#27 - Kabaya Puchi Pasuteru

Newton's first law of motion states (to put it in technical terms) that stuff keeps doing what it's doing unless something else messes with it.  While it is not meant to apply to human nature, it often does anyhow; I had not reviewed a candy in some time, and I have continued not reviewing candy for some time.

I am a slow moving creature.  Granted, I'm not so slow that algae grows in my hair (though who wouldn't want a personal travel-sized garden?), but it takes considerable effort to get me into motion.  Perhaps this would explain my tendency to procrastinate; I have a long, pitiable history of procrastination, many examples of which end with a fruitless vow to change my ways.

Reiterating what I've just said (in case you suffer from short-term memory loss), I procrastinate.  Unsurprisingly, procrastination and candy reviews make for a lousy match.  This is because sweets are food products (well, one ingests them, at any rate), and food, like one's favorite television show or movie series, will go bad if given enough time.  In other words, if I'm not careful, one of my candies might slip beyond its "best before" date without my notice.

Such was the case (oops) with today's selection, Kabaya's Puchi Pasuteru:

Unlike me, this box appears to be bursting with excitement (and fanciful chocolate treats)!

I'm no stranger to Kabaya (I'm a passing acquaintance; a friend of a friend of a friend, one might say); I reviewed a panda treat of sorts (I'm still not sure of the actual name) last summer, which I quite enjoyed, so I'm looking forward to sampling more of what they have to offer.  If the artwork on the box is any indication, I'm in for something special!

In traditional Japanese fashion, the packaging is instantly appealing to anyone who loves color, cutesy animals, and/or treasure chests (so, just about everyone in the world).  Because I lack the basic skills of a typical Japanese child, I'm having trouble wrapping my head around what the various shapes stuffed with orbs are all about, but it sure does look like a good time!  The large "2" in the bottom corner would seem to imply that there are two of something inside, which means twice the fun, no doubt.

My Japanese-to-English dictionary suggests "Puchi Pasuteru" translates to "small pastel."  Not the best name, perhaps, but at least it makes some sense (there being some small pastel portions to the treats and whatnot), which is more than I can say for some other candies I've reviewed.

This takes me to my happy place.

 An ice cream cone theme is evident (crunchy ice cream, if the graphic is to be believed), and the apparent number of unique chocolate molds is staggering!  As someone who is fond of candies with a dose of visual whimsy, I applaud Kabaya for their concept and package design.  Whether an ice cream vendor bear is offering a scrumptious-looking candy cone or a noseless ghost bear (with a belly full of ice cream, no less) is hitching a ride on an ice-cream powered rocket ship, there is no shortage of wacky illustrations to delight and amuse the consumer.

The art style and box configuration are more than a little reminiscent of Every Burger, so much so that my mind was convinced that it was another Kabaya product.  But it wasn't.  I am so easily fooled!  Still, I suspect there was a mutual third party (or copycat) involved somewhere along the line, because, inside and out, the two products would prove to be kindred spirits, if not related by blood (I use the expression figuratively; ideally, there should be no blood in either product).

The "best before" date was clearly displayed on one edge of the box (just under the ghost bear cheerfully slipping on some invisible substance/object), with a mysterious "LK" beside it.  Manufacturers often have such codes sharing space with the supplied date; I'm sure they have their reasons (possibly just to keep me wondering).

This image will forever haunt me.

I've missed the date by more than a month.  Ugh.  Seeing Noseless Ghost Bear smiling there so obliviously just adds to my pain and shame.

Fortunately, those pesky dates on candy packages are nothing more than recommendations, so I see no reason to believe that the goodies within my box of Puchi Pasuteru will be in anything less than stellar (or interstellar, if you're riding an ice cream rocket) condition.

 The back of the box contains some additional artwork and a bounty of information, including the love child of a hippopotamus and a crow squawking web addresses (it is apparently throwing its voice, as well, since the information appears behind it) and some Puchi Pasuteru mathematics (if I'm not mistaken, it refers to the possible shape/color combinations of the candy, unless it's some kind of Candytopia currency converter or something).

The back is also where one would find the nutrition facts panel and ingredients list (with the American version being supplied via a sticker):

This is without a doubt the least interesting portion of the packaging.

There is nothing out of the ordinary or unexpected for a snack of this variety, aside from the fact that Japanese candy manufacturers seem to be more precise in their measurements; the Americanized data is all rounded, for better or for worse.  The ingredients, too, are all par for the course, if a tad vague in parts.  I am curious, however, what is being covered up by the sticker.  I get the feeling it may offer a full explanation of the background and intent of the candy (not that I could read it even if it weren't covered).  The Japanese excel at writing entertaining stories behind their products and coming up with... interesting... ideas you won't find anywhere else.  I can only imagine the tale Puchi Pasuteru has to tell.  Actually, I can't imagine it; Japanese inspiration is well beyond my understanding.

I did not eat both pouches in one sitting.  I'm so proud of myself.

Opening the box revealed another Every Burger déjà vu moment: the two individually wrapped servings (which at last displayed the two bears together, bringing to light the disturbing possibility that the ghost bear had been a child in life) were packaged in a manner all but identical to that of the Bourbon candy.  Even the inside of the box bore a striking resemblance.  There is no denying the uncanny similarity.

Speaking of the inside of the box, a fellow sweets blogger (specializing in Japanese delicacies) writes about the box opening to reveal a fortune-telling game of sorts.  My package, however, included what looked to be a board game (a fact that sadly did not occur to me until after all of the chocolate game pieces were consumed), so it would seem that either Kabaya occasionally updates the Puchi Pasuteru or that there are at least two versions of the treat.  This is a fine example of Kabaya's dedication to making fun an important aspect of the Puchi Pasuteru experience.  Not many candies come with free entertainment, simple though it may be.

Free at last!

Things had so far been going swimmingly, so I decided to release the miniature "ice cream cones" from their protective prison of foil...

The familiar aroma of low-grade chocolate (which, to be honest, is not a bad smell) filled the air as the contents spilled out of their former abode.  Naturally, I was eager to see what shapes and colors I had received.  As it turns out, I did not get much variation in the chromatic sense; I believe I had only three of the five possible colors.  Still, that's part of the enjoyment of Puchi Pasuteru: the random assortment enclosed allows each bag to be a unique venture.

The package did contain a plethora of different "cone" forms.  The chocolate took to the molds with an admirable effort, given its dubious quality and the size of the individual pieces; while not clean and polished, the numerous designs were readily recognizable, and it really was a pleasant diversion identifying each of them.  Kabaya has pulled out all the stops in attempting to create a fun, lighthearted atmosphere with this product, and I would say they have succeeded on all fronts.

But would the taste be as delightful, or are all the bells and whistles simply a clever means of distraction from a mediocre candy?  It was time to pop one into my organic flavor analyzer (i.e., my mouth) for assessment...

The usual suspects.

Now, at every major commercial holiday season, budget candy manufacturers materialize, as if out of thin air, offering attractive-looking holiday-themed sugary wares at temptingly low prices.  By and large, these products fail to live up to the expectations conjured up by their packaging and overall appearance.

I am sorry to say that Puchi Pasuteru left me with just such an impression after my first piece.  And second piece.  And so on and so forth.  The contrast between the solid chocolate and crunchy "ice cream" orbs was a welcome feature, but my suspicions regarding the quality of the chocolate itself proved true.  It was the cheap, waxy type one comes across in countless off-brand sweets.  For all its flash and sparkle, Puchi Pasuteru is rather bland.

To be fair, it is presented as neither sophisticated nor luxurious, and I did enjoy finishing off each and every unique bite (I don't mind an occasional visit to the lower echelons of the chocolate universe), but it is still a disappointment that so charming a product should fall so short of its potential (yet another "Every Burger moment").  Clearly, one would purchase this candy more for the experience than for the flavor.  Taking that into consideration, its marketing seems on point.

In the end, I rate Kabaya's Puchi Pasuteru a 2.  It is an amusing product that would likely be alluring to a child (or child at heart), but cannot be taken too seriously as a legitimate candy.  It's unfortunate, too, as even a slight bump in quality would go a long way in making this a more formidable product.

Alas, I don't expect that to happen anytime soon.  They'll probably just keep on doing what they've been doing.

I blame Newton.

'Til procrastination once again loosens its steely grip,
The Sweets Fiend

CAUTION: Cone may melt before ice cream.

#26 - Pelon Peloneta (sandía con pepino)

The first time I attempted to pass my state's driving test, I found myself waiting patiently in a large room with other potential drivers until someone called my name and instructed me to "please follow Sgt. Butcher." That's right: the officer's name was Butcher. I don't recall much else about it (including what part Sgt. Butcher actually played in it). I do know that I ran over a traffic cone and failed the test, but surely that was only because I was rattled by the intimidating name (at least that's my excuse).

My second attempt never happened. My brake lights weren't working properly (it turned out to be one of many recurring problems with that particular car), and I was sent home sans license.

It wasn't until my third try that I managed to obtain a driver's license (clearly, I'm no Alastair Moffatt). Thus, I understand the importance of giving people (or countries) a second (or even third) try if initially unsuccessful. After all, one's first performance is not necessarily indicative of one's general performance (except in my case; if you see me behind the wheel of a vehicle, try to keep your distance).

So when a friend from Mexico told me that the Usher Twisted Bongos I had reviewed were not a fair representative of Mexican candy (she had never even heard of them and suggested that, though they were produced in Mexico, they were probably meant for an American audience), I was glad to give our southern friend another shot, especially if that meant free candy.

She was gracious enough to oblige, sending me a box full of items she assured me she would eat (and has eaten) herself. A cursory glance suggested she favors suckers and gummy types of candy, which are not in line with my favorites, but I look forward to giving each its moment nonetheless, starting with the Pelon Peloneta (sandía con pepino)!

All the lead your heart desires, now in a handy sucker form!

As far as I can tell, Pelon Peloneta is a spin-off product of Pelon Pelo Rico, which Wikipedia states loosely translates to the oxymoronic "Yummy-Hair Baldie" (it also mentions that the product was featured on a NASCAR car, driven by yet another driver much better than I). Google, however, suggests translating from Finnish, resulting in "Fear Pelo Rico." Given Pelon Pelo Rico's history of alarming lead content (Wikipedia says it is safe to eat these days, backing up the claim with a broken link), I'm going to follow Google's lead (pun intended) on this one and assume (probably incorrectly) that Pelo Rico is the name of the candy's mascot. I do fear him, as a matter of fact.

The packaging is encouragingly well done, both colorful and consistent in theme. I had never seen a sucker contained in such a wrapper before, and it was overall a pleasing sight. That is, until I took a closer look at "Rico." I believe he is meant to be a personified yellow chili pepper (with green war paint?) whose hair is composed of intestines (or sausages), which he wraps around half-eaten suckers. Kudos to Pelon Peloneta for coming up with such a disturbing concept and image. Who among us has not had the misfortune of discovering hair on his or her sucker? It is a heart-wrenching situation all of mankind can identify with. But is it really something of which to remind a prospective buyer? In my opinion, it paints the product in the worst possible light; it is pretty much everything that can go wrong with a sucker (including the possibility of lead poisoning) combined into one strangely cheerful image.

Needless to say, I was regretting not calling in TCR-FRESHY 5000 to help with this one. I began to seriously consider the possibility that my friend had sent this candy as a punishment for my having not liked the Twisted Bongos. But, despite my misgivings (and Google's blatant warning), I felt I had no choice but to continue with the review.

Somebody has trouble staying in the lines.

If I'm being totally honest, I did not expect to find a "best before" date on the package. I suppose that was needlessly pessimistic of me, because, lo and behold, it was prominently displayed on the back of the wrapper! The panel dimensions were poorly thought out, and the ink rubbed off a bit at the touch, but it was there, and that provided just the comfort (little though it was) I needed to carry on.

The date was a vague March of 2016 (no specific day mentioned), so I would presume it would be fine (relatively speaking) through all of March. If I'm wrong, so be it; I've come this far and I'm eating it regardless (as it is, I ate it just prior to March anyhow, as I am, like always, late in putting this review up).

The ingredients list and nutritional information were all together in a jumble of Spanish:

Yes, I certainly have doubts...

Despite all the time I've spent watching Dora the Explorer, none of the ingredients look familiar to me (about all it's taught me is which character is the Map). I will say that Spanish is one of the scarier languages to see in terms of ingredient lists, though a lot of the words look similar to my ignorant eyes. Fortunately, off to the side is a number to call for questions or comments (actually, if Google is to be believed, it translates more directly to "doubts or comments," which is far more applicable). If I spoke Spanish, that might be of some help to me.

The candy has a slightly high number of Calories (80) and carbohydrates (20g) for a sucker. I'd wager that it's due to Rico's lustrous, flowing intestine-hair. On the other hand, the product is devoid of fat or protein (less unusual for a sucker), which may or may not be a good sign. Let's say it's a good thing; I'll take what I can get at this point.

Removing the Pelon Peloneta from its wrapper revealed.... well, it wasn't pretty, I'll say that much.

Chicken liver on a stick?

My wife thought it looked like someone wrapped a Fruit Roll-Up around a sucker. She also mentioned it seemed to have already been inside someone's mouth. I thought even that was a very generous description. I feel it's only fair to mention that the candy had gotten stuck to the inside of the package at some point, but having looked up other photos online, I can say with confidence that it did not worsen the appearance in any way.

You might think I just chose the ugliest side to photograph. I didn't.

But how it looks wouldn't matter if the flavor was outstanding. I am sorry to say that it wasn't. Granted, its taste was very much in line with its smell (which my wife complained of from across the room). I almost did feel as if I were eating brain/intestinal hair of some peppery humanoid. And there was a definite kick to it, which I didn't mind at all, but my non-Mexican taste buds found the flavoring to be unsuitable for a candy.

On the plus side, the chewy consistency of the outside was on target (though I think Tootsie Pop has it right; the chewy part belongs in the middle to minimize tooth-chipping), and it was by no means awful. It just was not what I would want from a sweet (or edible object of any kind).

Now, one reason suckers rank low on my list of go-to candies is the commitment involved. They take a long time to finish, and when you aren't exactly thrilled with the flavor, it can become quite the ordeal. Still, I was determined to reach the hard center, hoping for a light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately, that too fell short of my expectations. The "sandía con pepino" would imply a watermelon and cucumber flavor, but whether the sucker's flavoring was off or my sense of taste had been numbed by the spicy outer layer, all I managed to glean was an unidentifiable generic flavor of the "green" variety. Meanwhile, the chewy coating's taste persisted to the end of my Pelon Peloneta and beyond. Also, rather than the clean two-layer interior look as shown in the packaging artwork, my sample had what can only be described as a "bloody mouth."

But the suggestion of gore did not end there. The "hair" had the effect of staining the stick, making it appear more and more blood-stained as I approached the candy's core. Needless to say, I did enjoy that aspect. There was almost something visceral in it all. And I did manage to complete the entire thing.

In the end, though,  I have to rate the Pelon Peloneta (sandía con pepino) a 1. It was, believe it or not, far superior to the previously tried chili mango Twisted Bongos, but, even so, I have no need to ever try another one, nor would I recommend it to anyone I care about. Having had far worse before is a poor testimonial for a product, and that's about all I can say about this one.

I will chalk it up to a cultural thing. It appears to have a decent following in Mexico and who knows where else, so maybe I'm missing something.

Or maybe I just haven't eaten enough lead yet (which may change as I delve deeper into my box of Mexican goodies).

Either way, better luck next time, Mexico. I'm not giving up on you yet!

With a pinch of sweetness (and a kick of chili-infused hair),
The Sweets Fiend

Is it just me, or does this remind anyone else of Little Shop of Horrors?

#25 - Cloetta Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you might have guessed that I am not much of an outdoorsman. Don't get me wrong, I love being out in nature; I just prefer to be more of a visitor and less of a long-term guest. This may explain my complete lack of survival skills. I do not know how to build a proper shelter or find/hunt for proper food, and I all but spontaneously combust in direct sunlight. In other words, if I were to find myself in a zombie apocalypse type of situation, my chances would be rather grim.

I have only gone fishing (and I use that term loosely) twice in my life. Once was when I was ten or eleven (or thereabouts) and my class spent a couple (or thereabouts; my memory's not too particular about it) days and nights at a camp. I recall using a stick with some string and a piece of bread at the end of it. I am probably remembering this wrong. Regardless, I had no luck that day.

My second attempt at fishing was a few years ago with my father-in-law. I did not use bread that time, that much I am sure of. I do not remember what I did use, but I managed to catch a lot of weeds and pond scum (which might suggest I was using the wrong bait). If I were an herbivore, it would have been a very successful excursion. Alas, it was nothing but another failed attempt.

Basically, I have very limited experience in fishing supplies or techniques (I personally think "bait and tackle" would be a great name for a sneak attack maneuver, though), and so I had to take my wife's word for it when she said of one candy: "That looks like a bag of bait."

That candy was none other than Cloetta's Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits:

TCR-FRESHY 5000 agrees with my wife. He would.

Personally, I'd have said it looked like a bag of rocks (and not even cool, interesting rocks). Based on the package design and color scheme (which is decent but not extraordinary), I expected it to be some sort of nut-based snack or something (I was wrong). It didn't matter; it did not look like anything I would want to put in my mouth, so I requested the services of TCR-FRESHY 5000, and he kindly agreed to assist me in the review.

As I've said, the package design is pretty good, aside from the clear window displaying the unappetizing product. But nothing about the packaging or candy (yes, it is candy) is right. Not at all. See, Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits translates to "Ahlgren's Cars Salty Licorice"). Look at the bag again. Look at the candy inside. Look at the bag one more time. It is all oh-so-wrong. If it weren't for the text (or the little car graphics at the bottom), nobody in his (or her) right mind could ever possibly guess what the candy was supposed to be. I have my doubts it was designed by a person who has actually ever seen a car.

Now, Sweden manufactures cars (Volvo is a Swedish brand, for instance, and happens to be Latin for "I roll."), so one would expect the general population of the country to know what an automobile would look like. But I will give Cloetta a break this time; the original version does resemble a car slightly, so something must have gone wrong during the salt/licorice process. Either way, I would recommend replacing the transparent window with an opaque graphic of a car on a road, just to make things extremely obvious and hide the appetite-suppressing "bilar" inside (it sometimes seems that the more horrid a product looks, the more the manufacturer is intent on showing it off).

People generally either love or hate licorice. I'm somewhere in the middle; I am fond of both licorice and salt (though not on its own) in conservative quantities, so I might actually end up enjoying Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits. I almost regretted enlisting the help of TCR-FRESHY 5000, but what's done is done, so he might as well earn his pay.

I like a candy that comes with reading material.

 Thankfully, the back of the package provides more clarity, with a semi-recognizable personified car graphic and a short story, which Google translates to:

"Since the first piece of Ahlgren's Cars rolled out of the factory in Gävle in 1953 a lot has happened. Ahlgren's Cars is now Sweden's most sold car and its tasteful design have made it to auto sport's No. 1.

"Ahlgren's Cars Saltlakrits have a bite and an acceleration in the taste as never before. With his sharpened aroma gives the concept undoubtedly burn-out a new meaning. But also try Ahlgren's Cars fruit cluster, Sour Sugarcoated, and the legendary original model."

Well, that certainly clears things up. Am I to assume by the "burn-out" reference that the candy is meant to taste like burning tires? Oh, boy, am I in for a treat!

If any confusion still remains regarding Ahlgrens bilar, one need only watch this awesome old commercial, and the world will make sense again (or nothing will make sense, which is about as good as it's going to get here).

On a side note, Wikipedia states that Ahlgrens bilar boasts to be the world's most sold car, while the Ahlgrens bil Saltlakrits package restricts the claim to Sweden. I think I'm going with the bag on this one; Cloetta ought to know.

Try and find the date hidden in this picture!

Okay, with that all out of the way, it was time to find the "best before" date on the package and make sure these salty licorice cars (which are looking more and more like submarines to me) are safe to eat.

Sometimes packages do not contain a "best before" date. I was almost convinced this was one of those cases, until I spotted the near-invisible text on the transparent portion of the packaging. Okay, it could be worse (and soon would be); it wasn't impossible to see, after all. But it was certainly not conspicuous, and causes me to wonder if the clear window was implemented not so much to show the hideous product as to conceal pertinent information, possibly increasing the likelihood of a sale to a bewildered customer.

You may think I've gone all conspiracy theorist at this point, but I present you with Exhibit B, the nutritional information panel:

I see neither automobiles nor nutritional information here.

Where is it, you ask? I asked myself the same thing. If I doubted the existence of an expiration date marking, I was thoroughly convinced that there were no nutrition facts on the package. They are so well camouflaged that I nearly missed them entirely! The military could take some pointers from the Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits: if you don't want something seen, this is the way to do it.

Straining my eyes, I was able to make out that there are 347 Calories for a 100g serving (mostly consisting of carbohydrates and sugars), which is of no help to me, as I could find no indication anywhere pertaining to the size of the package nor so much as a hint as to how many "cars" 100g consists of. So even when you find it, the chart is worthless. Leave it to Cloetta to blaze new trails in data encryption.

Note to self: TCR-FRESHY 5000 needs to be upgraded with a mass analysis module.

Now how'd THAT get in there?

Fortunately, the ingredients list is no secret. It comes in three languages, even (which is perfectly normal for Swedish candies). The first ingredient is sugar, which is promising, and, for the most part, the other ingredients are not surprising in the least. The exception is ammonium chloride (fairly early in the list, too), which sounds frightening, especially when a Google search returns facts such as these:

• It has expectorant and diuretic effects.
• It is is commonly formed on burning coal dumps.
• It is used in fertilizers, etching, and batteries. 
• One site simply says of it: "The primary hazard is the threat posed to the environment."

On the bright side, it is a type of salt (and is apparently not uncommon in Nordic licorice treats). Even so, it makes me glad to have TCR-FRESHY 5000 carrying out the initial inspection. What a roller coaster of emotions Cloetta is taking me on today!

It's probably best to just get right into the bag from here, so take it away, TCR!

Mmm... Smells like... a burning coal dump byproduct?

Even from my safe distance, I could tell, as TCR-FRESHY 5000 tore open the package, that this was no ordinary licorice. There was the familiar aroma of licorice, yes, but there was something more to it that I can only describe as "not licorice." I'd guess it was the ammonium chloride. But I did not care for the smell of it, whatever it was.

At close range and just the right angle, TCR's image recognition software was in fact able to identify the shape of the candy pieces as car-like, so I'll concede a minimal amount of redemption to Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits. I still say they look like rocks, though.

TCR carefully selected half a dozen specimens for closer examination...

"OooOoOooh! Toys!" Silly robot.

His chemical analysis resulted in a "possibly fit for human consumption" rating. I suggested he run a few other tests, but, as he had concluded earlier that the objects were "car-shaped" (not to mention just the right size for his "hands"), he became preoccupied with pushing the small candy pieces around and making "VROOM VROOM" noises. For what he gets paid, TCR can sure be unprofessional at times.

But he does do a killer impression of a car's engine, I'll give him that.

Eventually he settled down enough to offer me a solitary "car." I was a little hesitant to taste it, seeing as how I found its smell off-putting, but eating candy is what I was brought into this world to do (or something along those lines), so I steeled myself before placing it carefully in my mouth.

Geology experiment? No, that's a car. Sure it is.

I wish I could tell you it was a dream come true, a wonder for my taste buds. Regrettably, I can say no such thing. It was not very good. Admittedly, there were moments when the licorice came through uninhibited, and it was all right in those moments, but there was something (again, I'm blaming the ammonium chloride) tainting the flavor with an acidic foulness.

Once, several years ago, I picked up a box of Dots at the store, noticing they were drastically marked down. It was not until I began chewing on one that I realized I had mistakenly purchased the sour variety. Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits provides the licorice version of that experience with every bite. I have not purchased a box of Sour Dots since, and you can bet your tonsils (assuming you still have them) that I will not be purchasing another package of Cloetta's Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits (not that I purchased this one). They took something I enjoy and turned it into something thoroughly unenjoyable.

If you do not like licorice, you will definitely be repulsed by this candy. If you do like licorice, you very likely will not like it, either. My advice to you is (unless you have grown up in the vicinity of Sweden and have been taught your whole life that licorice should contain ammonium chloride and cars look an awful lot like malformed rocks) to steer clear of Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits. The taste is by no means unbearable, but it is not something to seek out under any circumstances.

It is with a heaping helping of disappointment that I rate Cloetta's Ahlgrens bilar Saltlakrits a 1. While I do plan to finish the bag currently in my possession (out of principle), its crimes against licorice will not be forgotten.

I can only hope the original flavor is a more remarkable product. As "Sweden's most sold car," I think it would have to be; the claim can't be referring to this version, it just can't.

So, sorry, Cloetta, but you've let me down this time. Still, I remain optimistic that our next meeting will not be so dismal.

I don't see how it could be...

That's just how volvo,
The Sweets Fiend

Crushing a car between my fingers. Or a rock. Either is impressive.

#24 - Cloetta Plopp

If you have spent a reasonable length of time studying the English language (or any language), whether voluntarily or by coercion (i.e., school), you have probably come across a little thing called "onomatopoeia." If you did not know (shame on you or your teachers!), in addition to being a killer word in a spelling bee, "onomatopoeia" refers to the formation of a word based upon the sound said word refers to. Basically, it is an attempt to spell a sound phonetically. For instance, if you happened to have retractable claws, extending them would no doubt result in a "SNIKT" sound (there's no disagreement there, right?).

Perhaps the most well-known use of onomatopoeia is within comics (or the 1960s Batman television show), where sounds need to be represented in a visual manner (I guess a simple graphic of the sound wave would be less conducive to clarity). There are plenty of examples of onomatopoeia, some better than others (likewise, some worse than others). Given that they are based upon the sounds they mean to copy, one might think that onomatopoeic words ought to have some degree of similarity throughout the world. But, as one often is, one would be very wrong (come on, "one," get your act together!).

Still, there are times when they DO bear a striking resemblance, such as in the case of the Cloetta Plopp!

When onomatopoeia goes bad...

I have read many a comic book in my lifetime, but never have I seen "PLOPP!" used regarding a candy bar (perhaps I was reading the wrong comics?). I know what you're thinking: surely "Plopp" has some clever meaning in Swedish which brings logic to the lunacy! Sadly, it does not. Look "plopp" up in your favorite Swedish dictionary (we've all got our favorite), and you will find that it translates to "plop."

That is correct, dear reader(s): the Plopp's name is nothing but a lousy use of onomatopoeia. Maybe it refers to the sound the bar makes when dropped. Maybe it is the sound of surrender in the naming of chocolate products. Sweden has come up with some pretty lame names for their sugary goods, but this one may take the cake (mmm... cake). Think of the word "plop." What image comes to mind? Whatever it is, I would bet that it is nothing appetizing (nor exciting, for that matter). It is the most puzzling instance of product naming I've come across since the Violet Crumble.

Name aside, the package is unremarkable. The font choice is ineffective, and the big, plain red-disc-on-blue motif is utterly generic (maybe "Plopp" refers to the graphic design). The only saving grace is the image of the candy itself, which provides a glimmer of hope; it's hard to mess up a chocolate/caramel combo, and it looks as if some thought actually went into the appearance of the candy!

Call me skeptically optimistic at this point.

Abracadabra!

The "best before" date section includes Cloetta's unique disappearing date "feature," which I first came across while reviewing the Sportlunch. Cloetta is not a small company; they ought to be able to get their hands on an ink with adequate longevity (is the candy naming division  also in charge of ink selection?).

Fortunately, there is enough of the date left to let me know I've just barely gotten to my candy before the magical day when it ceases to be at its best! This is particularly fortunate with the Plopp, which has thus far had an underwhelming showing. The Plopp has been around in one form or another since 1949, so it can't be all bad, and there's a chance (however slight) it might win me over in the end. I do love a good caramel (and a good comeback, as well)!

A quick glance at the nutritional information reveals that the disappearing act is not restricted to the "best before" section, although the effect is much more subtle here. I suppose Cloetta feels it's more important to know the Caloric makeup of the Plopp than to know whether or not it's still fit to be eaten (maybe a more thorough look at the nutritional data would bring one to the conclusion that it's not fit to be eaten in any condition).

Abraca... aw, forget it.

As is the norm with Swedish fare, the data is based on a 100g sample. The Plopp comes in two pieces (the crease in the center is quite noticeable) totaling at 50g. So one must divide by four to learn the facts for a single section (thanks for all the math exercise, Sweden!).

Each piece ends up being about 118 Calories, which is just about standard for a bar of its size (or about 236 Calories for the whole package, if I'm being realistic).

As there's nothing too unusual in this section (though I do love the Finnish phrase "josta tyydyttynyttä"), I guess it's time to move on to the ingredients list:

WARNING: Writing on package may be closer than it appears.

If you are having trouble reading the information above, it is only because I am trying to recreate my experience for you. Even if I were literate in one of the three provided languages, it would be a true challenge to actually read the ingredients. Cloetta ought to include a magnifying glass with each Plopp bar or something. In spite of it all, I can gather that there is milk chocolate and a toffee of some sort involved. That's a start, at least. Opening up the package should be even more enlightening.

Let's get to it, shall we?

PLOPP!

Like many other chocolate bars, the Plopp wrapper opens to expose the backside of the bar. I have already discussed my issue with this, but it's a necessary evil of product development. The back of the Plopp is (surprise, surprise) flat and uninteresting. Mine happened to have a crack going halfway through it. Fortunately, it was not as troubling as it would initially appear; each piece of Plopp (if you had any doubts about how dreadfully awful the name is, say "piece of Plopp" out loud) is divided into three smaller bits. So in theory, one package of Plopp (again, try to say it out loud without cringing) could be easily distributed among six friends. If you are anything like me, though, you do not have five friends, so more for you! That's assuming, of course, that you would in fact want to eat all six nuggets of Plopp. That is still in question.

But another glimmer of hope peeks through the grim prognosis...

You are getting sleepy... You think "Plopp" is a perfectly acceptable name...

Well, what do we have here? The front of the Plopp is a sight for sore eyes (and my eyes WERE sore after trying to read the ingredients)! The face of each bit sports a hypnotic pattern, which is more than welcome after the lackluster performance leading up to it. I feel I've seen it before (though can't place where), but it at least shows a minimal amount of effort, and, at this point, I'm just thankful it's not flat through and through. I should have known; Cloetta has proven in the past to exhibit diligence in providing whimsical appearances for their chocolate products. It is something I value highly and appreciate in a candy manufacturer.

Cloetta has also demonstrated a knack for producing some decent sweets, despite having what I consider a mediocre chocolate. I'm not sure how they manage it, but I applaud them it. That takes some real skill.

Blood is thicker than water. And whatever this is.

Tearing off a chunk of Plopp (ugh) reveals that the caramel-like substance inside is much less viscous than I'd have imagined after seeing the picture on the wrapper; but viscosity is hard to illustrate, so I will give Cloetta a break (just not a break of Plopp).

Truth be told, I was a tad disappointed. I had envisioned a glorious chewy caramel, and this was not it. Perhaps it's my fault for not having the superhuman Swedish vision required to read the ingredients list and for creating false expectations.

Eating the Plopp was, sadly, another disappointment. Much like the name (and packaging), the taste simply fell short. I'm not exactly sure even what the flavor was meant to be (I almost detected a slight hint of fruitiness, which I'm pretty sure was just a trick on my taste buds), but I feel certain it missed its mark. It just wasn't very good.

Don't get me wrong, I'd probably eat another if no alternative were available. The problem is that there ARE alternatives available, a good many of alternatives that are much better than the Plopp. Quite frankly, I do not even understand why the Plopp is still being manufactured. It's not that it's that bad, it's that it offers no compelling reason for its existence, as far as I can tell. Wikipedia states that  over 95% of Plopp is sold in Sweden. I wouldn't be shocked to discover that 95% of Plopp is sold to one individual Swede burdened with a bizarre and unnatural addiction. I can see no other explanation for the Plopp's longevity (as opposed to the longevity of the ink used in Plopp info).

Still, I am going to rate the Cloetta Plopp a 2 (a low 2, at that). I cannot get past my apathy for it, and in no way recommend it to anyone for any purpose. But it exists, as it has for over half a century, and if your sweet tooth is starved and find yourself in a situation with naught but Plopp (an expression I feel should be used more often), it might get the job done.

Again, it's not that bad. But that's hardly a ringing endorsement (I'd propose it be the Plopp's slogan anyway). Apart from the candy design evoking a sense of déjà vu, I found the Plopp to be as dull as it sounds.

Better luck next time, Cloetta. This one just went "PLOP!"

Vanishing before your eyes like a Cloetta "best before" date,
The Sweets Fiend

This looks better than it sounds. Or tastes.

#23 - Mondelēz International Daim Mint

When one has been married for some time, one begins to discover remarkable yet previously unknown skills in one's spouse. In my case, I have learned that my wife has a fondness for smelly snacks and an uncanny ability to select the right one to spoil the taste of whatever I happen to be eating. For instance, if I am eating cake (but not at the suggestion of Marie Antoinette), my wife may choose to chomp away at a raw green onion (which says a lot about our respective diets). Raw green onions are not typically found in cake recipes, and I believe there is a very good reason for that: some things just don't belong together (socks and sandals, anyone?).

Another thing raw green onions apparently do not pair well with is mint. I know this because my wife once believed that brushing her teeth with a mint-scented toothpaste would result in triumph over the onion's foul odor. Needless to say, she was wrong; the two smells combined forces to launch a unified attack against our senses.

Granted, I've never been a huge fan of mint anyway. There are many types of mint (you knew catnip was part of the mint family, right?), but I have not been able to acquire a genuine fondness for any of them, which is unfortunate, given that I am a sweets fiend and there is no shortage of mint-based candies. Alas, what is one to do? I do have the occasional breath mint (any excuse to eat candy), and I never miss an opportunity to have a Shamrock Shake when available (I pity those who never get the chance). I've even been known to indulge in the rare minty chocolate candy offered to me. But mint has never made it onto my list of favorite flavors (it's quite a list; I should have it laminated), and I remain convinced that it has limited potential for mingling with items that do reside on said list.

Imagine, then, the mixed emotions I am dealing with as I prepare to review the special mint edition of my favorite (so far) Swedish candy: Mondelēz International's Daim Mint!

For those times you can't decide whether to eat a Daim or brush your teeth.

If the internet is to be believed, there are (or have been) numerous special editions of the Daim bar. Having tried and loved the original Daim as well as the Milka & Daim, I had high hopes for the Daim Mint, in spite of my shaky relationship with mint itself.

The wrapper is a modified version of the standard Daim two pack, with a "fresh" mint-inspired background instead of the usual red. Personally, I prefer the original version, as this looks like a cross between candy and toothpaste, two products (and possibly color schemes) that tend to be diametrically opposed. It's a little like when one of your best friends arrives sporting an outfit that does not suit him (or her) in the least. It just feels off. But it's not that bad, and it does get its point across. I find it interesting, however, that the words "mint" and "limited edition" are in English when this is a Swedish candy manufactured for Swedes and other Nordic individuals. I mean, most of Sweden understands English, but it still strikes me as an unusual and random choice.

Overall, the wrapper is... okay, I guess. Nothing too special.

The wrapper is recyclable. I'm not so sure about the chocolate.

A quick look at the back reveals the "best before" date. As luck would have it, I made the deadline (just barely; the bar was consumed several days before this blog entry was completed, as I'm ever so lazy), so there's cause for rejoicing: I'm sure to be in for a good Daim!

There are also several phone numbers here in case the consumer has any questions (such as "What's up with the English on the front?"). The mass of the candy is listed, as well, which is important, since I've come to learn that Swedish candies often have "interesting" portion sizes in the nutritional information section. Then again, I'm often baffled by the suggested serving size of American products (if you decide to twin-wrap a treat, you'd best assume I'm going to eat BOTH in the same sitting), so I suppose it's an international (or at least first world) problem.

Speaking of the nutrition facts panel, the Daim Mint package designers took full advantage of the length of the wrapper:

Not my favorite aspect ratio.

It wasn't quite so... wide on the original Daim. Zoo-Wee-Mama, that's a narrow band of data! I almost got whiplash trying to take it all in. And it shares its predecessor's "feature" of wrapping the information off the back side onto the thin edge, conveniently hiding the indicated portion sizes. I'm thinking Mondelēz International is just trying to meet the minimum requirements here rather than focusing on utility (sort of like I do when writing my blog). But, if I'm not mistaken, each bar seems to be 153 Calories, and there are two in each package (strangely there is no indication on the wrapper of that fact), for a total of 306 Calories. So you may want to share your Daim Mint with a friend.

The ingredients list (in multiple languages, of course), is, as always, a mess of words whose meaning I cannot decipher:

More multilingual shenanigans.

I'm just going to assume it's the same as in the Daim bar, but with the addition of mint of some sort. Unlike the original version, there is no English list here. Oddly enough, though, the Rainforest Alliance certification note does happen to be in some form of it. Mondelēz International seems to feel that changing languages on a whim is perfectly normal behavior. I suppose that's true in some countries, but, as a bona fide monoglot, I can assure you it holds no truth for me. If I appear to suddenly shift to another language, it would probably be wise to seek medical help for me (or maybe I've just slipped into geek speak; it's hard to tell sometimes).

Does my Daim Mint have tan lines?

Opening up the wrapper showed a familiar discoloration at the top, resembling that of the Daim I had sampled before (it actually looked exactly like a regular Daim). Perhaps this is a common condition of the Daim family of candies; either that or it is due to the fact that both bars were shipped to me in the same box and underwent the same unknown trauma. No matter the reason, I know from experience that it should cause no harm to the flavor or general enjoyment of the treat.

The minty fragrance emanating from the chocolate was more appealing than I'd have thought. My wife disagreed, but I suspect she was just in a contrary mood (or that may tastes are just better). It wasn't overpowering, at any rate, and that's a positive sign.

So I broke off a chunk.

I had expected to see some indication of mint flavor inside the chocolate coating, but there was none to be found. There were absolutely no defining characteristics (aside from the aforementioned smell) to distinguish it from an ordinary old Daim bar. Frankly, that seems a little lazy to me. Unless there is some kind of "Guess the Daim" game in Sweden (which I would gladly play), I'd prefer if the mint edition had some visible uniqueness to it. Dress it up a little and make it feel good about itself. It's the details like this that keep a candy from achieving true greatness, and so I was really hoping that any oversights were due to a laser focus on getting the taste right.

This is the chunk I broke off. Fascinating, isn't it?

In my opinion, they did get the taste right, mostly. Balancing flavors of chocolate, toffee, and mint takes a deft hand and is no task for an amateur. I think Mondelēz International managed it quite admirably. The flavors blended in total harmony, no single one dominating the others. I thought it was quite tasty, in fact.

Again, my wife disagreed. She did not feel toffee and mint should ever cross paths. As she more often partakes in mint-flavored candy consumption, chances are the Daim Mint may not be an ideal treat for mint enthusiasts. But I'd suggest it's worth trying, at least.

Is it as good as the original Daim? Not by a long shot. And it has done nothing to improve my relationship with mint. But it certainly hasn't done any harm to it, either.

Having said that, it should come as no surprise that I rate the Daim Mint a respectable 2. While I would rank it as one of the better mint-flavored chocolate bars I've had (mostly due to the constraint shown in the mint flavoring), it is not a product I'd purchase for myself (or for someone else, for that matter). I can't strongly recommend it in any way, really. But if I were to be given one as a gift, I would most definitely eat it and enjoy it.

So, nice try Mondelēz International, but you got it right the first time.

As the saying goes, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Thinking back to a better Daim,
The Sweets Fiend

Honestly, I might as well have reused an image from the Daim review here.

#22 - Gemini Food Corporation Popping Candy (strawberry flavor)

With the new year in its infancy and the Chinese New Year still awaiting its arrival, I am reminded of fireworks, and of the fact that such recreational explosives were invented by the Chinese. That's the general consensus, anyhow. Wikipedia places the earliest documentation of fireworks in the time of the Tang Dynasty, during which the usual favored tea was overtaken by a powdered fruit drink (I might have made up that last bit). To this day, China is (unsurprisingly) the largest producer of fireworks in the world. The country is also the second most populous in the world (between China and India, over a third of the world's population is accounted for). Combine that with a corrupt government (and thus dirt-cheap labor), and you end up with a nation that manufactures a significant portion of the world's goods.

China is often associated with subpar products, which isn't exactly fair; while plenty of terrible knockoffs originate there, so do a lot of fine items that consumers are willing to pay a premium for (like the cell phone or computer you're using at this moment, most likely).

But there are definite quality control issues (sometimes meaning neither quality nor control) in the less reputable brands, and that extends (of course) to candy and sweets.

Fireworks? Cheap knockoff candies? Is there some kind of connection there?

Why, yes, yes there is: Gemini Food Corporation's Popping Candy!

All kinds of awesome. And bombs. So many bombs.

Gemini Food Corporation was brought to life by Taiwanese immigrant Chiun Mau Tong, and all it took was a garage and $200 (because nothing brings credibility to Chinese products like being sold out of a garage). It just goes to show that hard work and dreams can go a long way.

Popping Candy is my first review of a Chinese candy (though it seems to be made for an American audience), and it's a doozy! It is an obvious ripoff of Pop Rocks, but I think we can all agree that its packaging is way, way, WAY cooler than Pop Rocks packaging could ever hope to be (sorry, Pop Rocks). Just take a look at the wicked mad bomber of a feline (that IS a cat, right?) lobbing his strawberry bombs (as opposed to cherry bombs; all roads lead back to fireworks!) with reckless abandon! Whether he terrifies or excites you, he refuses to go unnoticed! Maybe his teeth are made of gold. Maybe they've just yellowed through a life of foolish dietary choices. It doesn't matter: regardless of his dental situation, this cat is going to grab your attention.

The package quality surpassed my expectations by a fair margin. The material was lustrous and luxurious, displaying the artwork cleanly in rich, vibrant color, and there is not the slightest bit of confusion as to what sort of candy lurks within. A+ work, all around.

Oh, and it stood a menacing nine to ten inches tall, which is understandable, considering the promise/warning of twenty pouches inside.

Did I mention I liked the packaging?

Whew, glad that's been cleared up!

The back side had relatively little information, given the size of the packet, but it provided all of the necessities.

The "best before" date was pleasantly conspicuous, right under the bar code (and "Made in China" notice, in case you thought I was making that up). The section also contains the handy date format below, for those who might mistake "Nov" for a day (or worse yet, a year).

Gemini Food Corporation could not be faulted if someone were to consume a package of Popping Candy beyond its expiration date. I am fortunately well within the ideal enjoyment period, so my twenty pouches should be ripe with POP!

A look at the nutrition facts panel would provide yet another surprise.

Maybe the pouches are empty?

There is almost nothing to Popping Candy. Seriously. I mean, I thought it might be a low Calorie treat (possibly 20 Calories or so), but FIVE Calories is well below anything my imagination had come up with.

There is one gram of carbohydrates and one gram of sugar. That's it. Nothing more. You might as well just be swallowing air.

Naturally, all of the 0% markings in the "daily value" column are not to be taken at face value. They are just rounded down. But, given a 2,000-Calorie-a-day diet, one could eat 400 pouches of Popping Candy before reaching the limit (keep in mind that I am in no way endorsing such a diet, nor is that how the recommended daily values system works; as usual, my legal team is adamant about that).

Still, if you are on a strict diet, an occasional dose of Popping Candy shouldn't throw you off track (except for maybe in the literal sense if the popping is as extreme as the character on the front of the package). It's rare to find a candy that meets that qualification with such ease, so bonus points are to be awarded to Gemini Food Corp. (à la Dumbledore).

As one might expect, the ingredients list is short and sweet. It even clarifies that lactose is a milk product, in case somehow the consumer was ignorant of that fact (you did know that, right?).

Count Dracula approves.

Really, the only two ingredients of note are malic acid, which may sound scary to the unlearned, and carbon dioxide (may also sound scary to you; I don't know what irrational fears you may have), but both are produced by the human body every day, so there's nothing to worry about, right?

Perhaps the most alarming datum in the section is the "Avoid direct sunlight" warning. It sounds like something straight out of a Gremlins movie. What happens if Popping Candy is exposed to sunlight? My own irrational fears (and concern for humanity) prevent me from finding out. Gemini Food Corporation has thus far not done me any wrong, and I will have to trust that they have very good reasons for their instructions.

Then again, the advice may be aimed at me rather than the candy. As I am roughly the shade of chalk, I do sunburn easily, so avoiding direct sunlight is in my best interest. I appreciate the thoughtfulness, Mr. Chiun Mau Tong!

With the formalities being taken care of, it was time to rip into the Popping Candy package and see what what was inside...

Unfortunately, I hit my first snag. There was no easy way of opening or tearing the industrial-strength material. How could Gemini Food Corp., who had up to this point been so thorough, not supply a means by which an eager consumer could get at the twenty pouches without frustration? It might have been a test of some sort (only the worthy can enjoy Popping Candy), or I might just be an idiot. Either way, I imagine if one were to be stranded on a desert island with nothing to eat but Popping Candy, one would no doubt curse the packaging and its unobtainable contents (I suppose five Calorie pouches would hardly do one much good in such a case anyhow).

In the end, I resorted to scissors, carefully selecting the appropriate cutting location in pretense that I was performing brain surgery on the explosives-wielding cat.

Turns out his head was filled with pouches of Popping Candy. Imagine that.

The individual pouches are of a decent quality, perhaps not quite up to the standards set by the outer packaging, but superior to Pop Rocks, at any rate. They even have a tiny notch to aid in the opening (I guess if you've made it that far your worthiness has already been established). They were smaller than I'd have presumed, but, after all, they are only five Calories each, so my presumption was devoid of logic.

Tearing open a pouch and peeking in revealed the Popping Candy itself (at last!).

Instant mouth party!

They were itty-bitty crystals of sugary goodness, which very well could have been harvested from a candy mine by some mythical, magical creatures of miniature proportions (to the best of my knowledge, though, they were not).

As there was no mention of actual strawberries in the ingredients list, I knew to expect the artificial strawberry flavor candies invariably offer. That, and a physical attack on my tongue and mouth with a fury only carbon dioxide could provide.

Once again, Gemini Food Corporation proved to be a worthy adversary in the world of sweets! The Popping Candy was bursting with flavor (sweet, sweet artificial strawberry flavor; it reminded me slightly of spoonfuls of Strawberry Quik, but don't ask how I know that), and the popping action was flawless, if a little startling at first (I hadn't had such a product in years). The candy was an absolute success, overtaking the more familiar Pop Rocks in every conceivable way.

Unfortunately, despite its accomplishments, I feel I have no choice but to rate the Popping Candy a 2. I could find no fault on the part of the candy itself, but it is more a novelty to me than anything, and I do not expect to buy another package for myself (at least not for a long while).

Generally speaking, my rating scale is a great help in giving a score to a particular sweet (I normally have tremendous trouble rating things), but this is one of those rare cases where it might have failed me. The Popping Candy triumphs in all it sets out to do, so, much like equating Chinese products with inferior quality, awarding an average score hardly seems fair. Nevertheless, I must stick to the guidelines I have set up, lest this whole process becomes even more meaningless than it already is.

So, if you're looking for a better alternative to Pop Rocks, I highly recommend Gemini Food Corporation's offering. Popping Candy would make for great party favors at a child's birthday party or unique treats for trick-or-treaters on Halloween, or provide a quick, low-Calorie sugar fix for a sweets fiend on a diet.

In short, this is an excellent candy, whose only shortcoming is providing a solution to a problem I don't have. But don't let the mediocre score fool you: Popping Candy is the undisputed champion of fizzing candies!

Cheap knockoff? Not in the least!

Feeling a bit carbonated myself,
The Sweets Fiend

Note: This picture was not taken in direct sunlight. Safety first!