enlightenment wherein he realized that the legacy he had thus far been establishing (death and destruction, of course) was perhaps less than ideal. Therefore, he decided to devote his vast fortune and resources to the benefit of mankind (mainly, by setting up the Nobel Prize, for which his name is probably best known in modern times; it's even sometimes awarded prematurely, perhaps as a nod to the founder's obituary).

Now, I'm not saying that Iron Man is a complete rip-off of Alfred Nobel's life (with the addition of a nifty super suit; Nobel wore nifty normal suits), but one must admit the two stories bear a strong resemblance to one another (even more so than Nobel and Stark themselves). After all, it is not unusual for a company to borrow inspiration for a plot or product! It makes one wonder...

I can't help but also wonder (worst segue ever?) if Nobel was in some way a muse for the brand behind today's candy: Nobel Super Lemon Candy!

How I wish The Nobel's Times was a real newspaper, even if every issue was about Super Lemon Candy!

It should come as no surprise that I was instantly drawn to the packaging. The comic-style artwork (reminiscent of an Iron Man comic, maybe?) and "The Nobel's Time" newspaper motif (in reference to the driving force behind Nobel's philanthropic cause, maybe?) are hard to ignore. But it was the man crying "Oh! Nobel!" (as opposed to the "Oh! Juicy!" woman) that really clinched the deal; I was unfamiliar with the interjection (though I'm sure it'll gain popularity in time), and the whole thing just left me both intrigued and oddly disturbed. I needed to know more! Sadly, the Nobel web site has little to offer an American with no Japanese skills other than links to more sites with more images sure to provide endless nightmares, and the "newspaper" articles on the package are nothing more than a random mix of carefully selected English and Japanese words and phrases.

I was left baffled, unsure what connection (if any) the candy and/or company had to the late inventor of dynamite (explosive lemon flavor?). The back of the bag, while not answering that question, provided a generous amount of information, including a comic with another "Oh! Juicy!" and a diagram of the Super Lemon Candy, which apparently varies in mildness as the center is approached. I've noticed it is quite common in foreign (meaning not American in this case) markets to furnish candy blueprints in a similar manner, a feature sorely lacking in American fare. We could learn a lot from our neighbors when it comes to such things.

Or maybe this is The Noble Time's edition number...

The "best before" date is clear as day, but an explanation is still given in the Americanized sticker, because everyone knows us folks in the Untied States cannot differentiate between a month and a year (hint: months do not go into the 2000s). It is one of those vague dates with no particular day in mind, so anytime in April ought to be fine. Fortunately, I began my bag near the end of the specified month. However, I have not finished it yet; thus, I should be able to experience any deterioration of the product when the magical date passes by.

But this blog is not about the future (yet). A look at the nutrition facts and ingredients list should bring things back to the present (or past, as the case may be):

Good news: Super Lemon Candy probably won't cause you to soil your pants!

Nutritionally, a piece of Super Lemon Candy will set you back 15 Calories of nothing but sugars and carbohydrates, so if one is on a strict low-carb, low-sugar diet, Super Lemon Candy may not be the best option. But such a person would surely not be reading this blog, anyhow, so my invaluable advice is going to waste.

Oh, and if you didn't notice, the serving size is one piece. That's right, you are not expected (nor, for that matter, intended) to have any more than one at a time. I hope it is due to the length of time a piece can be enjoyed, rather than some other, more ominous reason.

The ingredients list is not too terribly long, and includes a mix of expected (citric acid, for one) and unfamiliar items. For instance, I did not know what pullulan was, but Wikipedia informed me that it is "a polysaccharide polymer consisting of maltotriose units." Thanks, Internet! I would be lost without you. Wikipedia was also helpful in identifying erythritol as a sugar alcohol that "does not normally cause laxative effects, as are often experienced after consumption of other sugar alcohols." Thank you, Nobel, for taking the world's undergarments into consideration while chemically engineering your lemon candy (though, if it did have a laxative effect, it would bring a whole new meaning to the comic characters' facial expressions and numerous "Oh! Juicy!" outbursts)!

Having read all that The Nobel's Times had to offer, it was the Sweets Fiend's time to open up the package and see for myself what all the buzz was about!

SIX WHOLE SERVINGS! I'm getting full just looking at them.

The candies are individually wrapped (a nice feature, though the environment might disagree) with a simple, yet effective bright yellow design. This should help preserve freshness and potentially allow stores to sell Super Lemon Candy one piece at a time (with the added bonus of no "best before" date). The packaging materials (large bag included) are all of a sturdy quality that evokes a sense of confidence.

An "Oh! Juicy!" is imminent!

Outside their wrappers, the candies have an appearance not unlike that of a typical lemon drop, though Super Lemon Candy is (despite the package artwork) a totally spherical, planet-like shape; it could aid one in pretending to be Ominpotus, devouring worlds one at a time (per serving size suggestion). They could also be used as some sort of ammunition, I would think (making Nobel a candy armaments manufacturer).

To sum it up, the candy is round and neither especially dull nor exciting.

As I am rather fond of lemon drops, not to mention Lemonheads, I suspected Nobel's offering would be met with success as well. But I should have paid more attention to the on-package comics and less to my preconceived notions of what lemon candy is, because Super Lemon Candy has more in common with Warheads than with my aforementioned favorites; the outermost layer is indeed a force to be reckoned with!

Now, I do not have anything against Warheads sour candies, per se. People often give them to me as gifts to themselves, because watching me deal with one is allegedly a hilarious affair (I might as well work in a sideshow). But, the thing is, Warheads reward one's suffering with a pleasantly flavored core. Super Lemon Candy, in its "Merchant of Death" cruelty, offers no such prize (I'd call it the "Nobel Piece Prize") to those who endure its sadistic ritual of "sourness" (which, to be fair, is pretty brief and not nearly as bad as a Warhead's). I could not differentiate between the two innermost layers, but I did not find either of them particularly tasty; there was some semi-decent realistic lemon flavor there, yes, but it was lacking in some way I cannot put my finger on. It was just not worth the ordeal it took to get there.

I therefore rate Nobel Super Lemon Candy an unsatisfying 1. It has little to offer over alternative lemon sweets apart from its beguiling packaging, and I wouldn't consider anything about it worthy of the "Super" moniker. I mean, I wouldn't be violently opposed to having another, but it would not be by my choice, I can tell you that.

Or, to put it another way: Oh! Nobel!

Hoping a laxative effect does not suddenly (and abnormally) kick in,
The Sweets Fiend

This is what passes for front page news in the Nobel universe.