#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!

#42 - Tunnock's Real Milk Chocolate Caramel Wafer Biscuits

Throughout history, it has been customary for a son to follow in his father's footsteps, career-wise. For instance, if one's father is king, one is probably going to end up king one day (unless one happens to be Charles, Prince of Wales). From plumbers to funeral directors to purveyors of junk (even British purveyors of junk), fathers are keen on passing on more than their genes to their offspring, and the words "and son" are ubiquitous in the business world.

Still, there are times when one's son feels called to forge his own path in life. Maybe he's just not that into ruling the galaxy or making toys, or maybe the father's job is literally as dull as watching paint dry. Whatever the reason, it affords the son the opportunity to alter the course of his bloodline, with a new livelihood to pass down for generations to come (or not; kids can be so rebellious, after all).

Such was the case when Thomas Tunnock opted not to carry on his father's coffin-building legacy ("Why live a miserable life when for 30 bob you can be buried comfortably?"), instead striving to make miserable lives a bit less so with the opening of his own bakery (he even used his dying wish to ensure his son would continue the dream; he wasn't taking any chances!).

I, for one, am thankful for the divergence; I am unlikely to need a coffin from Scotland in my lifetime (or death, for that matter), but I can always go for a sugary treat, and Tunnock's Real Milk Chocolate Caramel Wafer Biscuits sound like just the thing to satisfy that craving!

This reminds me of a circus or carnival, minus the excitement and terror.

First off, I think the name "Tunnock" sounds like it was pulled straight from a J.R.R. Tolkien novel, which isn't too unreasonable, as it's a Scottish name from days long gone (we're talking centuries here). Perhaps it is this sense of tradition and history that led to the anachronistic package design; it is equal parts old-fashioned and modern, showing true dedication to the company's heritage whilst paying homage to current trends. The top is adorned with the words "still original size," which is a heartening phrase if ever I've heard one; who among us has not at one time or another lamented the decrease in volume of his or her favorite treats? And the featured mascot/child (who was, in some tragic turn of events, left without a name) harks back to simpler times, before such dreadful realities as candy review blogs.

Really, it's all very well done, but, to be blunt, it doesn't do much for me. I can't fault Tunnock's, as I believe they have achieved success in all their package design goals. I honestly appreciate their sentiments, I just don't find myself craving what hides behind the shiny metallic wrapper. And despite his easy smile and polished appearance, I do not want to be Tunnock Boy's friend (I think I shall take it upon myself to name him "Shteve" (for some reason I suspect he has a speech impediment), not to be confused with "Phteven").

But it's a simple matter of opinion; I still commend Tunnock's artists and visionaries for their talents.

Space for rent?

Anyhow, the "best before" date can be found on the back of the package, in a much-larger-than-necessary blank canvas of sorts (the entire back of the package lacks the flair of the front; it's almost as if they forgot it was there until the minute before production was to commence). I don't know if Tunnock's lacks confidence in the precision of their date-printing machinery or they are leaving space for future use, but I suppose it doesn't matter; the date is easily readable within the otherwise bare expanse of whiteness.

My actual consumption of the candy preceded the publishing of this review by a shamefully long period of time, so I did beat the expiration date (by at least a tiny bit), so lay your worries to rest (seriously, you worry about the silliest things).

Typical values indeed.

The nutritional information panel shows that, gram for gram, the biscuits are very much comparable to an average candy bar in terms of nutrition (or lack thereof, if you prefer). As I'm a big fan of candy bars (and getting bigger with each one), I would like to think that this in some way bodes well for Tunnock's creation. I might be way off base, but I'd still like to think it; considering chocolate caramel wafer biscuits sound delightful to me anyhow, I believe there's plenty of room for optimism (just like there was plenty of room for the "best before" date).

Also included in the panel is the address of the Thomas Tunnock Limited headquarters (and website), which is not uncommon (I refer here to candy manufacturers providing their own addresses; it would be quite uncommon, and probably frowned upon, for other manufacturers to supply the Thomas Tunnock Limited address on their own candies).

So far, no real surprises, which is itself not very surprising, since the Tunnock's brand seems so deeply rooted in tradition; "traditional" and "surprising" are words seldom matched together.

The ingredients list is no different:

Suitable for vegetarians? And here I was expecting a pork filling...

Every ingredient listed is readily found in countless other candies and sweets. There is not a single entry to cause alarm or even interest (unless, of course, one has wheat, soy, and/or milk allergies). But caramel is (woo-hoo!) the first ingredient, so that's a plus.

Fortunately, a dull ingredients list need not translate into a dull product. Thomas Tunnock Limited has simply chosen to stick with tried and true components, and there's nothing at all wrong with that.

Or maybe there is. I guess I'd have to try one to know for sure, wouldn't I?

It's like the package gave birth... to twins!

And so I pulled one out of the package... and discovered they are individually wrapped! Personally, I found that to be a welcome feature, despite it adding an extra step between me and the milk chocolate caramel wafer biscuit. One thing I noticed, however, is that the wrappers were rather loose, suggesting that perhaps that the reason for their existence is something other than preservation.

The wrappers continue the motif of the outside package; in fact, it was at this point that I realized (I'm a tad slow) the package front contains a (slightly off-scale) cutaway graphic, displaying the six internal biscuits. I don't know how I missed that before (I was probably too distracted by Shteve's floating head), but it's a nice touch. Additionally, the individual wrappers contain the ingredients list (always a considerate move), as well as the claim: "MORE THAN 5,000,000 OF THESE BISCUITS MADE AND SOLD EVERY WEEK!" That's more than a quarter of a billion per year. Not bad for a product I had never heard of. Not bad at all.

This could really be any chocolate-covered wafer biscuit.

So I opened up one of the biscuits.

To be completely honest, my initial impression was not entirely favorable. The smell of the chocolate was not particularly encouraging, and the appearance (including the bottom), while perfectly acceptable, was nothing to write home about (maybe worth making note of in an amateur candy blog); although its shape is typical of such a product, I could not help but notice its likeness to a coffin. It's possible I was just struggling to find something unique about the treat; after all, what could lead to the demand for million and millions of the treats each year?

As it turned out, Tunnock's real milk chocolate caramel wafer biscuits did have a trick up its sleeve: it was absolutely delicious! It was crunchy. It was chewy. It was a masterful blend of chocolate and caramel. It was everything I could ask of Tunnock's and more!

I was in every conceivable way impressed, and it is without reservations that I rate Tunnock's real milk chocolate caramel wafer biscuits a 4! It is a product any company should be proud of, and though Thomas Tunnock did not live to see its inception, I am eternally grateful for his decision to pursue baking; my life is indeed less miserable because of it.

As a disclaimer, I should mention that those with whom I shared samples did not share my love for the candy (though all liked it to some extent; one suggested it might have been better at a greater distance from the expiration date, which is a fair point). But they are not writing this blog, so their opinions are of no importance. In fact, forget I said anything (I'm too lazy to delete it); instead, go seek out some of the delectable biscuits yourself. You won't regret it.

In case I have not yet expressed my feelings on the product with the utmost clarity, I leave you with a question: is there any chance I could be buried in a giant Tunnock's milk chocolate caramel wafer biscuit?

I'd be willing to pay upwards of 30 bob.

Happy to be alive,
The Sweets Fiend

Please, sir, I want some more!

#41 - Nestlé Polo (original)

Polo (anglicised from the Balti word for "ball;" yes, we essentially call the game "ball") is a competitive team game played on horses. It originated in Persia more than two thousand years ago, but is still played today (and while perhaps not the world's most popular sport, it did inspire a well-known clothing line, so that's something). Water polo (no relation) is a competitive team game played in (what else) water, sans horses, dating back to the late nineteenth century (it is also still played). Marco Polo was a traveler of days gone by (1254-1324), whose name has (relatively recently) been borrowed by a water-based game of blind tag (which involves neither balls nor horses and has no relation to either of the aforementioned games, but, again, is still played).

My point is that there are a lot of things to associate with the word "polo," and each is as likely as any other to come to my mind upon hearing it. But if you're a British mint lover, the word could very well produce a hankering for the ring-shaped candy first manufactured in 1948 by a man named John Bargewell: the Polo mint (in this case, "polo" is allegedly derived from the word "polar," but I have my doubts)!

"Original?" Sorry, but I'm not sure there's anything original about you, Polo.

Now, it wasn't all that long ago that I, in no uncertain terms, declared my lack of fervor for mints. Yet, lo and behold, I find myself again confronted with a pack of the pitiable candies. A small part of me is hopeful, however, as Polo makes no claims about being "extra strong." On the other hand, the candy's slogan is "The Mint with the Hole," which is perhaps the worst slogan I've ever come across (even the Violet Crumble's slogan seems inspired by comparison). If your product's most notable feature is a hole, you might want to reexamine your priorities, especially if your product is not unique in regard to said "feature." Lest you think I'm being overly harsh in my criticism of Polo's obsession with holes, I present to you two bits of information that may sway your opinion in my favor:

Exhibit A: In 2004, Lord Justice Mummery (who arguably has one of the greatest combinations of title and name the world has ever known), dispensed both wit (rough as it might have been) and justice when he rejected Nestlé's appeal to trademark the Polo's unoriginal shape, claiming "This is an appeal with a hole in the middle."

Exhibit B: The slogan is not only lousy, it's also a total rip-off; Life Savers used it (complete with the candy taking the place of the "o") back in 1917, more than thirty years before Polo even existed.

So Polo is basically a knockoff trying desperately to convince the world otherwise. Which is why I question even the origin of the name.

Controversy aside, the packaging is well done; it is not the Lord Justice Mummery of designs, but I would definitely place it well above Trebor's attempt. The color palette and art style toe the line between playful and dignified (which I guess makes it more the Lord Justice Mummery of designs than I'd first thought). Sure, one could argue that it misses the mark on both fronts, but I think the artists at Nestlé ought to be proud of their work here; at least it's not a complete duplicate of its competitors (as far as I know).

This is ugly on so many levels.

Anyhow, the "best before" date on the package is vague (and rather sloppy, if I may say so; are they still using the original printer from 1948?), giving only a month instead of a particular day, which hints at the fact that expiration dates need not be taken too literally. Having had my fair share of "expired" treats, I can say firsthand that candy (especially hard candy) is usually good well beyond the suggested consumption period.

But, as I had tried my first Polo in January (I tend to run late with my reviews, if you hadn't noticed), it's a moot point, so I might as well move on.

Shall we?

How many mints would you like? Seven? Oh, okay.

The nutrition facts panel (which understandably wraps around the roll), reveals that Polo is mostly just sugars (nothing wrong with that, right?). It's not too surprising, really. In fact, its stats are very much in line with other mint products. It is unusual, though, in that I haven't often seen words like "nil" and "trace"in such a section.

"Trace" refers to stuff that's not intended to be in the candy but finds its way in anyhow (because the same equipment is used for multiple products, for instance). It's thoughtful of Nestlé to provide the information; it allows one to concoct any number of theories as to where, say, the protein comes from (I'm guessing insects, personally).

I am not sure why "7 sweets" was chosen as the reference, however. It seems like a lot of mints for any insignificant period of time (I don't know anyone who considers significant periods of time when planning their mint intake), and it can be an awkward number for mental division (fortunately, dividing the 42 by 7 to get 6 Calories per Polo is straightforward enough).

And then we have the ingredients list:

Children under four, please read this carefully!

There aren't many ingredients that go into a Polo (again, not surprising, as it's mostly sugar). The only item to catch my eye was "stearic acid," which, aside from providing some light reading via its Wikipedia page, is not too exciting. The warning about young children choking takes up the lion's share of the section, which is okay with me; if you're going to care more about something than what's in your candy, choking children is a respectable option.

The section ends with an inconspicuous instruction to store the product in a cool and dry place. That's generally good advice for sweets storage and at the present a thankfully simple directive to follow, it being winter here and all.

With the wrapper thoroughly investigated, it was time to unveil the candies in all their untrademarkable (why use real words when a fake one will do?) magnificence:

Wow! They are unlike anything I've ever seen!

Whereas Trebor peppermints are approximately the diameter of a quarter, Polo mints have chosen to emulate the penny (so not even its size is original, though, to be fair, it is between two to three times as thick). Maybe it's just a coincidence, but there seems to be some sort of correlation between the proportions of American coins and British mints. Is it some elaborate scheme to undermine U.S. currency (I might buy into that if the mints weren't worth more than the coins)? I don't know, but it does mean that coin wrappers should double as mint packages in a pinch, so be sure to keep some handy if you have a knack for destroying your British mint wrappers (life hack!).

Besides the "one-of-a-kind" hole, Polo mints are embossed with their name, which isn't at all like Life Saver candies. Not one bit. It's a completely different name and everything. They also look and feel cheaper than other mints I've encountered (perhaps that explains the decision to mimic the penny). All in all, nothing about the Polo had wowed me up to this point.

And then I tasted one.

To my delight and amazement, I liked it! It wasn't merely tolerable; the taste was actually pleasant! What trickery was this? The mint flavoring was definitely on the mild side, and that might just be the key: I do not like strong mints.

It is therefore in the highest of spirits that I rate Nestlé Polo a 3. I rarely purchase mints to satisfy my sweet tooth, but I have been known to buy a pack to fool myself into thinking it will cure my bad breath (the sugars are more likely to reinforce the problem than resolve it, but at least it improves the taste in my mouth), and I wouldn't hesitate to select Polo in such a situation. They may be fairly mundane in every way, but, in the end, I believe that's what won me over. I'll say it again: I do not like strong mints.

So Polo may not be an original candy, but it's a mint I don't dislike, and that's something special. Well done, John Bargewell; my taste buds salute you!

Now to stock up on some coin wrappers...

Shocked and awed,
The Sweets Fiend

Important: Children under four probably shouldn't eat pennies, either.

#40 - Fry's Turkish Delight

A long time ago (before Netflix and Hulu and whatnot), people could not just pick and choose what to watch whenever they wanted. No, their only choice was to watch whatever the available television stations decided to air, and if said people did not have a cable provider, they were limited to a painfully limited selection indeed. Granted, it did have its benefits, namely that one would be introduced to programs one might never have chosen to watch otherwise.

For instance, many, many (I can't stress enough how many) moons ago I was flipping through the channels (I might not have even had a remote) and settled on my local PBS station, which happened to be showing an episode of the BBC's The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Now, I was in no way familiar with the series, and my younger self (I like to think I've matured some) was none too sharp when it came to grasping plots or understanding even simple elements in television shows or movies (and missing the first part of the series did nothing to improve matters), so it all seemed quite random and bizarre to me. I mean, I remember wondering whether Mr. and Mrs. Beaver were actually supposed to be beavers or just eccentric individuals who dressed in beaver costumes (in my defense, the late 1980s did not exactly represent the pinnacle of animal costumery).

In other words, I was pretty clueless.

But I was still a sweets fiend, and so it was only natural that what resonated with me most was Edmund's love for Turkish Delight. For some reason (being clueless might have had something to do with it), I found it hilarious how quickly he was willing to betray his siblings for the stuff. I had no idea what Turkish Delight was, but couldn't help wondering: how good could it really be? Would I, like Edmund, be willing to forsake my family in exchange for the mysterious candy?

For years I've wrestled with the question fruitlessly, but today that all changes, for I have before me Fry's Turkish Delight!

Goodbye, family; hello, Turkish Delight!

Though Fry's was swallowed up by Cadbury (which was subsequently swallowed up by Mondelēz International) nearly a century ago, the name remains in the branding. The packaging is rather simple, which is of no help to those of us who do not know what Turkish delight is (granted, that may be a very small percentage of its target demographic, but even so); it's the Walnut Whip all over again (and this isn't even a Nestlé product), from the shiny metallic material to the graphical dotting of the "i." The pink color is a bit garish, though certainly eye-catching, and the disproportionate size of the word "Turkish" is an interesting choice; personally, I'd think the delightful component was just as important. I suppose they do not want people mistaking this product for a Fry's Luxembourgish Delight or Fry's Papua New Guinean Delight or something like that. Rest assured, it's perfectly clear what sort of ethnic delight one is in for here!

So, while not exactly terrible, the front of the package is, like Edmund's loyalty, a tad underwhelming. Maybe I'd feel differently if I had a clue what Turkish Delight was. But I still don't.

Thanks for nothing, Fry's/Cadbury/Mondelēz International.

Fortunately, the back of the package is much more informative (unless one wants to know what Turkish delight actually is), with a nutritional "cheat sheet" of sorts, the "best before" date, and the ingredients list all together (with some minor but forgivable wrap-around issues):

Everything you've always wanted to know about Turkish Delight (except what it is).

Now, this review has been delayed due to unforeseen circumstances (which were only mostly my fault), so do not let the "best before" date worry you; I had eaten my Turkish delight with plenty of time to spare! I had also (per the suggestion) stored it in a cool, dry place. So I did my part.

Anyhow, the ingredients list is fairly typical and provides no definitive indication of the taste (so I'm still as clueless as I was all those years ago). But Cadbury has always been good to me, so I felt I had every reason to be optimistic in my ignorance.

While this section of the wrapper contained a brief summary of nutritional information, it also suggested lifting the flap for the complete rundown; being the health-conscious consumer I am (I can pretend to be whoever I want on the internet), I did just that.

This one's for all the table lovers out there.

 Quite honestly, I think the summarized information would suffice for most people's needs. What really struck me, though, was the 196 Calories per bar: Fry's Turkish Delight is by no means a large candy, so the Calorie count seemed rather high. However, the bar is 51g; judged by mass rather than volume (neither is a recommended metric for judging people, by the way), it's actually at the lower end of candy bars, Calorie-wise.

So Fry's Turkish Delight is just deceptively massive (or big-boned, if I'm being polite). Nothing wrong with that, really, as long as one keeps it in mind so as not to be fooled (like Edmund) into eating more than one should.

At this point, I was feeling stoked with all my newfound Turkish Delight knowledge. Only one tiny piece of the puzzle eluded me: WHAT IS TURKISH DELIGHT? Even the product's commercials seem designed to confuse more than inform (what exactly is "eastern promise," anyway?). If I were ever going to remove the veil of mystery surrounding the mystifying treat, I would need to start by removing the wrapper.

It was thus that I at last came face to face with the legendary candy:

No, I am not a giant; this is just what 196 Calories of Fry's Turkish Delight looks like.

My particular sample showed signs of having endured a rough life. It is sadly not uncommon for candies to be subjected to harsh treatment on their voyages to my home. My Fry's Turkish Delight is just one more pitiable example. Still, I've seen worse (much, much worse, even), and such blemishes should not impact the flavor in the least.

Aside from the large crack (which was even more heartbreaking from the back), it is a fine-looking product, with tantalizing waves of chocolate across the top. It gave off a pleasant aroma, as well. Nicely done, Cadbury!

A closer inspection revealed a small bit of the chocolate coating had broken off, revealing a gelatinous substance within; could this be the Turkish Delight?

Yes, yes it could!

Having been burned by gelatinous treats in the past, I was admittedly a wee bit skeptical. However, my trust in Cadbury overcame my fear of gelatin, and I took a healthy bite...

Much like my first introduction to the Chronicles of Narnia, my first taste left me uncertain; there was an unexpected but welcome freshness to the bar, but the flavor (internet searches explain it's rose-flavored) managed the odd combination of being brief but memorable (to my palate, anyhow); I had a vivid recollection of the taste, yet at the same time questioned whether I had imagined it. And the consistency, though spot on for all intents and purposes, was foreign enough (in a candy bar) to me to add to my uncertainty. I can think of no better way to explain it than to say it was the taste equivalent of my Mr. and Mrs. Beaver dilemma.

In the end, it was pretty good, and I could foresee it as being a candy one could develop a fondness for (though not a family-forsaking obsession, I'm sorry to say; what's wrong with you, Edmund?), but I'm not there yet.

Therefore, I feel I must rate Fry's Turkish Delight a 2. I would definitely eat another, but would I pay for one? Not at this time. I'd recommend giving one a try yourself, though; there's always the chance I'm just my usual clueless self and not getting it.

Just don't accept one from a stranger. We all know how that turns out.

Full of eastern promise,
The Sweets Fiend

Case closed.