#52 - Marinela Pingüinos

In January of 2005, the documentary March of the Penguins was released into theaters to thunderous applause and countless (well, they could be counted, but I didn't feel it would have been the best use of my time) accolades. It was basically the Hamilton of the documentary world (in other words, it was a big hit). Caught up in the hysteria surrounding the flightless birds, my brother contacted my mother, extending an invitation to treat her to the allegedly (I still haven't seen it, actually) spectacular film.

But then something happened...

Or, rather, nothing happened.

For reasons still unknown, the trip to the movie theater never happened. Days passed. Then weeks. Then months (that's how time progresses, after all). My mother kept quiet, but she did not forget, and when my brother's birthday came around (as birthdays do), she exacted her revenge in a form she dubbed: "Penguinpalooza."

The birthday card had penguins on it. The wrapping paper had penguins on it. The majority (if not all) of the gifts were penguin related. Penguin books. Penguin socks. Even a waddling penguin pooper that ejects edible pellets from its bottom (because of course those exist; though, to be fair, penguin droppings are not without merit).

It was an effective tactic which continued through numerous subsequent birthdays (and holidays), and, for all I know, it may be continuing to this day (just more discreetly).

I mention this to explain why, when my mother sent me an article concerning international treats and I admitted I had never tried the Pingüinos mentioned in said article and then found myself in a gas station in South Carolina (in no way related to the article) with a generous selection of Marinela products (including the aforementioned Pingüinos), I had no choice but to pick up a pack of the cream-filled cupcakes.

I mean, I could probably use a pair of penguin socks (who couldn't?), but I've already seen candy and animal feces cross paths more often than any one man should. And so, with that in mind, today's subject is Marinela Pingüinos:

Penguinpalooza insurance.

I was first introduced to Marinela via their Gansito snack cakes, which failed to wow me. Still, Marinela got a lot right, so there was plenty of room for optimism. Let's get to the review!

To start, the package design (alternate view here) is, much like all their products, expertly done. The colors catch one's eye, the cupcake graphic makes one's mouth water, and the hip penguin with his bright red jacket and ultra-cool (I'll assume that's what they were going for) headphones is well drawn (even if I'd never want to meet him in real life). Plus, the front boasts that the treat is a good source of calcium, and that's always my top priority when selecting snack cakes!

Now, it occurs to me that Marinela seems to have a bird theme for its mascots (no, really!): first the Gansito gosling (who on newer packages sports more of a hipster vibe), and now the Pingüinos penguin ("pingüinos" is Spanish for "penguins," by the way; Marinela needs some help in the naming department). In keeping with tradition, I feel obligated to give the Pingüinos mascot a nickname, and so I'm going with Penguindict Cupcakebatch (for obvious reasons).

I do have to say that I can at least see the penguin inspiration in this case (though it's a bit of a stretch); the white-on-black (well, dark brown) motif is sound enough. But Marinela could have stood out some by altering the squiggle on top (which does not fit the penguin theme very well) into a more unique shape/form. Perhaps Penguindict Cupcakebatch is more of a conformist than he'd like you to believe.

Anyhow, the expiration date (which I forgot to take a separate photo of but is clearly visible on the front of the package) seems alarming, but that's just because other activities (such as eating candy) and mild illness got in the way of writing this review. I actually ate my Pingüinos with days to spare. So it's all good.

I did manage to snap a picture of the nutrition facts panel (go me!):

It all evens out in the end.

Pingüinos compare quite well with Hostess Cupcakes (which the product is clearly emulating). They are slightly smaller, but I'm hoping that just means they're packed with flavor (they've got less calcium, by the way). Being more familiar with candy bar stats than those of snack cakes, I was pleasantly surprised with the Calorie count. Two cupcakes is about one and a half (typical) candy bars, Calorie-wise, despite looking larger. That may be something to keep in mind when my sweet tooth is getting out of control (though the amount of sodium is much, much higher; I can't win).

Are these healthy? By no means. But then, one does not browse gas stations if one is looking for health foods, does one? No, one most certainly does not.

Just to be sure, why don't we check the ingredients list... Oh wait, the ingredients list is practically unreadable without beginning to open the packaging. Well, that's either a blunder on Marinela's part or an underhanded way of compelling consumers to buy Pingüinos (I can imagine places posting "You look at the ingredients, you buy it!" signs to take advantage of the "feature").

Fortunately, I've already bought it, so I can start the unwrapping process and take a gander (sorry, that expression must've been left over from my Gansito review) at the ingredients:

The further you read, the more the plot thickens...

While not nearly as formidable as the Gansito ingredient list, Pingüinos are not a simple product. The number of ingredients necessary to produce cream-filled chocolate cupcakes is, quite frankly, astonishing. The entries also stray from what I encounter in candies and other sweets; things like sodium aluminum sulfate, sorbitan monostearate, titanium dioxide, and (maybe most frightening of all) locust bean gum can sound frightening (especially if you struggle with chemophobia). But truthfully, some of the most terrifying (exhibits A and B, for instance) candies I've had the misfortune of consuming have had the most normal-sounding ingredients, so I'm not too concerned.

But should I be? Only one way to find out...

They look just like penguins!

Tearing open the wrapper resulted in the familiar aroma of Hostess Cupcakes. Seriously, I don't think I could tell them apart in a blind smell test. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but neither is it necessarily a good thing, as Hostess Cupcakes are just okay to me (sorry, Hostess). Don't get me wrong, I'll eat them without hesitation; they're just not high on my list of favorite Hostess products.

I did notice that my Pingüinos appeared a tad dry, but since the "best before" date was still days away, I figured it was within the acceptable range of normalcy.

Though, if it looks like a Hostess Cupcake and smells like a Hostess Cupcake, logic would suggest that it probably tastes like a Hostess Cupcake, right?

As usual, no. Quit jumping to conclusions, will you?

This is not, I repeat NOT, a Hostess Cupcake. I promise!

I don't know if it was the locust bean gum or perhaps just the penguinicity (for lack of a better word) of it all, but I noticed a distinct difference in both the taste and consistency. And I mean that in the best way. The more I thought about what I was experiencing, the more convinced I became that it was something special. The chocolate cake was delectable. The cream filling was delicious. It was, in a word, fantastic, superior to the original Hostess variety in every way.

My initial thought upon finishing off the second cupcake was to rate Pingüinos a high 3, but further contemplation led me to decide I needed to just go ahead and give it a 4. And so that's what I've done. I just couldn't shake the memory of how much I enjoyed eating the cupcakes (seeing the empty package afterwards was a sad sight, indeed), and I instantly regretted not having bought more. I even found myself planning to purchase a pack (or two) if I happen upon them again.

Needless to say, I'm a fan. Top-notch work, Marinela! I had my doubts, but you've made a believer out of me.

And Mom, if you're reading this, I hope I've reviewed the Pingüinos in a time and manner acceptable to you.

Waiting in nervous anticipation,
The Sweets Fiend

I considered drizzling chocolate over them for authenticity, but I was fresh out of melted chocolate (I'm so embarrassed)!

#51 - Compañía Nacional de Chocolates Jumbo Flow

If one were to randomly select a citizen of the United States of America and ask him or her to name something Colombia is known for, one would likely get one of three responses:

1. What is Colombia?
2. Drugs (or drug lords)
3. Coffee (which is technically the same as #2, caffeine being a drug and all)

Now, Colombia's association with drugs is not exactly unjustified; my oldest (in terms of duration, certainly not by age) friend was born and raised in Colombia, and she has hinted that it is not an entirely skewed view from the outside (which is proof enough for me). But it would be foolish for one to let a little (or a lot, as the case may be) drug (and human) trafficking to limit one's impression of a country that has much, much more (muggings and fraud immediately spring to mind) to offer.

For instance, while some might recognize a certain Colombian actress advertising (what else) a coffee maker, or a certain Colombian singer who has advertised teeth-whitening strips (I'm presuming to remove coffee stains), not many outside the ornithological world are aware that Colombia boasts a larger variety of birds than any other country (plus, the constant threat of assault/theft adds some much needed excitement to one's birding experience). And I would wager a guess that very few Americans (as in United States of America Americans, of course) have ever heard of Copetín, Colombia's popular and long-running comic strip that takes a lighthearted look at life as only a Colombian could.

Yes, Colombia is much more than drugs. In fact, recently Colombia has seen a marvelous increase in cacao production (which I know also contains caffeine, but I have to draw the line somewhere, and I choose to draw it at chocolate). Granted, in Colombia even growing cacao is enough to put your life in grave danger, but that only makes the efforts all the more admirable, and I am not one to let such determination go unrewarded.

Thus, I have decided that today's subject should be manufactured by none other than Colombia's own Compañía Nacional de Chocolates. But which chocolate treat to choose? Why, Jumbo Flow, of course!

I guess it sounds marginally better than "Colossal Discharge."

Let me be the first (in this blog, anyhow) to say that "Jumbo Flow" is is a terrible name for a candy bar. Here's a free tip for all candy manufacturers out there: if the name you've chosen for your product could just as easily refer to a category of menstrual pads, you might want to rethink it (to further my point, one online thesaurus's list of synonyms for "flow" begins with the words "discharge," "flood," and "leakage," none of which is the least bit appetizing).

As it turns out, "Jumbo" is a brand of chocolate bars (my sample, at 48g, is by no means jumbo), and the "Flow" version happens to be a relatively new addition to the line. It still makes little sense to me. The only explanation I can come up with is that the creators were under duress when choosing the name (based on my extensive research on the country, I am willing to believe that any and/or all Colombians are under duress at any given point in time) and, in their rush to finish their project, unsuccessfully sought a word to epitomize their predicament.

Lousy name aside, the package design is decent. Not great, but decent. The color scheme is suitable and inviting, and the chocolate bar depiction is appealing, though strangely low resolution when compared to the rest of the graphics on the wrapper (and once I had noticed it, it became rather distracting). Overall, though, not a bad job.

What are you trying to tell (or sell) me, Jumbo Flow?

I failed to find any sign of a "best by" date on the packaging, though there was some faded information in black on the dark brown background (so easy on the eyes). The date might've been in there somewhere, but if so, it was hidden extremely well. The closest I could find was a series of numbers ("16217," to be exact), which, if representing a date, indicates one that has passed long ago. Then again, the first match for "16217" in a Google search brings up a listing for a house in Cleveland, Ohio. Perhaps Jumbo sells advertising space on their products. I doubt it, but they make a chocolate bar called "Jumbo Flow," so they obviously think outside the box.

On to things I am sure of, however. The package contains the description: "Nougat with caramel and peanut, covered with chocolate flavor."

Yes, it says it is covered with chocolate flavor. Not chocolate, but chocolate flavor. I am hoping it is just a poor translation and does not mean that I am about to eat tofu flavored like "chocolate" or the like, because nougat, caramel, and peanut(s?) are right up my alley, and I'd be dreadfully disappointed if some wretched barrier lay between me and those mouth-watering components.

The ingredients list should clear that up, but tradition dictates I first discuss the nutritional information (conveniently hidden under the wrapper's back flap):

Nothing you haven't seen before, now in an even more tedious format!

Compañía Nacional de Chocolates chose to go for a daring paragraph-style format rather than an easy-to-read graph. To be fair, they also prominently display some of the stats on the front of the wrapper, although for only half a bar. Altogether, it makes for an unpleasant experience, and if I weren't obligated (per my commitment to you, dear reader(s)), I'd write no more about it.

As it is, I'm not going to write much more about it anyhow, because there's not much to say. The stats are perfectly typical, comparable to, say, an everyday Snickers bar. So no surprises there. In fact, it is quite rare that I come across a candy that shocks me with its nutritional data. Sweets tend to be unhealthy with a consistency that spans all brands and cultures. But I will persist with the nutritional section of my reviews, just in case. Because I know the moment I stop will be the moment an anomaly crosses my path.

Oddly enough, the lack of nutrition shenanigans brought some relief to my concerns of the promised "chocolate flavor." Let's see if the list of ingredients further allays my worries:

Much more ado about nothing.

The ingredients are even more of a pain to read than the nutritional info (the allergens do stand out, I'll give them that), so I will save you the trouble of reading it yourself: again, there is nothing out of the ordinary (aside from the fact that one ingredient is called "coverage chocolate"). Could it be that this is actually just a normal, run-of-the-mill chocolate bar? No hidden grubs (or, for that matter, drugs) to catch me off guard? Just glorious nougat and caramel and peanuts covered in chocolate?

Things were looking pretty good at this point, so I carefully tore open the wrapper...

Fortunately, the aroma that greeted me was not only pleasant, but familiar. It took a moment to place it, but the scent was very much reminiscent of a Baby Ruth, which is currently one of my go-to candies. Needless to say, I was thrilled. Despite its name, Jumbo Flow was seriously starting to look like a winner.

Well, perhaps "look" was a poor word choice. See, when I removed it from its coverage plastic (the wrapper; just thought I'd try to take a page out of the ingredients list's book) my Jumbo Flow was not exactly the belle of the ball.

She ain't pretty, but I ain't too...

Caramel and nougat (and peanut(s?)) were bursting out with no regard for the chocolate covering (discharge and leakage indeed), cracking the bar on all sides. But, while it was perhaps not what I would call a thing of beauty, I've seen worse (oh, so much worse), and I was feeling optimistic that its flavor would be unhindered by its hideous outward appearance.

Right?

Right. And I am glad to say that my greatest expectations were exceeded!

One bite, and I was sold (unlike that house in East Cleveland (at least at the time of this writing)). The chocolate. The nougat. The caramel. The peanuts. It was all delightfully exquisite. And it tasted remarkably like a Baby Ruth, albeit with a thicker layer of nougat.

I loved every minute of consuming it.

Therefore, it is without hesitation that I rate the Compañía Nacional de Chocolates Jumbo Flow a well-deserved 4. It came into my life with the odds stacked against it but won me over with its fine texture and flavor. I have only wonderful memories of my brief time spent with it.

So well done, Colombia. I applaud the tenacity of your citizens as they face turmoil and uncertainty, and I commend the brave souls who put their lives at risk to bring sweet, sweet goodness to the world. You are true heroes.

I mean, no candy is really worth putting one's life at risk... but, if I'm being honest, the Jumbo Flow comes pretty close.

Flowing (though not leaking) with gratitude,
The Sweets Fiend

How could anyone say no to this?

#50 - Sarotti Katzenzungen (marbled)

People love cats. When I say "people," I of course do not mean all of mankind. But when it comes to those who do love cats, they really, really, REALLY LOOOVE cats. They have been worshiped as gods. The word "cat" produces nearly 90 MILLION results on YouTube (no one will ever live long enough to see them all). Cats have their own web pages (and full-length motion pictures) and magazines. Cats inherit fortunes (in case wealthy humans weren't enough to make you feel inadequate).

Basically, people are crazy about their cats.

I discovered this firsthand when I, in a whim of cat fancy (and at the request of my wife), created a 10-week game of sorts titled "The CATchelor," which pitted a dozen beloved pet contestants through a series of increasingly ridiculous tasks to win the heart of my dashing but ill-tempered feline (may he rest in peace). There was absolutely no real prize and the elimination process was without rhyme or reason, yet each and every owner put forth great time and effort to win (and I use that term very loosely), because... well, they are crazy about their cats (I was very thankful for their participation).

And the kicker is, if one looks at the situation objectively, it's hard to deny that cats are jerks. If you were to date a human with the personality of a cat (and if you are dating, I do so hope it is a human), your friends would tell you to break it off as soon as possible because you were being treated like garbage. And they'd be right.

But somehow it's okay for cats. A gentle purr and warm nuzzle, and suddenly it doesn't matter that they've torn your new furniture to shreds and vomited mouse innards on your pillow. Also, they're hungry, and their food bowl is ONLY HALF FULL!

Cats have an unexplainable hold over people.

It was inevitable, then, that I should sooner or later come across candy that was feline-themed in some manner. Cats inspire all sorts of inane products, after all. And so I humbly present to you Sarotti Katzenzungen (marbled):

Hang in there, kitties!

Sarotti is one of those companies that, while largely unknown in the United States, boasts a lengthy history in Germany. Its age is revealed by its mascot, Sarotti-Mohr (first debuted 100 years ago), who was, until recently, a small stereotyped dark-skinned boy (or possibly man?) from the "Orient" who pulled pieces off of his never-ending chocolate bar and deposited them directly into the mouths of expectant fellow human beings (not to mention animals and woodland gnomes). Cringeworthy stuff. Thankfully, Sarotti finally came to their senses in 2004, deciding that perhaps a more culturally sensitive icon would be preferable. So they changed his skin to gold (sort of a lateral move, if you ask me). One can read the whole story (assuming one can read German) on the company's mascot page.

If one does not like to read, one can instead watch Sarotti's "Chocolait Chips" commercial and risk never again being able to say the words "chocolate chips" without breaking into song (I know it's unrelated to anything, but how could I resist?).

But let's leave that all behind us and focus on the packaging, shall we? My first impression was that the box felt cheaply constructed and the print quality of the kittens (which I assume were chosen for their "marbled" fur) was surprisingly poor. Additionally, the badly-superimposed photo of the product was (and is) unappetizing (and an observant individual would notice that both chocolates appear to be exactly the same; I guess Sarotti was too stingy to provide two for the photo shoot). I think someone needs to inform Sarotti that slapping a picture of a group of kittens onto the front of a package is not the solution to... well, anything, really. The overall effect is more depressing than adorable, and I do not feel confident that the kittens pictured have happy lives or bright futures.

That impression is further supported by the collective body language and expressions of the kittens. The leftmost kitty seems slightly curious about the odd-shaped treats, but the one in the middle looks to be backing away in uncertainty (with a hint of horror?), and the feline farthest to the right looks to be giving the stink eye to an unseen individual to the left, who presumably left the candies at their feet.

Could their reactions be due to the fact that chocolate is dangerous to cats? Or maybe it's simply because cats do not have the ability to taste sweets? Sadly, the answer is far more nefarious: "katzenzungen" translates to "cat tongues." That's right, folks, this is a box of marbled chocolate "cat tongues" (which admittedly don't look much like real cat tongues; my wife thought they were supposed to be bones, which would be just about as accurate, appearance-wise).

Suddenly, it all makes more sense, doesn't it?

Believe it or not, cat tongue chocolates (and cookies) have been popular throughout the world for a long time. I'm not sure how anyone could have found the idea of severed cat tongues appealing, but, as I've said before, people will find inspiration for candies absolutely anywhere.

Anyhow, while my mind tries to make sense of the concept (a futile endeavor, no doubt), I might as well continue on with the review.

My, how time flies!

So here goes. The "best before" date can be found on the back of the box, with the obligatory additional information not meant for the consumer. Looking at the recommended date, it would be fair to assume I missed it. By more than two months, even. But, as it turns out, things aren't always what they seem. I actually consumed my samples on time, and the publishing of this review has just been delayed again and again (due to holiday festivities, bouts with illness, and general laziness).

Just pretend you're reading this two months or so ago (you know, before the thought of eating cat tongues had entered your mind) and everything will be all right.

The nutritional facts are also on the back, in so many languages that the panel practically doubles as a multilingual travel dictionary:

Learn to say "fat" in many tongues (feline variety excluded).

As is standard in Europe, the data is based on a serving size of 100g, and, as a very welcome surprise, the entire box is conveniently labeled as 100g. Nice!

Compared to other chocolate candies I've had, the fat content is slightly higher than average (with perhaps ever-so-slightly less sugar), but not enough to be a significant difference. Really, there's nothing noteworthy or unexpected here, though the panel does bring a (non-cat-tongue-related) question to mind: how many languages is too many to include on the back of a box of chocolates? I think Sarotti is really pushing the envelope here in that regard, and I suppose I ought to view their inclusivity favorably, even if it does make things a little messy.

The ingredients list follows suit, providing the buyer with several more words and phrases to add to his or her international vernacular:

The "all-caps" allergens just jump right out at you, don't they?

Honestly, the ingredients are neither unusual (no real cat tongues, for instance) nor very numerous, but the sheer number of languages provided creates a giant, unreadable word jumble unmatched by even the mighty Marinela Gansito. Common allergens are written in all capital letters with the intent that they'll stand out. I'm sure we can all agree that the effort is every bit as effective as the altering of Sarotti-Mohr's skin color.

Sarotti, you never cease to amaze me!

Needless to say, I was ready to be done with the exterior investigation and open up my box of marbled chocolate "cat tongues."

So that's what I did.

These must be formal cat tongues.

The front of the box advertises (at least according to Google Translate) "with foil sealing for the finest chocolate treat," and there was most certainly a seal protecting my chocolates. Things were off to a good start.

But then I noticed that something was amiss: the marbled design of my "tongues" was different from what was pictured on the packaging, with a milk chocolate band (a cummerbund - or "tonguerbund" - of sorts) across the middle. Now, I'm generally not one to complain about the appearance of my marbled cat tongues (you can ask anyone), but it did cause me to wonder what happened. Is the image of the product on the front so old that it does not reflect the current trend in cat tongue marbling (and has anyone produced a "Where are they now?" documentary about the kitten models?), or did the Sarotti marbler (I assume that's a job title) have a bit too much to drink before/during work the day my batch was prepared? Regardless, it probably doesn't matter, as I can't decide whether I prefer what I expected or what I received.

After removing the seal and giving the chocolates a closer look, I concluded that the photograph on the box was indeed a failure on Sarotti's part (to be fair, I don't think I did any better); based on their appearance I would not classify the tongues as "the finest chocolate treat" by any means, but they did seem edible, at least, and that's something. Still not appetizing (I don't know what it was about them), but edible.

Unfortunately, the flavor did little to improve my opinion of the "tongues." It was fine, just, again, not "the finest." Both the milk chocolate and white chocolate portions had tastes and textures so generic that I can not even find words to describe them (I guess you could say that the tables have turned and the cat's got my tongue). Seriously, I feel you can buy a box of marbled chocolates from any unknown manufacturer at your favorite discount store and get a similar product (flavor-wise, anyhow).

That's not necessarily a bad thing; I was just disappointed by the lack of uniqueness. I was, frankly, disappointed by Sarotti Katzenzungen altogether, and I can't put my finger on why. Sure, the packaging left much to be desired, but the taste was decent (if not special), and the whole "cat tongue" concept, while bizarre, doesn't bother me.

And so it is with confusion and reluctance that I rate Sarotti Katzenzungen (at least the marbled variety) a lowly 1. I've not doubt that on taste alone it should've been rated a 2, but something about the whole experience was off-putting to me, and I have no desire to relive it (the parameters of my rating scale are pretty clear). My capacity for sugar intake is too limited to use on candy that I don't enjoy. So, sorry, Sarotti, but it's going to take more than a picture of kittens (and cloned chocolates) to win me over.

I just wish I knew where things went so wrong. Who knows, maybe the thought of eating cat tongues does bother me more than I thought. Maybe it's the idea of the poor, traumatized kittens confronted with the tongues of their parents (hence the two on the box), which were cut out for incessant meowing (if you think I'm being overly dramatic here, you haven't read enough classic German children's stories).

Or maybe it's the fact that cats use their tongues to clean their butts.

I guess we'll never know.

With a renewed appreciation for toilet paper,
The Sweets Fiend

I'd have taken a picture of two "tongues," but... tradition and all...

#49 - Swizzels Double Lollies Squashies

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

Of course not. Don't be silly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At one time, this was the future.

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

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

Data based on an indeterminate number of "squashies."

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

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

Above the nutritional information one can find the ingredients list:

Swizzels Double Lollies Squashies are chock-full of surprises!

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

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

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

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

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

I opened the bag to find out...

You can practically smell the sulphur dioxide!

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

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

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

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

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

If only I had seen it coming...

Washing my mouth out with sugar,
The Sweets Fiend

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

#48 - Vimto Mini Fizzy Pencils

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first ingredient is all that really matters.

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

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

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

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

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

Mini? Yes. Fizzy pencil? No.

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

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

Or something like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waiting in eager anticipation,
The Sweets Fiend

#47 - Azuki Daifuku

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

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

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

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

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

As it turns out, it had Azuki Daifuku.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ingredients list is below the nutrition data:

Translation: sweet death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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