#31 - Meiji Yan Yan

Like any normal human being, I am in many ways abnormal (not that I'm claiming to be a normal human being, mind you, just like one). One idiosyncrasy of mine, for instance, is that I do not generally dip or dunk foods into sauces or other liquefied flavorings. Whether I'm eating chicken tenders, pretzels, or french fries, I eat them dry. However, I have no issue with said items being covered in sauce during preparation. This might seem like utter madness on my part, but I do have my reasons. Two, in fact. For one, I am lazy. Dunking is just an extra step between my plate and my mouth, and who needs that? Secondly, I am ill-equipped to handle the responsibility of applying an appropriate amount of sauce to comestibles (I'm even iffy when it comes to checking my car's oil). Will I accidentally administer too much? Too little? And, unless I double dip, I will end up with some portion bone dry anyhow; the inability of a dunking to cover an object in totality is a problem that has plagued mankind for all of history (and mythology).

Whew, I'm breaking out in a sweat just thinking about it.

So, it being far too much to worry about while stuffing my face with junk foods, I have decided to forego the extra step and consume things sans dipping (Fun Dip being the exception; sugar is always an exception). Imagine my mixed emotions, then, upon receiving today's candy: Meiji's Yan Yan!

Uh oh, this looks like there is going to be some work involved.

Meiji is a Japanese brand (perhaps better known for the fanciful Hello Panda biscuits my wife adores), but my package stated in no uncertain terms that this it was a product of Singapore. At any rate, it was purchased in the USA, so it took at least three different nations to get this candy into my hands. That seems like a lot of coordinating, so I hope it was worth it. Anyway, Yan Yan apparently means "elegant" in Chinese or something, so I shall try my best to maintain an air of elegance through the remainder of the review. We'll see how long that lasts.

The package design is (unlike a dip) a total success! The color scheme and art style are attention-grabbing and informative with a whimsical flair. The top of the package explains the product with a simple, efficient clarity of which other designers should take note; it's brilliantly done!

Nothing says "fun" like words! Literally.

On the side is a graphic challenging the consumer to "look inside for fun words." Challenge accepted! I can only imagine the joys awaiting me due to Meiji's lexical tomfoolery! I should note that, while it certainly seems like an open invitation to all, I believe it to be implicit that the challenge applies solely to the owner of the Yan Yan container in question. Please do not peer into containers not belonging to you, spoiling the fun for everyone.

The side artwork adds an additional identification of the "crispy cracker sticks," too, in case one overlooked the seemingly foolproof description on the top.

Everything's looking hunky-dory so far, though I must say I would not use the word "elegant" to describe anything I've thus far seen. Maybe the name's ironic?

Bottoms up!

The "best by" date is on the bottom of the Yan Yan "cup" (and very easy to read, which is not always the case). Once again I am flirting with expiration, assuming American dating protocol is being used (and why wouldn't it be?).

The placement of the date (and other secret codes) shows a real confidence in the packing of the crispy cracker sticks and "smooth chocolate crème," since it forces one to flip the container upside down. I am therefore counting on my sticks to be completely intact upon the grand opening! If not, I expect Meiji will accept full responsibility for their negligence. Don't let me down, Meiji!

Look, it's cholesterol free!
(ignore all the other information)

The nutrition facts panel takes up a large portion of the package and continues the Yan Yan trend of clarity and readability. I cannot stress enough how nice it is when a product's provided information does not strain one's eyes. It's almost as if Meiji actually wants consumers to be able to see the data; what a novel concept in the world of candy! The container's shape does hinder that goal ever so slightly (as does the mild deformation of my particular sample), especially for photographic purposes, but it is a valiant effort nonetheless.

Also refreshing is the serving size; Meiji has no delusions that its customers will consume only a portion of the contents in a single sitting. The Calorie count and fat content are about 20% higher than a typical candy bar, but one could easily eat several candy bars in the time it would take to finish sixteen crispy cracker sticks (not to mention the additional time for dipping), so if one is on a binge, Yan Yan might be the better option (aside from its significant sodium content).

Yan Yan also contains a surprising amount of vitamin A and calcium, as well as more iron than a cup of spinach (Popeye would approve). All in all, though, it would not be considered a healthy snack by any means. That's okay, as it does not masquerade as one (as opposed to some other candies that will remain nameless).

The ingredients list is below the nutrition facts (both on the package and in this blog):

Cheddar? American? Gouda? I don't know.

I was struck by how few of the ingredients had scientific-sounding names (though "artificial flavors" is a tad vague). This has got to be one of the most straightforward snacks I've yet reviewed. Bravo, Meiji! But I do have to admit I did not expect to see cheese of any sort in the list. How did that get in there? No matter; I do so like cheese!

Deconstructed candy?

Peeling off the thin foil lid revealed a configuration not unlike that of the Obol (which, for the record, is no better than two standard bowls), though in this case it makes sense. The chocolate side was deceptively shallow but proved to be sufficient for its purposes.

The cracker sticks (fully intact, by the way), as promised, contained a variety of words and phrases (and graphics!) which were every bit as educational as they were fun (which is not necessarily a compliment). I learned, among other things, that a beetle's lucky color is brown and that a whale is a/the "biggesy mammal." I thoroughly enjoyed this aspect of Yan Yan; it's a simple matter, yes, but one that provides a little entertainment to each draw of a cracker stick. Again, Meiji should be commended for their efforts here. Sure, I got a couple of duplicates (it seems a crime to include two "duck" sticks but no "goose" stick; they don't even make a "goose" stick), but that's all part of the game. There are even two special stick types ("gold egg" and "golden log") to enhance the excitement. And like all other aspects of the design, the printing was expertly done; the text was as crisp as the cracker was crispy.

But how did they taste?

Well, I would say they tasted exactly as one would expect. The cracker sticks were crunchy but bland, and the chocolate "dipping sauce" was predictably adequate but unremarkable. In short, if you think you will like Yan Yan, you probably will (my wife was an instant fan). I was more or less impartial to the flavor and had my typical problems with the dipping/dunking portion. I also found the chocolate-on-a-stick visual to be less than appealing; it reminded me of some medical test swab or, even worse, a rectal thermometer incident (so much for elegance, eh?).

Therefore, I give Meiji's Yan Yan a score of 2. It was a pleasant/amusing experience (as far as dipping snacks go), but I can't see myself purchasing another container, particularly when Hello Panda exists, which has all the flavor and none of the dipping.

Still, it's a fine, honest product, and, if dipping sticks in chocolate is your thing, I wholeheartedly recommend you try Yan Yan to satisfy that craving.

You weirdo.

Sweetest regards (with a disproportionate coating of chocolate),

The Sweets Fiend

Sadly, I would have to disagree.

#30 - Malaco Gott & Blandat (original)

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

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

Shame comes in many languages.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WARNING: Staring at this photo may cause depression.

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

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

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

Drab times three.

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

What can I say, government agencies excel at obfuscation.

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

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

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

So I did just that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I should have seen that coming.

Forever oblivious,
The Sweets Fiend

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

#29 - La Corona Paletón

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is this some sort of eye test?

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

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

This hardly seems worth all the secrecy.

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

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

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

CAUTION: Reading the entire list may cause blindness!

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

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

My Paletón moonlights as a boxer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#28 - Nobel Super Lemon Candy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An "Oh! Juicy!" is imminent!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#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?