#49 - Swizzels Double Lollies Squashies

Given the quantity and variety of sweets I have consumed in my lifetime, one might think that I am so well versed in the world of candy that nothing could catch me off guard; surely by now I can predict, with uncanny accuracy, whether or not I will like a candy with nothing more than a quick glance at the packaging, right?

Of course not. Don't be silly.

But give me a break. It's not entirely my fault! Sometimes there's a language barrier to blame. Other times it's a failure in package design. And still other times it's due to a name that is practically meaningless unless one has already tried the product before.

The end result is that your guess is as good as mine (okay, mine's better; I was just trying to be nice) as to whether or not I will react favorably to any particular sugary treat. In fact, I am occasionally completely clueless as to what a candy has to offer.

Take, for instance, today's subject: Swizzels Double Lollies Squashies!

A British-sounding name for a sweet if ever I heard one.

Swizzels is an English candy company that's been bringing sugary treats into the world since 1928, so I'd suspect they have a handle on the whole candy making thing. Swizzels Double Lollies Squashies are the soft, chewy, stick-less version of their popular Double Lollies suckers (which have been around since the start of Queen Elizabeth II's reign).

It all sounds pleasant enough, I suppose. Or maybe not. It doesn't really give me much to go on.

The package design is solid, though not exceptional. The font choices border on generic, and the pastel color scheme feels more drab than it should, but it is overall a successful effort, particularly when considering its complementary nature to the product (which resemble smoothed, poorly painted rocks) seen through the front "window." In fact, if the packaging were much better, it would likely overshadow and diminish any appeal of the actual viewable candy; Swizzels is more clever than first appearances might suggest!

At one time, this was the future.

The "best by" date is conspicuously displayed on the back of the bag (in the popular DD/MM/YYYY), with printing that is not of the highest quality but gets the job done. Also in the panel are what I assume are the lot number and time of production, which every consumer likes to know.

This review has been on the back burner for ages; I actually did meet the "best by" requirements (though it was a close one) when consuming my sample of the product, so lay your worries to rest!

Data based on an indeterminate number of "squashies."

The nutritional information (also displayed on the back), is more or less (mostly more) what one would expect from such a candy: sugar, sugar, and more sugar! Nutritionally, there's very little else to the "squashies." The panel is practically a waste of space.

As is customary in Europe, the values are based on a serving of 100g. If you would like to know how many "squashies" that equates to, I cannot help you, as I could find no indication anywhere on the packaging (which makes the nutritional data rather useless, in my humble opinion, and the panel even more of a waste of space). I may need to invest in a small scale to aid me in future reviews; that 100g standard is becoming a real nuisance!

Above the nutritional information one can find the ingredients list:

Swizzels Double Lollies Squashies are chock-full of surprises!

The list again shows the wisdom of Swizzels. For instance, "Double Lollies Squashies" is (arguably) a more appetizing name than "Fruit Flavour Foam Gums." Furthermore, the arrangement of the list (with multiple languages) as one big block of text dissuades the consumer from bothering to read it.

Because, quite honestly, Double Lollies Squashies contain a fair amount of unusual entries (mostly to accommodate the "no artificial colours" promise from the front of the package), so I thought I'd go over a few of them here.

• Sulphur Dioxide: This is sometimes used to preserve fruit (in this case, I'd guess the apple pulp). It is also described as "a toxic gas with a pungent, irritating smell." Oh, joy. At least it's printed in bold lettering.
• Black Carrot Extract: This is used as a food colorant. I mention this entry only because the very existence of black carrots is often unknown in the Western world. Interested readers can learn more than they ever wanted to know at the virtual World Carrot Museum (because of course there is a virtual World Carrot Museum), which suggests black carrots have cancer fighting powers. It also produces a purplish color similar to grapeskin extract, which is also for some reason present (I guess they didn't fully trust the black carrot extract?).
• Copper Chlorophyllin: This is used to provide a green coloring to food products. It also is suspected to have anti-cancer properties (assuming one survives the sulphur dioxide), and has been used to treat wounds as well combat the odor of the urine/fecal matter of people suffering from various conditions (which I guess will balance out the sulphur dioxide smell?).
• Lutein: This chemical is produced by plants and can give colors ranging from yellow to red. In the United States, it is prohibited as a food additive for humans. Well, then.
• Paprika: Nothing strange about this, except what is it doing in my candy?

Taken as a whole, the ingredients list is not terrifying or anything, but it is much less predictable than I thought it would be; gummy candies are not usually known for their adventurous compositions.

But what does that mean for the taste (if anything)?

I opened the bag to find out...

You can practically smell the sulphur dioxide!

The odor that greeted me was not the sugary sweet smell I was hoping for. I wouldn't call it a bad smell (frankly, I lack the linguistic prowess to describe it accurately), but know this: when one is anticipating the scent of candy, anything other than candy will not do.

So I wasn't exactly excited at this point. And, as it turned out, that was just as well, because that would have just added to my disappointment (SPOILER ALERT: I did not much care for them).

The candies are color-coded according to their various "fruit" flavors (none of which I could identify; I think one might have been pineapple?), which range from "this is sort of acceptable" to "why did I put this in my mouth?" In terms of consistency, the "squashies" fall somewhere between marshmallows and rubber. Granted, my wife loved the chewiness and most (but certainly not all) of the flavors. But, to keep her judgment in perspective, remember that she willingly married me.

I don't know what Swizzels was going for here, but I hope the non-squashies version of the Double Lollies are better; I can't imagine the properties of this product were intentional. Every bite just reminded me of how much better I wished the candies were. The package design, while perhaps not overselling the product, conjured up dreams of sweet sugary delicacies. What the product actually delivered was... I don't even know what to say. Sugary? Maybe. Sweet delicacy? I'd say no.

Thus I am rating Swizzels Double Lollies Squashies an unfortunate 1. I'm sure I could handle eating more without any serious issues, but I wouldn't enjoy it. I had expected more from Swizzels, what with their nearly-a-century of candy making experience. Oh, well. I guess nobody's perfect.

If only I had seen it coming...

Washing my mouth out with sugar,
The Sweets Fiend

So much sugar gone to waste. It breaks my heart.

#48 - Vimto Mini Fizzy Pencils

Lately, I have been noticing a sharp decline in the number of children out and about my neighborhood during the day. While that might seem the beginning of a horror story, it is simply a sign that summer vacation has come to an end and schools have once again stretched open their ravenous maws to devour the childhood of every available youth.

So I guess it is sort of a horror story, depending on how you feel/felt about attending elementary school.

Regardless of your feelings, it marks a time of change. Children experience varying degrees of anxiety and excitement acclimating to new teachers and classmates. Parents shift from finding ways to keep their kids busy to dealing with ways someone else has come up with to keep said kids busy. Childless adults accumulate traffic tickets in long-forgotten school zones that seem to appear out of thin air.

In times of turmoil like these, it helps to be prepared. For children, that means acquiring the appropriate supplies: pencils, notebooks, glue sticks, folders, scissors, and whatnot (a whole lot of whatnot, in fact). Such items are invaluable for schoolwork, but I personally do not see any as possessing allure in terms of edibility (well, maybe the glue stick), and so I wouldn't expect candy manufacturers to turn to school supplies for inspiration (not to mention the general correlation between schoolwork and a lack of fun).

As is often the case, I would be wrong (and I should have known better; candy manufacturers will look ANYWHERE for inspiration), because today's review is all about Vimto Mini Fizzy Pencils!

Now that's a chain of words I never thought I'd see!

In case you (like me) didn't know, Vimto is a British soft drink, created in 1908 (then called Vimtonic due to its promise of "vim & vigour;" it was even registered as a medicine) and currently sold internationally. Vimto Mini Fizzy Pencils, however, is a product of Turner's Confectionery (who apparently have never heard of a thing called the internet, as they have no web page), licensing the Vimto trademark for their own seemingly nonsensical purposes. Hopefully things will come together by the end of the review (but I wouldn't count on it).

Like the concept itself, the package design is confusing. The color scheme is inviting, and the print quality is excellent, but the mixture of fonts isn't quite successful, and the (four? why only four?) objects flying through space, which I presume are the candies, look less like mini fizzy pencils (or at least my idea of mini fizzy pencils) and more like relatives of the bizarre green Slinky-worm creature I encountered in pretty much every video/computer game I played in the 1980s (regardless of the genre; see here, or here). Again, I can't make sense of it. But the "20% EXTRA FREE" is appreciated, even if that means nothing to me (this being my first bag and all). I like getting free stuff (hence this blog).

The back of the bag describes the sweets as "Vimto flavoured fizzy sweets with a creamy centre. Made with the secret Vimto® flavour!" I'd have thought that the phrase "Vimto flavoured" would render the second sentence unnecessary, but clearly the folks at Turner's are not going to let their licensing deal go unnoticed. Gotta make the most of it, you know.

Of course, having never tasted Vimto before, their efforts are wasted on me.

I'm surprised they didn't utilize a portion of the white
space to mention the "Vimto flavour."

The "Best Before" section gives only the month, but also includes the batch number and mass of the product. I had slightly missed the date (woe is me!), but, as this review has been delayed in its release, it's not as bad as it seems, and I would certainly not expect my error to be enough to compromise the candy's quality.

Still, a little part of me dies inside every time I miss the "best before" date. It's just one more stain in my lifetime of shame.

Anyhow, the text is nice and clear, even if the surrounding box is a tad oversized (it reminds me of people who've lost a significant amount of weight and then pose in their "fat pants"). Or maybe it's intentional and meant to provide a small area for doodling, reinforcing the "pencil" theme (since the product appearance does nothing in that regard). I left mine blank, just in case.

So this is what "Vimto flavour" gets you...

The nutritional information panel is displayed in a clean and large manner on the back of the package, making for an easy read (though again I am baffled by the font choice; what exactly are they going for here?). It's almost too large, actually, giving the impression that Turner's ran out of ways to remind the consumer of their licensing agreement with the Vimto brand.

It follows the European tradition of providing values based upon 100g rather than a recommended serving size, which allows for easy comparison between different products.

It is less convenient for calculating, say, the number of Calories in the entire bag, as 100g represents about 41.67% of the package (really, though, you just need to multiply by 2.4, which you can do in your head, right?).

Basically, the "mini fizzy pencils" seem to be composed mainly of sugar (yay!), with practically no fat content. In other words, it's precisely what one would expect from this sort of candy. Oh, and if you haven't figured it out yet, a full bag is about 900 Calories.

The first ingredient is all that really matters.

The ingredients list confirms the product's abundance of sugar. It's by no means a short list, but it does not contain any startling entries, except perhaps the vague "Vimto Flavouring" (and although I understand its purpose, "beef gelatine" just sounds wrong here). And unless I'm mistaken, none of the ingredients would account for the "fizzy" in the treat's name. Or maybe I just don't know what "fizzy" means (or, for that matter, "pencils").

Notice also that Vimto Mini Fizzy Pencils are made with fruit juices (from concentrate). Fruits are healthy, right? So I'm going to believe the candy will be good for me. It's amazing how little one needs to delude oneself if one wants to believe enough.

Below the list of ingredients are instructions for proper storage. To the best of my knowledge, I followed them faithfully, but "cool" and "dry" are vague and relative terms, so I can't be certain. How cool is cool? How dry is dry? Are the guidelines intentionally ambiguous for legal reasons? I do not know the answers to any of these questions, but I do know that I did not store my Vimto Mini Fizzy Pencils outside in a pot of boiling water, so I'm fairly confident I've done my part.

Having thoroughly examined the exterior of the packaging, there was nothing left to do but tear it open and inspect the "mini fizzy pencils" inside.

Upon doing so, I was greeted by an aroma both familiar and new; there was the usual "bag of sugary candy" smell, but there was something more, a scent that I imagine can only be produced by "Vimto flavouring." The first whiff of a fresh bag of any sort of sweets tends to be a wee bit overpowering, and this was no exception. But my nose did not find it disagreeable, just strong, so things were looking up.

Mini? Yes. Fizzy pencil? No.

The "pencils" displayed on the front of the bag proved to be accurate (except my samples did not fly through the air; maybe they were tired?), right down to the sugary coating (huzzah!). But seeing them in person caused me again to wonder how they ever came to be referred to as pencils. Was the name decided on before the product was developed, and the development team failed to rise to the challenge? Or did someone actually take a look at one of the flat, cream-filled tubes and think "That looks like a pencil!" Or maybe it was based on a drawing by the Turners' three-year-old (hypothetical; I know nothing about the Turners, due to their lack of a web presence) son/daughter?

There is so much about this product that leaves me perplexed. It is as if a teacher assigned a candy design team project at school and the students did not care for each other, so each ended up doing his or her own thing without discussing it with anyone else, and the resulting mess was manufactured by a company that was sitting on an unused licensing agreement with Vimto.

Or something like that.

Naturally, I wasn't sure what to expect from the taste. Fortunately, it was a very pleasant surprise (though it still confused me)! The consistency was spot on (the coating of sugar added a nice texture), and I detected hints of a bubble gum flavor (I suspect it was just the cream filling playing tricks on me?) along with a distinct fruitiness (mostly grape). I'm not exactly sure what "Vimto flavouring" is, but it sure makes those "pencils" addicting!

Now, I wouldn't say it's the best taste I've ever come across, but it's the sort that does not get tiresome, and that's a great quality in a candy (assuming one wants to eat a boatload of candy, which I'd say is a fair assumption). However, I found nothing "fizzy" about them, so only half of the name has any relevance to the actual product (assuming it does indeed contain "Vimto flavouring"). That is most definitely NOT a great quality in a candy.

All in all, though, I enjoyed Vimto Mini Fizzy Pencils a lot, even with its poorly-thought-out name (I mean, I've seen worse). My wife described them as a cross between Cow Tales and Twizzlers (both of which I like), which is sort of true, but there's something more to them. Something... I'm just going to mention the "secret Vimto® flavour" one last time here, because that must have something to do with it. I might need to check out some other Vimto-related products...

Thus, this offering from Turner's gets a wonderfully welcome 3. It might not top my list, but I could indeed see myself purchasing another bag if given the opportunity.

So, sorry for giving you such a hard time, Turner's; you've put out a fine product!

Maybe one day you'll discover the internet and be able to accept my apology.

Waiting in eager anticipation,
The Sweets Fiend

#47 - Azuki Daifuku

When people learn that I review sweets (whether through word of mouth or because I've actually ventured out into the real world), they generally respond in one of two ways:

1. Instantly and completely disregarding and/or forgetting the trivial information.
2. Solemnly vowing to introduce me to some extraordinary and unusual candy that they have (or haven't) tried before.

With the passage of time, then, it was inevitable that my loyal army of candy procurement operatives should grow. And it has.

The latest addition to my trusty team has already demonstrated his creativity and dedication, enlisting in the marines just so he could travel the world in search of sugary goodies for me (which showed remarkable foresight, considering it was years before I had even thought about reviewing candies).

Sadly, the rigors of military life proved more distracting than anticipated, and he forgot to bring any samples back. Undaunted, he booked a trip to Disney World (perhaps not as noble as joining the military, but, hey, it's something) to see what Epcot (that's no moon...) had to offer.

As it turns out, it had Azuki Daifuku.

Whatever they are, there are eight of 'em. That much is certain (I think).

At a glance, I was taken aback; the clear packaging was devoid of any apparent branding (aside from a sticker on the front that I cannot read), and, for all I knew, the objects inside could have been the eggs (or eyeballs) of some endangered species (in which case I'd probably feel pretty bad for eating them). So there is really no package design to speak of.

I guess it's nice each item has its own little cubby. That's something.

Checking the back, I noticed no mention of a manufacturer, either, just a note explaining that the product was imported from Japan by Ikko International Trading, LLC, which does not list said product on its website.

Very mysterious, indeed... I was starting to wonder if this really did come from Epcot or was some sort of top secret military experiment I was to become a part of.

No matter, I had to do my due diligence and continue with the usual formalities of the review. So I took a closer look at the back.

I don't know which info here is the least useful.

The first thing to catch my eye was the tiny "best before" sticker. The concise "5.31" would indicate that either these things are going to last until 2031 (unlikely) or that the shelf life is less than twelve months and so they felt specifying a year was unnecessary. To an extent, that limits the usefulness of providing a date at all; if the package is misplaced and found fourteen or so months later, who will know whether or not the items in question are still okay to eat (I suppose if they were eggs they'd have hatched by then)?

Anyhow, the date here tells me that either they are still good, or that they're no less than eleven months expired. Thanks for that.

Directly beneath the sticker was the nutritional information and name: "RICE CAKE (AZUKI DAIFUKU)." So this is what Japan considers a rice cake. It's a far cry from what I'm used to, but they've been making 'em that way for a long time, so that's on me; we Americans are generally stupidly ignorant of Asian cuisines, so much so that cartoon importers do not think we can tell the difference between doughnuts and rice balls.

According to Wikipedia, "daifuku" translates as "great luck," and the "azuki" part refers to the beans used in making the sweet red bean paste (a phrase which grows less appetizing with each new word). I think the implication is thus: "You are about to eat a rice cake filled with bean paste. Good luck!"

From a nutritional standpoint, there's not much to the "cakes." They are mostly just sugar with a bit of protein and an even smaller bit of sodium. And rather than describe a serving size as two cakes (in other words, there are 102.3 Calories per cake), they chose to present the consumer with a challenge, giving the size in mass and then nonchalantly revealing that there are four servings per container. Very sly, Ikko International Trading, LLC (or whoever is responsible for the label; I'm not entirely sure about any of this).

The ingredients list is below the nutrition data:

Translation: sweet death.

Since daifuku is not really candy in the usual (American) sense, the ingredients list is noticeably out of the ordinary. Most of the less common ingredients (maltose and trehalose, to name two) are sugars, as the nutritional content would imply. One exception is cassava, the root of a shrub that made Time's "Top 10 Most Dangerous Foods" list in 2010.

So once again I am putting my very life at risk for you, my loyal reader(s). I hope you appreciate that.

Additionally, the allergy section mentions the presence of egg, which for some reason was omitted from the list itself. I'll never understand how these things work.

Or maybe the "contains egg" refers to the fact that the "cakes" really are the eggs of some endangered species after all, and the whole "rice cake" thing is simply a euphemism (like "sweetbreads," which are literally awful (or is that "offal"?), or Rocky Mountain oysters, which are... well, not oysters).

As much as I would have liked to try and hatch the potential eggs, that goal flies in the face of my primary objective, which is to review sweets and other consumables, so I carefully opened the package and removed one of the "cakes."

It's like the toy in a box of Cracker Jack.

It was at this point that I discovered a desiccant contained within the package, which implies that Azuki Daifuku does best in a dry environment (which makes sense). At least I think it was a desiccant; the "do not eat" could have been a warning about the rice cakes from some rebel factory worker on a mission to save mankind.

But the cake was certainly interesting. It was squishy, much like a stress ball (though I'd not recommend using one as a stress ball unless you want a hand full of bean paste) or the egg (or eyeball) of some endangered species. The bottom had molded itself to the shape of its cubby, which seemed more an accident than a design choice (I suppose it doesn't really matter either way). Its smell was somewhere between rice and sugar. And there was a puckering of sorts at the bean paste injection site (a phrase I've never had to use before) that I found... less than appealing.

My first bite was likewise an interesting experience; the consistency was chewy, but not tough, and my taste buds suggested that the flavor had hints of both rice pudding and marshmallow peeps, which I probably should have (but had not) expected. It combined with the sweet red bean paste filling to provide a new and unique mixture of tastes to my uncultured palate.

 And perhaps it is an acquired taste. I don't think my senses really knew what to make of it and I was left in a state of ambivalence; it was sort of good (not great), but the flavor profile was maybe too unfamiliar for me to really enjoy it as I should have.

Let me put it this way: if I were served one at a dinner party (pretend I get invited to those) or Asian restaurant, I would eat another with no qualms, but if I came across one at a buffet, I'd save the space in my stomach for a more worthy occupant.

Therefore, I feel Azuki Daifuku falls just short of my qualifications for a 2 and must be rated an unfortunate 1. I'm very glad to have been given the opportunity to try this Japanese delicacy, but it's not something I would expect to ever crave.

Still, I in no way would dissuade others from trying it themselves; it's nothing to be afraid of, and many would arrive at an alternate conclusion (my sister-in-law, who has more of a flair for Asian cuisine, really enjoyed the sample I gave her). Plus, I'm pretty sure no endangered animals were harmed in the making of this product (or this blog).

So sign up for the military today for your chance to try this and other exciting treats!

Or just go to Disney World. The choice is yours.

Wishing you great luck (though not necessarily in rice cake form),
The Sweets Fiend
 

Rice and beans. And sugar. It's practically a dessert taco.

#46 - Mackie's of Scotland Haggis and Cracked Black Pepper Flavour Potato Crisps

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak yer place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my airm.

Thus begins Robert Burns's "Address to a Haggis," which is basically a love letter to Scotland's most feared dish, a savoury pudding containing the heart, liver, and lungs of a sheep (and if you like poems about haggis, you'll love this nearly-six-hundred-year-old recipe; whatever happened to poetic cookbooks, anyway?).

Despite being a wee bit (one-sixteenth) Scottish myself, the thought of an ovine pluck pudding does
not excite my salivary glands in the least. In fact, I find it hard to believe that anyone actually does find it appealing, despite claims to the contrary.

But I have a theory about it: in a country where traditional male attire consists of plaid skirts and fanny packs, proving one's manliness becomes all the more important, and consuming disgusting things is a surefire way to impress men and women alike (as many a schoolyard (or military training camp) dare has proven; tossing telephone poles around is also effective). Writing poetry about said consumption of disgusting things may not have a positive effect on one's reputation as a man, however (sorry Robert Burns; I could always be wrong here).

Now, I'm pretty sure I've demonstrated my manliness (or lack thereof, depending on who you ask) via gastronomical stunts once or twice before, but there are apparently still some folks not thoroughly convinced, because I find myself yet again facing a formidable foe: Mackie's of Scotland's Haggis & Cracked Black Pepper Flavour Potato Chips!

One of these may contain sheep organs. Actually, both may (TCR-FRESHY 5000's anatomy is not fully documented).

Mackie's began as a dairy farm in 1912, but when the milk market took a turn towards varieties lower in fat content, the company adapted in the most wonderful of ways: by using the excess cream to make ice cream (the enjoyment of which would negate any benefits of drinking low fat milk)! Having found prosperity in the world of frozen treats, the next logical step was obviously potato chips (or crisps, as our friends across the pond prefer to call them). Personally, I cannot imagine the train of thought leading from ice cream to chips, but the Mackies have far more business sense than I ever will, so I will not question their judgment.

Thus, in 2009 Mackie's partnered with George Taylor (no, not that George Taylor, although that'd have been awesome) of Taypack Potatoes to start their own line of potato "crisps," and the rest, as they say, is history.

Though relatively new to the potato chip game, Mackie's has already shown to be a strong contender; they know what they're doing, and the package design shows it. The use of so many different fonts could easily go very wrong, but it works here, and there's a simplicity and homey elegance to the style which is completely consistent with the Mackie's brand. It's all around a fine job, and it shows that Mackie's is not just mucking about; they're serious about their snacks!

So they've already won me over as a brand, but the fact remains that this particular product contains the word "haggis," so I decided to play it safe and enlist my robotic sidekick, TCR-FRESHY 5000, for some help with the assessment.

Lady Rosetta... Wasn't she on Downton Abbey?

The "best before" date gave no particular day, so I presume a little leeway can be expected (the publishing of this review comes well after actual analysis, so I was within the given range), which is always nice.

There is some additional information in the area, as well, but the most interesting (to TCR and me, anyhow) is the identification of the potato variety used: Lady Rosetta. This section is generally a reference for the manufacturer and/or the suppliers more than the consumer, and I suspect there may be some internal purpose for the data, though once again I am unable to fathom the workings of the minds at Mackie's; does the type of potato used for a given product vary from time to time (provided it's one of the "best varieties of crisping potatoes"), or are they just exhibiting a commitment to transparency? I don't know, but their record-keeping is admirable.

What, no ketchup?

Okay, so far, so good.

Normally I would proceed next to the nutritional information, but the ingredients list was positioned above it, and I tend to read from left to right and top to bottom, so, between that and my growing fears/curiosity, I figured I'd shake things up and tackle the ingredients first.

Thankfully, the list shows no signs of sheep innards (or animal byproducts of any kind, for that matter). In fact, the entries are rather innocuous, in keeping with the brand's "natural" image. There is a hint of vagueness in the "spices" bit (aside from the acknowledged black pepper), and the possible inclusion of milk and mustard is unusual, but those are small potatoes (pun intended) compared to some of the things I've encountered through my sweet (and salty) exploits.

At this point, I began to question the need for TCR-FRESHY 5000 (just don't tell him I said that) on this venture; the "Haggis and Cracked Black Pepper" crisps were looking to be quite harmless.

Not to mention TCR doesn't work cheap.

But what about the nutrition information? Any concerns there?

Finally, a haggis for vegans!

At a glance, it would seem the answer is firmly negative. Overall, the stats are typical of what one can expect from potato chips (the fat content is slightly lower) aside from the salt, which is double the usual amount. If low sodium is your thing, you might want to look elsewhere for your haggis-flavored potato chips (assuming haggis-flavored potato chips are also your thing).

The suggested serving size is one-fifth of a package. However, elsewhere it advises "Once opened consume within one day." As five servings add up to around 760 Calories, I would suppose the bag was not meant for an individual (though if your daily diet consists of five servings of potato chips, I'm not one to judge).

I guess it's a good thing TCR-FRESHY 5000 was with me, after all. He's a light eater, but every bit counts, and I wasn't sure I was ready for five full servings of haggis and black pepper flavored potato chips, even with my manliness at stake.

NOTE: Against all warnings, I did not consume the bag within one day; I am happy to report that eating a chip the next day (or the day after that) had no noticeable effect on me or TCR (or the quality of the product, as far as I could tell).

As TCR was going to be paid either way, I decided to charge him with opening the package and commencing the next phase of our inspection:

Notice the care with which TCR handles potato chips. He's such a pro!

I don't know what foul odor I had expected would emanate from the release of the chips within, but any suppositions were soon proven invalid. There was really nothing wrong with the smell at all; the scent reminded me of barbecue potato chips, just slightly off (due to what I presume was the haggis seasonings, but, having never had haggis, that's simply worthless conjecture).

TCR-FRESHY 5000 chose one of the more attractive chips for closer scrutiny. After a thorough checkup (verifying that there were indeed no sheep organs, or even mustard, to be found), he offered me the sample for flavor analysis (if he ever gets a flavor analysis add-on, I'll be out of a job).

To my surprise, it wasn't terrible! It actually tasted somewhat like a barbecue chip, too (though again "off"), with the black pepper providing a definite kick! There was something almost appealing about the flavor, to be honest, and I could absolutely see someone quickly developing an affection for the chips.

Someone other than me, that is. For the right person (perhaps the late Robert Burns?), these chips are a fine product, steeped in quality through and through. But I am sadly not the right person, and so I would be okay if I never happened upon another bag.

I struggled with the score for this one, but in the end felt I must rate Mackie's of Scotland Haggis and Cracked Black Pepper Flavour Potato Crisps a 1 (though an extremely high 1, if that's possible). It is not a flavor I much care for (to be fair, I don't generally care much for barbecue potato chips, either), and it in no way presents true haggis as an appealing proposition to me.

Let's put it this way: I'm not about to write a poem about the experience (unless my loyal readers really, really, really want me to).

Still, I commend Mackie's for thinking outside the box and for so successfully entering the competitive potato chip market. I would gladly try one of their other flavors, and I would recommend their line of "crisps" to anyone (even the haggis variety, to the daring).

So carry on, Mackie (and Taylor) family, and lang may yer lum reek!

Counting sheep innards as I drift off to sleep,
The Sweets Fiend

Even TCR-FRESHY 5000 was shocked by the lack of sheep parts.

#45 - Mars Topic

I am sometimes hard on candy companies for bestowing upon their creations what I consider to be senseless or poorly thought out names. I understand that there are lots and lots (and LOTS) of candies, and some of the best or simplest options were snagged long ago, but that's really no excuse to throw one's hands in the air and call one's confection by the first word that comes to mind, is it?

I should think not.

Yet, time and time again I am proven wrong, which causes me to wonder if perhaps my branding expectations are unreasonable. From Plopp to Japp (not to mention the notorious Violet Crumble), sweets manufacturers confound me with their arbitrary appellations. It is as if they open a dictionary to a random page, point to an equally random word, and exclaim "Eureka!"

For instance, if you were asked to name a chocolate bar containing hazelnut, nougat, and caramel, what do you think you would do?

If you are from anywhere other than Mars (the corporation, not the planet; an actual martian would probably do a fair job of the task), you would likely consider the treat's composition and qualities and propose an appropriate name.

Sadly, you were not consulted in the manner (I'm assuming you were not a prominent employee of Mars in 1962; my apologies if you were), and the name "Topic" was decided on (which is no more my favorite name than "candy names" is my favorite topic).

And so I present to you the Mars Topic bar:

"Subject" was simply too pedestrian a choice. Obviously.

Now, Topic is manufactured in France and sold throughout Europe, so I thought a look at the Oxford Dictionary definition of "topic" might provide some insight into the name. I was not disappointed. See, "topic" is (if you were too lazy to check the link) based upon the Greek "ta topika," meaning "matters concerning commonplaces."

In other words, Mars wants you to know that this bar is nothing special. Hmm. Maybe the candy is aptly named after all; that's what we're here to find out (I am, anyway; I've no idea what brought you here)!

The packaging certainly lives up to that description. I find the vibrant red base a confusing selection, and the intersecting orange circles seemingly serve no real purpose (one might describe them as "off topic"). The font is questionable, as well. In fact, aside from the hazelnut graphic, there is a total disconnect between the visuals and brief product description on the side.

It is a generic design for a generic name (my wife claims the color scheme and font led her to misread it as "tropic," which, as far as I'm concerned, makes just as much sense). Truly, it is hard to imagine what unique set of circumstances could have led to such a series of poor decisions (and I won't even mention the former mascot, Toby; there just aren't words).

Basically, we're not off to a great start.

I'm no Gastroenterologist, but
I don't think that's how a colon works.

The "best before" date, too, leaves me scratching my head (it's either that, or I have lice): the date comes before the "best before:" text, which is highly unconventional. There is also some secret code beneath containing the letters "HAG." I doubt it means anything, but I figured I'd point that out, just in case.

Anyhow, as the suggested date was fine (I actually performed the consumption portion of the review about a week before the given day), I decided to move on and see what other surprises Mars had in store for me...

It didn't take long.

A quick glance at the nutrition information panel revealed that, if nothing else, the Topic design team was consistent in their carelessness:

What, you'd like to read the rest of it, too? Join the club.

Not only does the information wrap around both the top and bottom, but the portion with the most useful data (i.e., the part with the stats for one bar) is mangled within the wrapper's edge. Sure, it's there, but it is a real pain to read, and it shows the lackadaisical manner in which Mars slapped the packaging together. Or maybe the design was just delegated to a rookie team who lacked the spatial intelligence to anticipate such failures. Regardless, I am not impressed.

Gram for gram, the Topic bar has slightly less fat (and Calories) but significantly more sodium (and a fair bit more sugar) than other chocolate hazelnut candies I've tried. It will be interesting to see how that plays out in the taste.

Let's see how the package designers did with the ingredients list:

It's like a recurring nightmare.

Surprise, surprise, surprise! The ingredients section has all of the same issues encountered with the nutrition information, though it's a little easier to read in this case. The ingredients are all as commonplace as might be expected by this point (and suitable for vegetarians, if you couldn't decipher the bottom line).

But I've got to hand it to Mars: at least they accept responsibility for their design transgressions. It takes guts to stand behind work like this, and even more so to warn competitors of the copyright, implying that someone would actually want to rip off the endless blunders of the Topic bar packaging.

Granted, I might be being overly harsh here. Each minor infraction is not terrible in its own right. But they add up to a result unbecoming of a multibillion dollar candy company. I firmly believe they could do (and deserve) better.

Hopefully the bar itself was shown more love and care.

I've seen worse. Oh, the things I have seen...

As I removed it from the wrapper, I had mixed feelings. The smell had a cheapness to it, like an unsuccessfully executed knockoff perfume (here I intended to make up a ridiculously stupid name for such a perfume as an example, but discovered that everything I could come up with already existed; such is the state of the perfume world).

But the appearance was alluring in a commonplace (there's that word again) sort of way; it reminded me very much of countless other mass produced candies I've had and enjoyed. The pattern on the bottom of the bar was also familiar, but at least interesting (and possibly a wee bit hypnotic).

My specific specimen (try saying that three times fast) had clearly suffered minor injuries during its voyage to me; namely, it had received a nasty bump on the noggin, and what I assume was caramel was leaking out (keep in mind that head wounds tend to look worse than they are). Such imperfections are merely cosmetic, thankfully, but I still felt a little bad for my Topic.

So I took a bite.

I found the consistency was smooth and altogether agreeable, and the layers of flavors blended together in cordial solidarity; the hazelnut flavoring, while definitely present, was thankfully not overpowering.

In short, it was pretty good.

Unfortunately, it was also (living up to its namesake) nothing special (well, to me; if you love hazelnut, you might disagree, but I doubt it). To be honest, I might have enjoyed it more without the hazelnut flavor, but that would rob it of its identity. It's simply an all around middle-of-the-road product. That doesn't mean it has no place in the candy universe; it just doesn't hold a place of honor. But that's okay. Someone needs to do the grunt work, and the Topic bar is up to the challenge.

Therefore, I rate the Mars Topic bar an acceptable 2. I'd eat another if the opportunity arose, but I'm not itching for it. If hazelnut's your jam, go ahead and give it a try. If not, don't.

And that's about all I've got say on the subject.

Topic closed.

Neither commonplace nor hazelnutty (just regular nutty),
The Sweets Fiend

Luscious layers of meh.

#44 - Arnott's Tim Tam (chewy caramel)

If one were to view my collection of player's club cards (or whatever they're called) from the various casinos I've been to, one might come to the conclusion that I have a bit of a gambling problem. As usual, one would be mistaken. I do not gamble (with good reason: I once converted $10 of free play into a whopping $0.79 in winnings), but there is a perfectly logical reason for me to own said cards: I enjoy a good buffet (that makes more sense, now, doesn't it?), and casinos tend to have good buffets, complete with discounts for card-carrying members.

My lack of interest in gambling extends to horse races (in my younger days, I did dabble in it via my Commodore 64, which I'm sure is just as exciting as the real thing), so one might bet (if one has a gambling problem) that I could never in a million years guess the name of the horse that won the Kentucky Derby in 1958.

Yet again, one would be wrong (why does one even try?), and, yet again, there is a perfectly logical explanation (again involving my appetite): in 1958, Ross Arnott was a spectator at the "Most Exciting Two Minutes In Sports" (i.e., the Kentucky Derby, if you haven't figured that out) and decided to "borrow" (i.e., steal) the name of the winning horse for a newly designed cookie (which itself was inspired by Penguin biscuits).

Thus, Arnott's Tim Tam was born, a product that has through the years seen its fair share of variations, and today (wouldn't you know it?) I am tasked with reviewing the chewy caramel edition:

A cookie by any other name would taste as sweet.

In my humble opinion, this might just be the worst name origin I've come across (though it's hard to beat the Violet Crumble, which is another Australian creation; maybe Aussies just have trouble coming up with names). The product has nothing at all to do with horses (I hope), and the name (which is itself of uncertain origin) gives no indication as to what a Tim Tam is (if I were to guess, I'd suspect it referred to a Scotsman named Tim who really loved his cap). Perhaps Mr. Ross Arnott thought naming the cookie after the winning horse would bring the product success (which would hint at a superstitious nature; though Tim Tam never won the Triple Crown, so let's not set our sights so low), or perhaps he won a large chunk of change on the race (say, more than $0.79) and wanted to honor the horse responsible (which would hint at a possible gambling problem). Regardless, there is no good reason to name one's confections so haphazardly (even if today the name has become synonymous with the cookie rather than the horse).

Name aside, the packaging is really well done; it is clear Arnott's (or Pepperidge Farm; though Arnott's is an Australian company, Tim Tam has been distributed in the USA via Pepperidge Farm since 2008, and my package is decidedly American) has a world-class art team at their disposal. The swirling chocolate and caramel artwork as well as the breaking cookie graphic are exquisite, and the overall layout works. It definitely gives off a mass-market vibe, which is not necessarily a bad thing; really, the package design is every bit as successful as Tim Tam himself (I refer here to the horse, not my imaginary Scotsman friend). If I were pressed to point out flaws, I would suggest that the font for the name (though it might just be the name) seems slightly out of place, as does the parrot in the Arnott's logo (but that couldn't really be helped, could it?).

So a fine job thus far.

Well, they got it right to two decimal places...

The "best before" date can be found on the side of the package, and it happened to be Pi Day! Unfortunately, that means I missed the date (only by one day, actually, since, as usual, this review comes some time after my first tasting). To make matters worse, I didn't even eat any pie that day (oh, the tragedy of it all!). But my package of Tim Tam was given to me in an airtight bag, in which I had total confidence, so spoilage should not be an issue.

The top of the back of the package contains a brief retelling of Ross Arnott's "inspirational" day at the races. I'm not sure whether Arnott's is proud of their "creativity" or they're simply trying to explain to the consumer why their cookies have such a nonsensical name, but it takes up a significant portion of the back side, so they must've felt it was important one way or another.

At the bottom (partially obscured by the flap) is the nutrition facts panel (which also wraps around the edge some; if space were such an issue, maybe they should've cut short their origin story):

It's too much trouble to count the cookies, okay?

A quick scan of the data reveals that the Tim Tam has considerably more fat and sugar per gram than Tunnock's Real Milk Chocolate Caramel Wafer Biscuits, which I reviewed recently. I find that interesting, as both promise a chocolate-covered caramel cookie experience, and I loved Tunnock's offering; could Tim Tam's extra fat and sugar lead to a superior product? I suppose anything is possible, but forgive me if I'm a little skeptical.

Another item of note is that, while a serving is two cookies, the servings per container is a vague "About 4." So there are "about" eight cookies enclosed. I wouldn't think it would be so hard to verify whether or not a package holds more or less than (or exactly) eight cookies.

I guess we shall see.

To the side of the nutrition facts one can find the ingredients list:

How many times can you find the word "milk" in this list? (Answer: About 4)

Again, I can't help but compare the ingredients to those of Tunnock's caramel wafer biscuits, contrasting the similarities with the differences. For instance, caramel gets top billing in the Tunnock creation, while only making third place in Tim Tam. Based purely on the ingredients lists, I would bet (if I were a gambling man, that is) on Tunnock's wafer biscuit in a head-to-head battle. I also have a hunch that Tim Tam may be the cheaper of the two products to produce; however, it is a hunch with no merit whatsoever, so you might as well ignore it.

Okay, then. With the perfunctory outside investigation completed, it was time to tear into my package of Tim Tam and taste for myself the "irresistible chocolaty happiness in a cookie™."

Pictured: About 2 servings.

My initial impression was quite favorable; the aroma wafting from within was (as anticipated) not exactly luxurious, but it was sweet and appetizing (I felt I could really smell both the chocolate and caramel), which goes a long way.

The cookies come in a handy tray, neatly arranged so that one can count how many one has (it turns out "About 4" servings means nine cookies; I guess "4.5" was a bit too much for them to calculate), or (if one is a pessimist), how many one has already eaten.

I actually had expected more, as the spacing between cookies is greater than I'd imagined, but I suppose it should keep their appearance from being compromised in transit; I've already seen enough heartbreaking examples of candy mishaps to last a lifetime, so I am thankful to see Arnott's treating their own with such care.

Retrieving one of the cookies from the protective tray, I discovered their efforts were not in vain.

Say, that looks familiar...

My sample looked surprisingly like the illustration on the front of the package. It was surprising because too often the artist's rendition (even when a photograph) is an idealized fantasy of the actual product the consumer receives. It is refreshing to see a treat that bears a convincing resemblance to the example picture, so once again I take my hat off to Arnott's (figuratively speaking, of course; I am not wearing a hat at the moment).

But it doesn't matter if a sweet is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen (Tim Tam isn't, by the way, but it at least looks as it should) if its taste leaves me in despair.

So how does Arnott's Tim Tam fare in the real test?

Exceptionally well, I'm pleased to say! The chocolate, cookie, and caramel are brilliantly proportioned, and the distinct textures play together like a well-oiled orchestra (I think I've mixed up my simile there)! Frankly, I have nothing negative to say about it; it satisfied my taste buds with flying colors.

Therefore, Arnott's Tim Tam (chewy caramel) earns a top spot in my rating scale with a well-deserved 4 (or should I say "About 4"?). If I had to choose, I would give the edge to Tunnock's caramel wafer biscuits (as my Sweets Fiend Senses™ predicted), but make no mistake: Tim Tam is a true winner (and here I refer to both the horse and cookie)!

So if you have not yet had the pleasure of indulging in Tim Tam's chewy caramel adaptation, take a gamble and buy yourself a package.

Trust me, the odds are in your favor.

Fearing I've discovered a new addiction,
The Sweets Fiend

Chocolate-covered caramel-filled cookie? You can't lose!

#43 - Choward’s Guava Candy

There is a certain plot one often finds in video games and movies (or seamless mixes of claymation, toys, miniatures, rubber suits, and cartoons), wherein some malignant force which has been dormant for any number of years awakens (or reveals itself) to wreak havoc on the world. Inevitably, it is up to a small band of heroes to wage war (in an epic fashion) against the evil presence.

If you are at all a fan of the action, fantasy, and/or science fiction genre(s), you have no doubt personally encountered such a story in one form or another. Sure, it has become something of a cliché, but it can still provide a base upon which a thrilling yarn may be spun (because if spinning yarn is not thrilling, I don't know what is).

Or at least I hope it can, because today's review is very much along those lines.

Way back when my wife first suggested I try my hand at a candy review blog, she selected a variety of candies from an international goods retailer to get me started. One of the items purchased was promptly deposited into my sweets stash and forgotten.

There it has remained for the last two years, quietly plotting who knows what while awaiting the day it would finally be rediscovered.

Today is that day.

And so I present to you: Choward's Guava Candy!

Your eyes deceive you.

Though the company is officially C. Howard Company, Inc. (named after one Charles Howard), they've chosen to go with "Choward's" for the branding, which I actually find less appealing, though I couldn't say why (because I don't know, not because it's a secret). It doesn't help that the packaging is not that attractive, either, despite being oddly photogenic (trust me, it loses something once it's in your hand). Whether it's the color scheme or guava graphics (or, more likely, a combination of the two), there is a unique quality to the packaging that saddens me and produces the desire to drop it back in my candy cache. It is a mysterious phenomenon, I assure you; it is not a particularly ghastly design, but it does not seem the work of a company that's been in the candy game since the 1930s.

Between the joyless packaging and the lengthy stay in my sugar storehouse, I felt it would be wise to acquire aid in my mission, so I called upon everyone's favorite crustacean-themed robot helper: TTR-CRAB 900 (I don't know if a pair of misfits constitutes "a small band of heroes," but TCR-FRESHY 5000 had a prior engagement and was unable to offer assistance)!

Being the people-pleasing go-getter that he is, TTR-CRAB 900 wasted no time in commencing his investigation, starting with the "best by" date:

"A Delicious Confection" they say. And I'm sure they aren't biased in the least.

As might be expected, I had missed the suggested date. By a month. Oops.

Still, I suspect that the greater the recommended shelf life, the less a day or two (or thirty) will matter. I mean, after twenty or so months, what's one more, right? So I wasn't too worried about it, and neither was TTR-CRAB 900 (he's pretty easygoing, as far as robot crabs go).

In addition to the "best by" date, the weight of the product, country of origin (USA!), and company website are provided. Not too shabby, although I don't need C. Howard Company, Inc. to tell me their candy is delicious. I can do that myself (well, with the help of TTR-CRAB 900). Besides, "delicious" is a generic word that doesn't tell one anything (which I suppose is why I use it so freely when reviewing better sweets).

I quickly grew bored of looking at this side of the package and asked TTR-CRAB 900 to continue the evaluation.

One quick turn and we discovered the ingredients list:

You want nutritional information? I hope you've got some free time...

The list starts off innocently enough (with sugars and the vague "natural and artificial flavors"), but soon switches to more sinister sounding items, like magnesium stearate and Red 40 Lake. TTR-CRAB assured me that, even though it's most commonly used in pharmaceuticals and is one of the two components of soap scum, magnesium stearate shouldn't kill me.

What a relief!

Perhaps even more foreboding is the absence of any nutritional information; C. Howard Company, Inc. has decided, in their infinite wisdom, that it would be just as convenient for one to write a letter and wait for a response than to try and read a tiny nutrition data panel. That is how I often work when contemplating the purchase of consumables anyway; I pick up the item in question, pen a thoughtful message to the manufacturer of said item, and sit back in anticipation while the U.S. postal service does its thing. What could be handier?

Fortunately, one can find the elusive info online if one wishes. But even that is not worth the effort, so I will save you the trouble by telling you now (SPOILER ALERT!): three pieces of Choward's Guava Candy contain five grams of sugar, and that's it. There is no other nutritional value whatsoever. I do not see why C. Howard Company, Inc. could not have put that somewhere on the package. Granted, it wouldn't be in the traditional nutritional information panel form, and it might be hinted at by the ingredients list, but why not spare a few precious moments of their customers' lives?

I'm just saying.

Anyhow, having just wasted a few precious moments of my reader(s) lives, it would probably be for the best to carry on with the review...

TTR-CRAB 900 carefully opened the package (there was some confusion involved, as both sides said "open here;" I hope we chose correctly!) and withdrew three pieces (the suggested serving size) of the guava candy:

Attack of the Super Crab! YOU WILL ALL BE DESTROYED!

I admit to being taken aback by the candy's appearance. I had been predicting the product to take a thicker, chewier form. I guess I need to be more aware of ingredient lists' implications; all the clues were there to indicate the hard, chalky consistency one finds in candy necklaces or Flintstone Vitamins (both of which contain magnesium stearate, by the way).

Each piece is finely embossed with the Choward's logo. I've got to hand it to C. Howard Company, Inc. here: the candy may give off a cheap vibe in substance, but the imprinting is expertly done; the logo is crisp and clear, which is rarely the case at this scale. It was, quite frankly, the first time Choward's Guava Candy impressed me.

Perhaps the taste would produce a similar effect?

Meh.

My first thought upon placing one in my mouth was that the guava flavoring bore a striking similarity to the mango portion of the dreaded Usher Chili Mango Twisted Bongos, which naturally did nothing to excite my taste buds. By the third sample, however, the comparison was forgotten, replaced by the sensation of gritty, crunchy sugar.

Don't get me wrong: I was (and am) still not especially fond of the guava taste, but I didn't mind it much, either. If you can imagine a piece from a candy necklace with the added flavor of guava, you'll have an excellent idea of what to expect from the product.

And so, I rate Choward's Guava Candy a bland 2. I was a bit apprehensive about this one, and it actually turned out better than I had supposed (it will sufficiently curb a sweets craving in an emergency), but I'm afraid that, for me, it will never achieve first-string status.

Does our story today have a happy ending? I'm not sure. It was anticlimactic, certainly. There were no real victories or defeats to speak of. It was nothing like the epic tale I had envisioned (and practically promised).

Even so, I'm currently taking a break from my usual nutritional information requests to concentrate (with the aid of TTR-CRAB 900, of course) my writing efforts on the screenplay.

Just in case.

Patiently lying in wait until my next appearance,
The Sweets Fiend

They're just like vitamins without the nutrition!