This is my second-to-last Friday in Japan. In a little over a week, I'll be heading to Thailand for two weeks before returning to Los Angeles, land of taco trucks, Thai Elvis and the only person I know worthy of a hand-embroidered Star Wars pillow. What does this mean for the future of Japanese Candy Friday? Initially I thought I would continue posting weekly candy reviews, but expand the focus to include any kind of foreign candy, scouring L.A.'s ethnic markets for crazy treats. I realized it wouldn't be the same, though. The magic of Japanese Candy Friday for me is the Japanese-ness of the candy -- the cute, cannibalizing characters, the unique flavors and textures, the bizarre names -- and what each candy says about the culture that produced it.

But although L.A. has an admirable number of Asian markets, my access to Japanese candy just won't be what it is here. So, I thought, why not enlist the help of those with an unlimited choice of Japanese and other Asian candy and create a group blog dedicated to all that is weird and Asian and candy? The name is has been chosen (We Love Squid Candy), the domain has been purchased (welovesquidcandy.com), the logo is in the works (thanks, Robert) and now all I need is you. Or maybe you. Do you live in a place with easy access to a wide variety of Asian candy (preferably, but not necessarily, in an Asian country)? Are you kind of weirdly obsessed with Asian sweets? Can you write an interesting candy review once a week? If this is you, please email me with the following information: your name, where you live, a bit about you and why you love Asian candy. Emails sent before next Sunday, July 22 at noon JST will get an immediate response with a writing assignment if it seems like you'd be a good fit. If you send an email after that, I most likely won't be able to respond until I'm back in the U.S.

Now, moving on to this week's candy! There is a theme. It is squid. To be totally honest with you, I don't actually LOVE squid candy, but I do love the idea of its existence and I occasionally love the taste. However, welovetheideaandsometimesthetasteofsquidcandy.com just doesn't roll off the tongue, does it?

These two sweet squid treats can best be described as squid Fruit Roll-Ups, except without the fruit. And with the addition of some intense flavors and some sort of oozing juice I was afraid would drip down the front of my shirt while I ate them. Not very pleasant -- but surprisingly, not inedible. The mentaiko flavor is sprinkled with sesame seeds and tastes vaguely of pepperoni. Your opinion of the kimchi flavor will depend on your relationship with stinky, spicy, pickled cabbage. Fans will enjoy its stinky spiciness. But beware the oozing juice.

Squid somen is dried squid cut into thin strips resembling somen noodles. Actually, while you're eating them, you're less likely to think, "Hm. Somen noodles," and more like to recall that dried-out rubber band you found wrapped around the Spanish flashcards you made five years ago. But if you don't mind dried fish flavor (I don't), these have the gnawable appeal of jerky.

And finally, shoyu-flavored squid chips. Not technically a candy, but the only squid snack I can see eating on a regular basis. The chips are more like small, thin sembei (rice crackers), salty and crunchy and a little bit fishy. These are completely addictive and I foresee polishing them off at the movies tomorrow night. Maybe with a cold beer -- what better way to celebrate my last trip to the movies in Japan than by eating squid snacks and drinking alcohol in public?

Flush with the success of last week's Pino Mint adventure and inspired by Roboppy's call to popsicle arms, I decided to pick up this week's candy from the frozen treats aisle again. I was slightly at a loss because my favorite Japanese popsicle was actually the melon one pictured in the aforementioned popsicle post (the seeds are chocolate chips!) and I didn't really see anything equally appealing in the freezer. But my love of sweet beans and matcha pulled me toward Meiji's Uji-kintoki popsicles, which are based on a popular kakigori (shaved ice) flavored with matcha and topped with azuki beans and sweetened condensed milk. (Does the name sound familiar? Perhaps it's because I reviewed Uji-kintoki KitKats last year.)

And...wow.

It's times like these, eating a popsicle with a creamy cap of frozen sweetened condensed milk, smooth as gelato, covering crunchy matcha-flavored ice crystals studded with chewy sweet beans, that I sort of want to cry and tell Japan I love it so much I want to marry it. This is the greatest popsicle I have ever eaten. The textures, people, the textures! At first it was so strange, reaching the bumpy, icy center -- popsicles aren't crunchy -- but it was immediately satisfying, chewing through the granita-like ice and the occasional nuggets of bean. And maybe the bean sounds strange too, but the contrast between the melting ice and the chilled bean skin was, as unlikely as it may seem, perfect.

Sweet, chilled bean skin is delicious! Tell your friends.

This feels like a very grown-up popsicle, the kind of thing you could offer at the close of a summer dinner party and still feel glamorously Gourmet-worthy. And if any of your guests refuse to eat crunchy ice crystals or sweet beans in their popsicles, well, please wrap up the extra and send it along to me.

It's 80°F (26°C) with a disgusting 94% humidity and soon I'll have to ride my bicycle home in a thunderstorm. And it's my birthday. Let's talk about something happy. Let's talk about ice cream.

While trolling the frozen treats aisle last night, I was drawn to a box of Pino Mint, mainly for it's blueness. I thought at first it might be flavored with sea salt, like the other blue ice cream I ate in Japan, but it was just mint, plain and simple. Why do mint and blue not go together for me? Mint is green or maybe white. Blue is sea salt or bubble gum ice cream. Pino is a decent brand of ice cream bonbons, the kind of thing I always imagined a beautiful, indolent housewife might eat while lounging on a daybed in her bathrobe. Perhaps blue, conjuring images of tropical seas and dreamy Paul Newman eyes, better suits this lifestyle than green.

A tiny blue stick is included for mess-free bonbon eating. Handy! After a few minutes of sitting in my sweltering living room, the Pino were the perfect texture, soft but not squishy yet, the chocolate melding with the ice cream center. Not brittle like the coating on a dipped cone, this chocolate was yielding and a little bitter, making the whole thing taste a lot like a frozen York Peppermint Pattie. Um, I'd consider become an indolent housewife for these.

Though one small annoyance is that the box doesn't close very securely, let's be honest: these are so good, they won't be sitting around your freezer for very long.

Sorry I didn't get a picture of the blueness. It looks a lot like the picture on the box. But still...these don't taste blue at all.

(I have yet to address the wide array of breath-freshening gum and mints available in Japan, and considering I have less than two months left here, I thought I'd better hurry up and review three at once.)

Mintia Plum Cocktail flavor reveals the enthusiastic, stigma-free attitude towards alcohol in Japan. While gum and mints in the U.S. are often used to cover boozy breath, this mint provides that special post-cocktail breath one tiny tab at a time. The first strong plum wine taste is followed by an odd banana flavor and then a mellow mintiness. For such a small mint, these are amazingly effective. And they come in the coolest box ever: the size and shape of three or four stacked credit cards, it has a hinged opening with a little slot that catches one of the mints and dispenses it perfectly, avoiding the Altoids tin problem of people getting their grubby fingers all over your mints and the Tic-Tac box problem of dumping out three mints when you only wanted one. I'd buy Mintia again just for the box, and this flavor specifically for its peach-colored box!

Speaking of booze-flavored breath fresheners, Xylish Platinum Mint Chardonnay flavor is a special gum released to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the Meiji candy company. The first impression I had when chewing it was of champagne, fruity and sparkling (though it doesn't have any ingredients that would give it a fizzy feeling), which did somehow make me feel more celebratory, even sitting at my desk at 10:22 AM on a Thursday. Sadly, the wine flavor lasts less than a minute, transforming first into a plain grape fruitiness and quickly becoming blah. It does somehow leave you with wine-drinker's breath, but I like to think that drinker is more Sophisticated Wine Taster, not Cackling Wino.

Recaldent Ocean Fresh flavor was purchased out of the desire to discover what "Ocean Fresh" tastes like. Sea salt? Wakame? Whale meat? It turns out a fresh ocean actually tastes like a pine tree. Or something equally sharp and herbal. Who knew? It's not unpleasant, and the sharp crackle of the candy shell breaking under my teeth combined with the piney flavor and gradual xylitol cooling makes for an exceptionally refreshing gum. Eventually, the herbal taste gives way to a sweet, minty gum with a longlasting flavor. I'm going to bring this with me on my trip to Himaka Island this weekend and see if the effect is enhanced by frolicking on a beach while chewing it.

When I was young, I was all about trying to cook before I was old enough to use knives, stoves or ovens. This resulted in a lot of dishes involving melon balls, and one unfortunate microwaved substance I had intended to be a peanut butter cookie. I lusted after the Easy-Bake Oven (and never got it). If only my young self could have had some Naru-naru Mi Ni Naru Mikan flavor. (Mikan is mandarin orange.) Targeted at kids with culinary aspirations but no access to knives or heat, this is a candy you make yourself with a series of powders in packets. I decided to try it out and finally pursue my Easy-Bake dreams of making sweets using only mysterious packaged ingredients and plastic utensils.

The kit came with three kinds of powder, a mixing tray and a plastic utensil you snap out and assemble yourself. Powder 1 looked like Crystal Light, Powder 2 looked like Jell-O and Powder 3 was just colored sprinkles. I felt like I was engaged in some sort of chemistry experiment. Crystal Light + Jell-O = ???

While you'd think I would be able to easily follow the illustrated instructions written for children, I could not. Putting together the Magical Gummy Wand (my name, not theirs) was fairly straightforward and reminiscent of assembling childhood boardgames like Mousetrap, but I made a mistake when mixing the powder with water. The instructions clearly show Powder 1 being added to the water, but since I had already dumped the powder into the tray so I could take a picture, I added the water to the powder, which caused a silty layer of Powder 1 to remain stubbornly undissolved at the bottom, no matter how assiduously I stirred with the Magical Gummy Wand. For some reason, I thought tilting the tray a bit might help, but all it did was dump some of the water-powder mixture into Powder 2, creating a disturbing bright pink crater which immediately began to coagulate into a gelled mess. I covered it with more Powder 2 and tried to pretend like it didn't exist.

Forging ahead, I began to spin the Magical Gummy Wand first in the water-powder mixture, then in Powder 2, back and forth. The tray has a little shelf on each side for resting the wand as you spin. I was amazed the first time I went from Powder 2 back to the water -- I had expected some of the powder which had collected on the wand to dissolve away, but instead it turned translucent and firmed up instantly. It really was a Magical Gummy Wand!

But after going back and forth maybe five times, the crater I had created early began to emerge, a depressing reminder of my inability to follow basic instructions, and I started to feel kind of repulsed by the powders and sticky, growing gummies. I decided to sprinkle on some Powder 3 and taste my Mikanstein (Franken-gummy?) creations. They were soft, similar to warabi mochi or coffee jelly, and not too sweet. The mikan flavor was barely discernible but, really, you're going to buy Naru-naru Mi Ni Naru Mikan for the fun of making your own gummies, not for the gummies themselves.

I suppose it's for the best I never got that Easy-Bake Oven. Don't let my awful-looking final product scare you off. I fully believe that if I were a Japanese child, I could have made beautiful, perfect gummies. I mean, the kids can make dorodango; gummy mikan should be easy. Also, check out the wonderfully weird commercials for this candy and its cousin, Neru-neru Neru Ne!

Nothing screams "SUMMER!" like a bear with a watermelon for a head, don't you think? Especially when said bear is also eating a piece of watermelon (perhaps sliced neatly from the back of his own head?).

Suika means watermelon and Suika Gumi, being watermelon-flavored gummies, has to have the most unoriginal name ever given to a candy whose mascot is an animal with a head made of fruit. Clearly, most of Kabaya's budget goes to the design department. (And, hey, this is the same company that gave us the adorably-packaged, boringly-named Puchi Purin Choco, or Petite Pudding Chocolate. Another of their candies is called, simply, Gumigumigumi. It's a gummy, FYI.) But I'll forgive Suika Gumi its snoozeworthy name; the package and the candy itself more than make up for it. A mere 100 yen gets you a cup filled with small, wedge-shaped gummies in two flavors: watermelon (red) and sour watermelon (yellow). There is a rare melon soda flavor (blue) which may or may not be included in the cup. (Mine didn't have any.)

Both flavors have that juicy bite of a good Japanese gummy, though I slightly prefer the sour watermelon, just because I'm a sucker for sour candy. The texture is chewy and substantial, but not rubbery. The best part is that the gummies are not individually wrapped, the way so many gummies in Japan are, so you don't feel like a disgusting glutton when you're done eating because you don't have to face a mountain of wrappers left behind. I'm all for a candy that doesn't leave easily-counted reminders of just how many pieces I ate.

It's possible that, after eating so many watermelon-flavored gummies and staring for so long at a bear eating a sweet sweet piece of his own watermelon head, you will begin to crave a piece of real watermelon. I did. But then I realized an actual watermelon costs at least $20 at this time of year, unless it's a square watermelon, in which case it would probably be closer to $80. That could buy you a lot of cups of Suika Gumi, you know.

A Chocolat Poche is a shokora posshu is a chocolate pouch. I don't know about you, but for me the name "chocolate pouch" conjures up images of a small potbelly that is the result of too much chocolate, like a beer belly for candy cravers. Or maybe like a fanny pack ("bum bag" for my UK and Australian friends*) filled with emergency chocolate rations which can be conveniently consumed at any hour of the day.

Chocolat Poche wouldn't be the first thing in my chocolate pouch, but it could have a respectable corner in there somewhere. I like tea-flavored sweets (Earl Grey cake? Yes, please!) and the herbal, citrusy tea flavor goes well with the airy cookie outside and white chocolate inside. Unlike the last Ceylon tea treat I tried, Chocolat Poche doesn't make me feel like I'm eating a tree. The lemony tang of the tea and white chocolate gives the whole thing an almost cheesecake taste. The texture of the cookie is somewhat like the edge of a cream puff, crisp and flaky, different from any other Japanese cookie-chocolate combo I've tried.

But the white chocolate is a little too sweet for me and I prefer the crunch of Takenoko no Sato, which is why this wouldn't be at the top of my pouch pile, but if you're looking for a candy with an interesting flavor that won't turn to choco-mush once the summer heat descends, Chocolat Poche Ceylon Tea it is.

*Working for the JET Programme has vastly increased my knowledge of slang from other English-speaking parts of the world. Who knew they call coolers "eskies" in Australia? And "chilly bins" in New Zealand?

I often crave churros. More specifically, I crave Disneyland's churros. I'm not proud of this, opposite as it is to the image I'd like to have of churros, which is as something lovingly handcrafted by sugar-dusted Mexican aunties, not produced in mass quantities by part-time workers in the Happiest Corporation on Earth. But there's nothing I can do about it. Churros sold in Disneyland are fresh and good, much better than the stale sticks usually sold at baseball games and fairs. So I crave.

Cinnamon is a fairly popular flavoring in Japan and donuts are ubiquitous, so churros could really take off here, if only some enterprising yakuza* would hurry up and open churros booths at a few festivals. But they haven't yet, so I was surprised to see this candy (actually more a cookie or snack) on the shelves: Churosu-ya-san, or Mr. Churros Shop. There was only one package left and it was, a bit disappointingly, maple-flavored. I bought it anyway.

Although maple snack foods and I have a spotty history, I was ready to give Mr. Churros Shop the chance is deserved. I wasn't expecting Disneyland, but I was hoping for something crispy and sweet that might slightly alleviate my churros cravings. I was heartened after opening the package; the maple scent was mild and didn't make me want to gag. They even kind of looked like churros, ridged and sparkling with sugar.

Then I ate one.

It was so so so bad. It was so bad, it is only for the benefit of the candy-eating public that I ate another, in an attempt to document its numerous faults and perhaps save a few lives from the disheartening shock I have suffered. Forthwith, I present to you Mr. Churros Shop's Crimes Against Churros (and humanity).

1. They are not crispy. They are soft and crumble heavily under the teeth, like a very stale cookie served to you by an old lady who has guests over once every five years and stocks her snack cupboard accordingly.

2. They taste old. It's not only the texture that makes me wonder if these were manufactured in 1995 and subsequently driven around in the "sweets wagon" pictured on the front of the package for twelve years, unsold, uneaten, until in desperation the bigwigs at Tohato Snack Foods Inc. decided to package and sell them as a new taste treat.** Artificial maple and old margarine seem to be the main flavors here.

3. They contain no cinnamon. Churros are not supposed to taste like Aunt Jemima. That is all.

4. The aftermath is even worse. I have just eaten three "churros" in succession and feel disturbingly full. Each one is no bigger than my index finger, yet they are dense as energy bars. My mouth tastes sour. I have had to pop a plum candy to rid myself of Mr. Churros Shop breath.

The worst part about all this is that if the yakuza ever taste these, there's no way they'll ever open up a churros stand, and my ultimate dream of walking through a festival with a fresh taiyaki in one hand and a fresh churro in the other will never come true. Curse you and your sweets wagon, Mr. Churro Shop!

*The Japanese mafia is said to control the festival snack booth world. No, seriously.

**I even checked the expiration date -- July 2007.

In the spring, a young woman's fancy turns to thoughts of fruit. Unless she lives in a country where the fruit is fantastically expensive (180 yen for a single apple??), in which case her thoughts turn to thoughts of Lotte Rich Fruit Chocolate -- a bar of which costs less than that single apple.

I was especially excited to see this candy in the conbini because raspberry is a favorite flavor of mine (ah, Razzmatazz smoothie from Jamba Juice, I do miss thee), but not very popular or prevalent in Japan. I was also intrigued by the extremely mauve color of the chocolate pictured on the package. It looked like a scoop of black raspberry ice cream and I bought it without giving the other flavor of Rich Fruit chocolate on the shelf (strawberry, yawn) a second glance.

As soon as I opened the outer package, I was hit with the tangy scent of raspberries. The first bite reminded me of what I had always hoped my Red Raspberry Lipsmacker might taste like if I ate it, sweet with a tartness that was almost juicy. There was a graininess at the end that wasn't unpleasant, probably the residual bits of freeze-dried raspberry powder, and overall the chocolate has the creamy tang of a good-quality raspberry yogurt rather than the aggressive sweetness of most flavored white chocolates.

It isn't often I so sincerely look forward to trying a candy and it actually lives up to my expectations -- I feel like I've happily keeled over into a bed of raspberry satin, just like the woman in this Rich Fruit Chocolate commercial. (From that page, click on the button on the left if you have a broadband connection, the one on the right if you don't.)

Fellow Japanese candyologist Carol recommended I try the new limited-edition KitKat flavored with brandy and orange which, despite my spotty history with both KitKats and alcoholic chocolate, I did. And, happily, it's one of the best limited-edition KitKats I've had.

This particular KitKat is not called Brandy & Orange, as would seem logical; instead its name, embossed in fancy gold, is Torokeru Zeitaku, which means something like "melting luxury" or, if the English subtitle is to be trusted, "For a Moment of Precious Indulgence." That's rather a mouthful, as far as candy names go.

But what a mouthful it is! When milk chocolate coats an orange-flavored cream and brandy-tinged wafer layers, it tastes like a regular KitKat and a Chocolate Orange had a baby, then shared a little post-birth drink to celebrate. Creamy with a citrus tang, it doesn't taste obviously of brandy, but leaves a warm and pleasant buzz at the back of my throat. (It's labeled as 1% alcohol and asks you not to drive after eating it in zero-tolerance Japan.)

Instead of in the usual four-piece pack, these come in a smaller box with only two slightly thicker, individually wrapped pieces. I guess it's to save you the embarrassment of getting trashed on For a Moment of Precious Indulgence KitKats. The slightly bigger size and intensity of flavor means I can eat one and feel satisfied. (Unlike the Peanut M&Ms my mom sent me for Easter, which go down way too easy. Maybe I just miss American candy.)

So thanks, Carol, for your intrepid fieldwork and convincing endorsement! The candy-eating public is the better for it. Thanks also for alerting me to this Japanese KitKat-related tongue twister:

切手とキットカットきっと買ってきてね。
Kitte to kitto-katto kitto katte kite ne.
(Be sure to go out and buy stamps and KitKats.)

Now eat ten Torokeru Zeitaku KitKats and say it five times fast.

You may remember the Nobel candy company from their unsettling attempt to popularize a soy-sauce-flavored gummy. I'm happy to announce they are back with more strange gummies for the spring season, again based on popular Japanese snacks. This week I present a Nobel double feature starring Ichigo Daifuku Gummy and Warabi Mochi Gummy.

Ichigo daifuku is a popular sweet that at first glance seems to have been invented by a sugar-crazed fourth grader let loose in a well-stocked Japanese bakery. Consisting of a large strawberry coated in sweet bean paste then covered in a thick layer of whipped cream then wrapped in a thin piece of mochi and dusted with powdered sugar, ichigo daifuku is messy, soft, chewy, tooth-achingly sweet and incredibly good. Ichigo Daifuku Gummy is a small, cream-flavored gummy filled with a tangy strawberry sauce -- not so cavity-inducing, to be sure, but not so exciting or tasty either. I like the flavor of the creamy mochi with the strawberry sauce, but for some reason these make my throat hurt whenever I eat one, a weird tickly pain that I do not, it should be noted, experience when I eat an actual ichigo daifuku.

Warabi mochi is another well-known sweet, a popular snack eaten during warmer months made from warabi (bracken, a type of fern). Jiggly cubes of fern-flavored mochi are dusted in kinako, resulting in a cool, herbal, vaguely nutty and very light dessert. Warabi Mochi Gummy is a warabi-flavored gummy so subtly flavored all I taste is the kinako paste inside. While I'm happy to eat a candy that actually tastes like kinako (hear that, Aero-chan??), warabi mochi is not supposed to taste like kinako; it's supposed to taste like warabi. Where's the bracken, Nobel? Where's the bracken*?

Nobel gummies seem to be for the Japanese-sweets lover on the go, someone who doesn't have time to sit and enjoy a giant strawberry covered in five kinds of toothache or a plate of trembling fern Jello. Either that, or they are for very fastidious people who don't like to drip powdered sugar or kinako all over their nice suits. Japanese Sweets for Busy People. I suppose they get the job done.

*My research for this review led to the disturbing discovery that warabi/bracken is known to be carcinogenic and has been linked to the high rate of stomach cancer in Japan. This is terrible news, as I love warabi mochi. Wikipedia, you are a blessing and a curse.

I have a soft spot in my heart for Chocoball. Although I spent months secretly distrusting Kyoro-chan, Chocoball's beaky mascot, I quickly came to appreciate her straightforward combination of flavorful chocolate around a crunchy biscuit center. Chocoball is so straightforward, in fact, I rarely find a flavor strange or enticing enough to write a whole review about it. Thank god for the Japanese obsession with corn.

Corn shows up in the most unlikely places -- on pizza, in sushi, under soft loops of mayonnaise -- making it an easy target for foreigners who like to complain about how weird and gross and wrong the marriage of Japanese and Western food can be. I'm sometimes one of those people, especially when it comes to hamburger sushi, but the truth is: I really love corn. Not so much high-fructose corn syrup or cornstarch or any of the myriad of corn-based products which don't actually taste like corn but help eat away at the American corn glut, I mean actual ears of corn, roasted and salted, or corn tortillas or even canned niblets, eaten cold with a big spoon (a childhood favorite).

So I was kind of looking forward to trying Sweet Corn Chocoball. Don't tell anyone I told you that.

If you, like me and 99% percent of the Japanese population, enjoy corn in its gustable form and believe it can be successfully added to any number of dishes, you will like Sweet Corn Chocoball. The mildly corn-flavored white chocolate coating covers a crunchy biscuit center somewhat like a compressed, sweetened corn chip. It leaves a nice corn aftertaste, which may sound disgusting if you are not a fellow corn appreciator, but I assure you is quite pleasant. I like how each piece is reminiscent of a very smooth and shiny corn niblet. I also like the word "niblet."

Corn has been sadly ignored in the world of desserts and Sweet Corn Chocoball seems to point toward a whole New World of a-maize-ing treats! (Sorry, Kyoro-chan stipulated I had to be corn-y at least once in this review...sorry again.) I mean, it wouldn't be so difficult to make the leap from cornbread to corn cupcakes -- perhaps topped with a big dollop of mayonnaise?

In non-candy news, I want to thank everyone who has donated thus far to my bike ride to benefit untouchables in India. The total donated so far is $919! I am amazed at your generosity. Thank you so much!

Aero Matcha-Kinako combines four of my favorite elements: chocolate, green tea, kinako and air. Now that I think about it, I might be able to live on just these four things were I to be abandoned on a small island for any length of time. I would allow Aero-chan, the kimono-clad toy poodle that serves as Aero's mascot, to be present, but only if she did tea ceremony for me and served me sweets.

I would not want Aero Matcha-Kinako to be among those sweets.

It's not that this candy is terrible -- the chocolate coating is milky and sweet, the center tastes mildly of matcha -- but I expect big things from any candy that incorporates kinako and even bigger from one that throws matcha into the mix. I want taste explosions! Mellow kinako nuttiness cut with the fresh, green taste of matcha and rounded out with a thin layer of milk chocolate. Doesn't that sound good? Don't you wish Aero Matcha-Kinako tasted like that? ...Yeah, me too.

I taste no kinako whatsoever in this candy. If Aero-chan knew me at all, she would know I find false kinako advertising to be the gravest of betrayals.

Aero is originally a UK candy creation, but as with KitKat, Nestlé releases special, Japan-only limited edition flavors. (A Peach flavor has been released alongside Matcha-Kinako.) I fear I may be as underwhelmed by the range of novelty Aero flavors as I am with KitKats. The appeal of Aero is apparently its unique texture, the result of a top-secret method which disperses air bubbles throughout the chocolate, transforming it into something light and almost chewy. Its slogan in the English-speaking world is "Have you felt the bubbles melt?" which sounds very Japanese-style English to me. Maybe that's why it is popular here.

For some amusing puzzlement, I recommend checking out the Aero Land website, which features pictures of a poodle which is apparently the actual Aero-chan. She is not wearing a kimono though. I have been disappointed by Aero once again.

This week my friend Meg is visiting from LA, so I am taking a break from candy reviewing to travel around with her and gorge myself on food I love in the name of being a good tour guide. Instead, I present a review from official GJP stalker fan, Gifu Knit Club member and all-around lovely Irish lass, Carol. Enjoy!

Puchi purin choco (Little pudding chocolates)
by Special Guest Candy Journalist, Carol

As a little girl, I was incredibly fond of listening to (eavesdropping on) the chatter of the grown ups around me. One of the things I used to love (over)hearing was my Grandmother telling people definitively that I was a “mini Ollie” when I was born. That I so delighted in overhearing this is somewhat bizarre given that Ollie is a balding fifty-year-old man, and what little girl enjoys being compared to any fifty-year-old man, with or without a full head of hair? But of course, Ollie is not just any fifty-year old man, Ollie is my Dad, my wonderful father, whose patience seems to be housed in a bottomless pool, and the man from whom I inherited my red hair, (which has recently earned me the nickname “carrot sensei”), my impractically pale skin, (which sizzles painfully under the hot Japanese sun [thanks a lot Dad!]) and my freckles (with whom I have a changeable relationship). More importantly though, Ollie is the man from whom I inherited my love of all things custard. It is from my father that I learned the joys of a big bowl of glooopy yellow Bird’s custard, topped with a spoonful of stewed fruit, usually apple or rhubarb. Irish peasant desserts are delicious. (Irish peasant dinners, incidentally, are not). And so, it is my father who I must thank for prepping me for my recently cultivated obsession with the omnipresent Japanese purin.

Purin or pudding, is not a general term for dessert as it might be understood in England, nor is it a term for a hot flour based, boiled cake, as it might be understood in Ireland. In Japan, purin is a delicious custard treat that comes housed in a transparent plastic tub shaped delightfully like a cartoon jelly mould. Usually it will have a delicious layer of runny caramel at the bottom. The best thing about “purin” is the texture/flavour combo. The texture is soft and smooth with just the right consistency, not too thick and not too thin. It is good to smush against the roof of your mouth, where the flavour can be released and wallowed in. The flavour is mild, pleasantly mellow and thankfully not at all sickly sweet, which is always a danger.

Prior to my discovery of Anjali’s wonderful blog, I had found myself in a temporary candy rut. I had developed an unhealthily monogamous relationship with Meiji milk chocolate bars shortly after arriving and ceased to look any further down the vast candy aisle. I was ridiculously unadventurous. Newly illiterate, I had been intimidated by the daunting rows of strange flavours explained in a language I could not speak or read. During this horrifying era, purin, housed as it was in a transparent tub, was a great source of familiar comfort to me.

Months later, when I had emerged with glee from my milk chocolate cocoon, to comprehensively experience the multiple joys of Japanese candy, I came across puchi purin choco. These puchi (meaning mini, little, or a Simpson’s once off character) candies are two tone chocolates shaped like tiny purins and housed in a cardboard box loosely imitating the shape of the plastic tub of the real purin. The box is adorned with multiple cute cartoon puddings cheekily sticking their tongues out to one side. The largest of which has a white exclamation mark printed on the side of its* forehead. Interesting…

To the left of its head, the protagonist purin thinks of a word to describe itself/ the contents of its belly. (???) (More candy cannibalism…it really is omnipresent.) Arriving at a one-word definition, it proclaims itself/its contents as maroyaka (smooth, mellow and with a good body). This is indeed an ample description of the purin which inspired the chocolate, but what of puchi purin choco itself? Is it worthy of such a generous description?

Unfortunately, I would have to say “no”.

Puchi purin choco is disappointing for the following reasons:

1. Unlike Cadbury’s Top Deck, where the upper layer is a distinctive white chocolate and the lower layer a creamy milk chocolate the two tones of puchi purin choco are only visually distinguishable. The custard and caramel layers are indicated by food colouring alone. I had been hoping for a caramel flavoured milk chocolate, and a custard flavoured white chocolate.

2. Unlike the picture on the tub, which promises smooth glistening chocolate, the mini treats on the inside of the box both look and taste just a little chalky.

3. The flavour, although impressively custard-like for chocolate, is just a tad too strong, and tastes more like condensed custard powder than actual custard.

In saying that, they weren’t bad and I managed to polish the lot off! It’s still chocolate, after all!

*I was unwilling to presume as to the gender of purin.

Carol -- teacher of English, knitter of hats, eater of grilled octopus -- lives in Japan. She is also half-leprechaun. (No, seriously.) But rumor has it if you ask her to take you to her pot of gold, she'll instead show you to a pot of pudding.

Amazake is a sweet, nonalcoholic liquid made by adding kōji (the mold Aspergillus oryzae) to cooked rice and keeping it at 60 degrees Celsius for about 12 hours, a process which converts the starches to sugars. It's the first step in making sake and is markedly less repulsive than the way people used to brew sake in Japan. It's a popular dessert or drink around the New Year's holiday and Girls' Day. Touted for its healthiness, it's also been gaining popularity outside Japan and can be purchased at many health food stores. (Or even made at home using this simple recipe.)

I've never had amazake, but I'm inclined to think Amazake Soft Candy is an accurate representation of its flavor, sweet with an unmistakable sake tang and a faint milky fruitiness. The texture is less sticky than a caramel and harder than a taffy, so you can either chew it as it softens in your mouth or let it melt completely.

I like these. At first it was strange to be eating a candy that tasted like sake, something I associate more with nijikai (post-drinking-party drinking parties) than innocent work-time snacking, but I've since been won over by its refreshing creaminess. I also now want to try making my own amazake, perhaps using the same technique a Japanese family I know uses when illegally brewing their own organic sake -- incubating it under the kotatsu!

This candy is an oddly fascinating mix of gothic darkness and sunny cuteness. The name (koakuma means "little devil"), the color scheme (shiny pink and black) and the mascots (a tiny she-devil and a heart with bat wings) all add up to a candy that would make the perfect accessory for the gothic Lolita girls roaming Japan's big-city streets. Even the taste somehow evokes this: the peach flavor tastes young and fresh, while the rose reminds me of dusty funeral parlors. Cheerful and morbid!

The peach-flavored gummy center bulges out of its striped, rose-flavored taffy covering. The rose taffy is soft, not too sticky and a disturbingly bright color. It also leaves a lingering aftertaste of old lady perfume, which is somehow not altogether unpleasant. The peach gummy adds a good chew and cuts through the granny taste.

I'll probably never buy pink glitter fishnet stockings or black lipstick, and I'll probably never buy these again; they're just a little too much for me. Still, it makes me happy to know they are out there, that maybe there are some black-crinoline-clad girls walking around with peach-rose gummies in their purses, breathing their flowery granny breath all over the place.

It's no secret I love anthropomorphized food characters. I have a special fondness for a certain grumpy-faced radish named Aokubi Daikon. I possess a postcard featuring an angry egg furiously demonstrating how you can turn him into an omelette. And I will buy a candy merely because its mascot is a strawberry wearing a chocolate-brown coat whose best friend is a tiny bottle of milk wearing a scarf. So sue me.

That's not the only reason to buy Pucchoko Ichigo, though. The other is this Japanese candy rarity: the taste actually lives up to the packaging. I already knew I liked Puccho, milky-fruity chews with a rubbery yet yielding texture and reliably appealing packaging. What I didn't know was that dipping a strawberry-flavored Puccho in chocolate would increase both its flavor and cuteness appeal exponentially. Sinking your teeth through the chocolate layer into the chewy strawberry center is a satisfying candy-biting experience on par with eating Kinako-mochi Choco, made even better by gazing at the package while you do it.

Ichigo-chan ga tottemo oishii miruku-chokoretto no kouto wo kimashita. "Little Miss Strawberry put on a simply delicious milk chocolate coat." How can you resist that?

All the pieces are individually wrapped, half of them in packages featuring Ichigo-chan eating a piece of Pucchoko. I love it when food characters are eating one of their brethren. Does that make me a closeted cannibal?

I've already polished off all the pieces in the package and am planning a return trip to the conbini where I bought this -- and soon! Pucchoko Ichigo is a seasonal, limited edition candy. So sad. But there is an almond Pucchoko to try and the Apple-Cinnamon and Custard Cream Puccho flavors sound strangely intriguing. While I know "strangely intriguing" is rarely synonymous with "simply delicious," I still have hope.

(See more Puccho/Pucchoko flavors here. Okay, and one more thing! Look at this amazing page of downloadable Puccho wallpapers, screensavers and notepaper! Ichigo-chan is already on my desktop.)

The plum trees are blossoming and springtime KitKats are here.

White Peach (Shiro-momo) KitKats are pretty, that is true. The milk chocolate coating is marbled with a pink, peach-flavored white chocolate and the pink and yellow packaging looks fresh and appealing. These would make lovely hina-matsuri gifts or good-luck presents for students taking entrance exams, which is probably what they are intended to be.

Unfortunately, they don't taste very good.

While they are much better than Pumpkin KitKat -- another milk-chocolate-covered KitKat I had a lot of hope for, but which had an acidic flavor that reminded me disturbingly of vomit -- the floral, fake-peach taste just doesn't do it for me. It reminds me of sophomore year of high school and the girls who doused themselves in peach-scented body splash from Bath and Body Works. Or of air fresheners.

While I do understand the KitKat Kollector's Kraze (KKK...K for short) and am not opposed to trying out new KitKat flavors, I still feel slightly disgruntled about it. Of the ten or so special edition flavors I've tried since moving here, only two have been good enough to make me want to buy them again (KitKat Bitter and Chocolatier Strawberry & Nuts). That's an 80% Rate of Indifference, rather dismal numbers for a candy everyone gets so excited about.

...It is really pretty, though, isn't it?

Candy like Maffy is the reason I spend an embarrassing amount of time peering closely at all the candies in the supermarket. Were it not for such careful inspection of the shelves, I never would have spotted Maffy's package, with its unassuming colors and rather cluttered layout. But you see, when you wander back and forth between the two candy displays in a store so many times you begin to fear the clerks will alert the authorities, you notice things. Like the words "beauty with marshmallow." And the helmeted marshmallow character with a pointer. And the name. Maffy. Say it out loud. Maffy. Kind of fun, isn't it?

...Maffy.

After taking a look at Maffy's website, I realized there was even more to this candy than the apparently beauty-enhancing collagen- and polyphenol-enriched choco center the little marshmallow man is pointing out. For one thing, Maffy has been around since 2003. Beauty with Marshmallow is the newest series in a product line that boasts the cutest marshmallow candies east of the International Peeps Line. And the cute, big-headed Maffy character? It can be purchased in the toy form of your choice: plush, Kubrick and ginormous cell phone dangly. That's because Maffy is co-produced by Devil Robots, a toy company. Which came first, the jangly or the candy? We may never know.

Okay, okay, you're probably thinking. That's all well and good, but how does it taste? And are you more beauty? To which I reply: have you been taking English lessons from my students? And: Maffy is good! The outer marshmallow is soft and fresh, melting to a foamy goo when chewed, but in a good way, like the layer that develops over a mug of marshmallow-topped hot chocolate. And speaking of hot chocolate, that's exactly what the beauty-increasing chocolate center tastes like.

The combination of marshmallow and chocolate made me also think of s'mores, which is why I had the idea to pop a couple Maffy into my broiler for a few seconds to toast them a bit, and -- oh. Oh, Maffy. Under the brown, toasty outer layer was warm gooey marshmallow and soft chocolate, a combinations of textures and flavors so perfect I'll never eat my Maffy any other way.

My Maffy research has further led me to Junie Moon/Gallery Lele, where the Maffy Hearty Party exhibit will be up from April 25 through May 14. Right now the Luv-able & Hug-able Plush Show is going on. I wish I lived in Tokyo....

As you can tell, Maffy makes me happy. Maybe even hearty. I don't know if it makes me beauty, but with the discovery of toasted Maffy, you can be sure I'll finish off my Maffy quickly and won't have to worry about it turning into a sad brown pile, which is what this sad brown Maffy is warning about:

Maffy!

Today, thanks to my supervisor's guilt regarding my recent injury (she was in a meeting when I called her soon after it happened), I was allowed to go home early. This may come as a surprise, but I didn't use the time to eat and reflect on the two varieties of Chopan I had chosen for this week's Candy Friday. Instead, I played Animal Crossing. And decided I would bring the candy along with me to Nagoya, where I had dinner plans with my friends Liz and Martha, and see what they had to say about it.

We were all excited about the dark chocolate/passionfruit/red pepper Chopan and hesitant about the white chocolate/raisin/cereal, which looked disconcertingly like tiny bowls of granola and milk.

Liz and Martha, the Chopan and BooBee bar.

Some thoughts, as we ate the chocolate on the train platform en route to dinner:

Martha on the white chocolate Chopan: "This tastes like that shit in Quaker Oat bars."

Liz on the dark chocolate Chopan: "The cookie is really flaky. But not in a good way. It's kind of...crusty."

We all preferred the cereal chocolate, which had a sort of orange flavor, making it really taste like a breakfast treat. The red pepper was barely discernible in the dark chocolate Chopan, which was a disappointment. But the real winner of the night was the awesome Thai restaurant we went to, which has the best Thai food I've eaten in Japan and is located conveniently close to a bar called BooBee. Sorry, Chopan, you just can't compete.

Well, here it is Sunday and I am only just posting the Japanese Candy Friday for this week. What a terrible candy correspondent I am. I hope you'll excuse the lapse; I was just too busy with an eighth-grade-style all-girl sleepover on Friday and an American-Brazilian wedding on Saturday. Candy couldn't compete with hours of making daikon-leg jokes and dancing shoeless with my favorite knit club girls (who I know are reading this...stalkers). It was a good weekend.

Now back to the candy! First, the winners of last week's candy giveaway are Sera, Jhoanna and Sasha. They will all soon be receiving some winter/early spring candy as well as an assortment of candies I've reviewed lately. Thanks for taking my candy, you three!

No formal review today, but I did want to share one of my favorite recent finds: Cubyrop Gummy. When you were a little kid, did you have grand dreams of snack mash-ups you wish so badly existed, like maybe a version of Swiss Miss hot cocoa dotted with Lucky Charms marshmallows or something? (My own snack mash-up ideas were usually disgustingly sugary.) Well, when I first tried Cubyrop, I wished so badly a gummy version existed, so much that I even mentioned it in the comments, but I had little hope that my dream would come true.

Lo and behold, I found a small packet of Cubyrop Gummy the other day and have been happily eating them ever since. They aren't exactly what I had hoped for, since there are only three flavors (grape, peach and lemon) and I could do without the sour powder dusting each piece, but I can't complain. It's not often my candy dreams come true.

I didn't have high hopes for Happy Strawberry Crunky, I have to tell you. Crunky is a big name in the Japanese candy world, and while I had never eaten an offensive Crunky bar, I had also never craved one like I do, say, Almond Chocolate Fried. Also, unlike other discerning candy eaters I know, my love of things strawberry-flavored peaked at age seven with Strawberry Quik and quickly plummeted. But strawberry is the flavor of the moment for Japanese candy and I picked Happy Strawberry Crunky from a pink wall of at least eight strawberry spin-off snacks. Mostly for the name. If a happy strawberry couldn't change my solidly indifferent feelings toward strawberry-flavored candy, I figured nothing could.

Lucky for me, it turns out happy strawberries make a compelling case. Instead of smelling like my Strawberry Shortcake doll circa 1984 the way so many strawberry snacks do, the bar has a gentle berry scent and is flecked with bits of a substance which was most likely once strawberries. Crunky bars are like Nestle Crunch bars packed with about fifty times the crunchies, but good crunchies, crisp, flavorful crunchies that add a toasty bite to the milky strawberry chocolate. And that chocolate, instead of being just "good...for a flavored white chocolate," is rightfully, actually good, no asterisks necessary. It has a fresh, slightly tangy taste and the flecks are, I think, bits of actual freeze-dried strawberries.

I'm happy with Happy Strawberry Crunky. It's been a long time since I've reviewed a candy I actually would buy and eat again. My Candy Corner is getting ridiculous, to tell you the truth, packed with so many half-finished boxes of candy I can't imagine ever eating all of it. So in an attempt to clear out my backlog, I'm officially announcing the next Giant Jeans Parlor Japanese Candy Friday Candy Giveaway. This one is the Happy New Year: Take My Candy, Please! edition. I will send THREE lucky, randomly-selected winners two types of (new, unopened) winter/early spring candy, plus a selection of various individually packaged candies I have reviewed recently. To enter, please comment on this entry with your email address (visible only to me), telling me which Japanese candy intrigues you the most and why. Is it because it looks disgusting? Delicious? Do you love the packaging? Nan demo ii, people! (Anything is okay!) It doesn't have to be a candy I have reviewed, by the way. This is open to anyone in any country, but you must comment by noon JST, next Friday, January 26. I look forward to your responses!

MEMORANDUM

From: The Nobel Candy R & D Department

To: The Candy-Eating Public

Re: Our Amazing Breakthrough

We are pleased to announce the release of our newest addition to the Nobel Candy line, Mitarashi Dango Gummy. For those unfamiliar with mitarashi dango, it is a popular Japanese festival snack consisting of five small skewered rice balls covered in a sweet shoyu-based sauce. Our research has shown that kids love the things. It has additionally shown that 82% of adults, 95% of whom were once kids, also love the things. Therefore, we have spent the past five years developing a patent-pending Shoyu Injection System in order to provide you, the candy-eating public, with the millions of soy-sauce filled gummies you undoubtedly crave, at the staggering injection rate of 5.2 gummies per second!

We hope you enjoy the fruits (or should we say salty condiments?) of our labor. In the meantime, we continue to wait hopefully for the day when we might receive the namesake prize we believe is our due. Especially now that we have this whole Shoyu Injection System thing (patent pending). Thanks in advance. That's all.

Sincerely,

Nobel Candy

MEMORANDUM

From: Giant Jeans Parlor, on behalf of The Candy-Eating Public

To: The Nobel Candy R & D Department

Re: Your Fateful Mistake

I received your memo and sample of the recently-released Mitarashi Dango Gummy. You should be aware I tried it out of morbid curiousity, not out of a burning need to fill the shoyu candy hole in my life. While objectively I can admire your impressive gummy-injection rate, I also must ask the question certainly on the minds of all who have read your memo: why? Quickly followed by this imperative: please stop! Just because you can turn something into a gummy candy doesn't mean you should.

I will concede that your product is not as terrible as many others I have tried while working on behalf of The Candy-Eating Public. The mochi-like texture and combination of sweet and salty flavors is indeed reminiscent of an actual mitarashi dango. I'll even admit that I've been absentmindedly munching on the gummies all afternoon, trying to figure out what makes them so very wrong. I don't yet have an answer for you. All I can say is, if prize-winning is your goal, I'm afraid injecting candy with soy sauce will surely prove fruitless (or should I say salty-condiment-less?).

Yours truly,

Giant Jeans Parlor

This year I received a box of traditional Japanese candy (wagashi) from an old-fashioned sweets shop in my town. This type of uncooked candy made from jellies or sweetened bean paste is called namagashi and this particular box is named shiki meguri, which is something like a round-up of the seasons. Each vertical row represents a season: spring, winter, summer and fall. (Or is it fall and summer? Any seasonal namagashi experts out there?)

As you can see, they were almost too pretty to eat. Eventually, I did eat them, but not before taking pictures of each piece and turning them into the above desktop wallpaper which you, my dear Japanese Candy Friday readers, may download and display on the computer of your choice. Enjoy!

Wagashi wallpaper (Right/Ctrl-click to save.)

A word on the taste: These types of candies tend to taste only of sugar, which makes them lovely accompaniments to a bowl of bitter matcha, but not so amazing just eaten on their own, except for the ume (plum) blossom (top left corner), which I could have eaten a whole bag of. Such beautiful candy is not intended to be eaten by the handful, though, so the simplicity of flavor makes sense. Oh, and the cute boar piece is in honor of the new year, which will be Year of the Boar according to the Chinese calendar.

For individual pictures of the candies, take a look at the Flickr set of all the photos I took.

The Greek god Dionysus (Bacchus to the Romans) was said to have been the child of Zeus, the king of the gods, and a human woman. Hera, Zeus's jealous and crafty wife, tricked the woman into convincing Zeus to show her his true form, which promptly killed her. But Zeus, ever resourceful, swooped in, rescued his unborn baby and sewed him to his thigh, where he apparently enjoyed a successful gestation, although it couldn't have been very comfy for Zeus. At least the gods didn't wear pants.

The alternate story behind Bacchus's birth involves his mother eating his fetal heart and becoming impregnated. Isn't this the perfect holiday candy?

Okay, Bacchus is also associated with wine and drinking, so it makes sense that his name is attached to a candy so alcoholic it carries a warning about eating it and driving. (Japan has a zero-tolerance law.) Like its cousin Rummy, Bacchus is a recurring winter candy. I first tried it a year ago and didn't find it so alcoholic; that's because I had a drink in my hand at the time. Eating one today during my 8AM photo shoot, the cognac set the back of my throat afire and I actually felt a bit flushed a few minutes later. Still, it's not a bad candy. The milk chocolate shell is smooth and its sweetness tempers the cognac-syrup center. It's like those tiny foil-wrapped chocolate bottles filled with various alcohols, but better, because I often find the chocolate of the bottles disgustingly chalky. One piece of Bacchus post-dinner would be just fine. But I'd stay away from it post-lunch at work when you have a tendency to turn alarmingly red after drinking. Sigh.

I really like the old-style fancy look of Bacchus's packaging, as well as the red/green color scheme. It reminds me of old books of Christmas carols or maybe the cover of a late-'70s Christmas LP. Strangely, even though I only have a one-year holiday history with the candy, I now feel some kind of nostalgic fondness for it, like Oh, it's December and the Bacchus is here! Now if only it would snow....

Meltykiss Cacao Style: A pop quiz

1. Considering my last experience with Meltykiss was so bad, how did I end up with a box of it?
a) It was a gift from an amorous student.
b) Sometimes I experience "chocolate blackouts" during which I purchase candy for which I cannot be held accountable.
c) I still can't resist the name. Meltykiss?! Come on!

2. The taste and texture of Meltykiss can be compared to:
a) a Hershey's Kiss left in a warm pocket all day.
b) frozen chocolate frosting.
c) the mud cakes you made in the backyard as a 6-year-old.

3. Meltykiss's name _______ Meltykiss's taste
a) <
b) >
c) =

4. The Meltykiss slogan is grammatically correct.
a) true
b) false

5. I am late in posting this entry because:
a) I have found a glamorous job as a professional Japanese candy taster, which is taking up all my time.
b) I am a terrible person.
c) I was drunk, which also might make me a terrible person.

Answers after the jump....

As the holidays near, the alcoholic chocolates have begun appearing on the shelves, wrapped up in packages as shiny as the red faces of the drunk salarymen on the last train home. Or my red face after drinking one beer, if it comes down to that.

My tendency to turn hopelessly red in a way that prompts everyone around me to say, "Oh my god, you are so RED!" after only half a drink may be why I keep trying alcoholic chocolate. (I have an inactive enzyme aldehyde dehydrogenase 2 and therefore cannot process alcohol, if you're wondering. Thanks, Dad.) Because even I can handle a mere 0.9% alcohol. This has, of course, led to mistakes (cough*Rummy*cough), even in the realm of wine candy (oh, the yucky omiyage).

But Winoa is actually, amazingly kind of good. Much like umeshu chocolate, Winoa has a fruity, raspberry-like flavor that blends well with the dark chocolate coating. One little stick is enough to satisfy a mild chocolate-and-red-wine craving. Though it's definitely not as good as sipping a glass of cheap-but-good Trader Joe's wine while eating a handful of the TJ's dark and milk chocolate covered cranberries. Mmm...

[Insert 5 minute fantasy about wandering the aisles of Trader Joe's. While eating a taco.]

Anyway. Within the box, the candies are packaged in a strange sort of flat pudding pack. There are two servings which you can split apart and peel the foil coverings from. I can only assume this is some way of sharing Winoa with your sweetie, the way you might split a bottle of wine together after a romantic candlelit dinner. Except it would be more like splitting some Jello pudding packs together. So I guess this candy is good for kids. Red-faced drunks and kids.

Last year I was bit by the kurogoma bug. Symptoms included: ordering anything and everything that included black sesame, mixing black sesame paste into whatever dessert would have it, and peering closely at anything packaged in black, to see if it was black-sesame flavor.

A black sesame roll cake filled with black sesame frosting that I ate almost entirely by myself marked the demise of the Kurogoma Days, but luckily the Kinako Era almost immediately followed and continues deliciously to this day. I'll say no more about what kinako is and what you can do with it, as these facts are already well-documented.

Kinako is not as easy to find as black sesame on the candy shelves, so I was excited to find Kinako-mochi Choco, made by Tirol, the same geniuses who brought us Coffee Rhumba. The outer layer of kinako-flavored white chocolate is sweet and nutty, like peanut butter fudge or Reese's Pieces without the candy shell. But it's the inner piece of chewy mochi that makes this candy addictive. At first it's a little strange. Mochi -- pounded glutinous rice -- tastes like nothing, after all. But it's chewy, a chewy little nub of nothing-taste that transforms the kinako-choco from a smooth, pleasant treat into something more substantial and interesting. Beyond the taste, I am now craving the texture of this candy.

I also really love the orange packaging and the tiny picture of kinako-dusted mochi on the wrapper of each piece. The candy's mascot seems to be a cheerful mochi ghost, perhaps the ghost of mochi already eaten? Why he's smiling at the imminent demise of his mochi brothers is a bit mystifying, but maybe it's because even he can't resist this candy.

With its unappealing flavors (Roast Pretz or Grilled Curry Pretz anyone?) and nearly-pornographic cover photos (check out Cheese Pretz), Pretz has intrigued me for awhile, but it wasn't until I spotted the new French Toast Pretz that I decided to give the line a try.

With the popularity of all things French here, it's no surprise to see a rise in the number of french-toast-inspired snack products (from 0 to 1, if you're counting). I can only wonder if we'll soon be asking for a small order of "furenchi furai" at the local Makudonarudo instead of "furaido poteto." ...And will it mean the terrorists have won?

In the mean time, French Toast Pretz stands alone on the shelf, perhaps signaling the wave of not-actually-French taste treats to come. Its aroma is overwhelmingly maple. Its flavor and texture are that of a thin, slightly sweet breadstick. If I eat one, I immediately want to munch on another one, but if I stop for minute or two, I have no desire to ever eat them again.

It's the smell that really repels me, probably because the same fake-maple scent fills my local entertainment super-complex (movie theater, bowling alley, karaoke, etc.) thanks to the caramel popcorn the movie theater makes. The reek hovers over everything, as choking as over-applied cologne on a junior high school boy, and settles in my hair and on my clothes for the rest of the night.

One of the four packages of Pretz is gone, but I will probably never eat another. However, I may try bringing them to the movies to see if the two fake-maple odors cancel each other out by some miracle of olfactory science. I'm not holding my breath. Actually I am, but it's only because I don't want to smell French Toast Pretz.

I think it means I've been eating too much candy, this eerily-timed Pretz review....

I know what you're probably thinking. Oh, Anjali, you're sighing, really. You've been in Japan for over a year now. Surely you can resist the urge to buy a candy just because the name looks like "ass."

Unfortunately, my friend, the answer is no. No I can't.

It's easy to spot foreigners new to Japan; they're always pointing out the spelling mistakes and unintentional jokes on all the signs written in English. "Look! That hair salon says parm instead of perm! I'm gonna take a picture!" It seems like it'll never stop being funny, like that time in ninth grade when my best friend and I decided our Spanish teacher looked just like the lead singer of the Spin Doctors and we kept cracking ourselves up by whispering "What TIME is it?" to each other, over and over for a week straight. (If you watched 120 Minutes in 1994, you may be familiar with the song. It's not good.)

But -- like our Spanish teacher, who turned out to be totally pervy -- it stops being funny.

It takes a lot for me to point out bad English now, but something about Asse just struck a chord and I had to try it. Maybe it was my memory of Collon, I don't know. I wasn't expecting much -- but Asse is good!

I suppose I should point out here that the correct pronunciation of Asse is "assay." But whatever, I'm still calling it "ass."

So ASSe is a thin piece of milk chocolate filled with what can only be described as the substance that fills a 3 Musketeers bar. It's a good balance of fluff to chocolate and the chocolate itself is decent and not overly sweet. Asse is also packaged nicely, the rectangles of chocolate laid out neatly in their compartments, displaying the cool art-deco-esque patterns printed on their tops. Really, it's one of the best-looking candies I've eaten in awhile.

This is a limited-time, winter candy, but I hear there is a year-round Asse available. I'll keep you posted.

...Okay, I'm finding it difficult to not end this review with a bad pun, but I promised myself I wouldn't. Feel free to leave your own in the comments, though!

I've already discussed the takeover of the candy shelves by dark chocolate, a phenomenon that has meant a lot of tasteful black packaging and not a lot of fun. Recently I've been concentrating mostly on the kids' candy aisle, which is probably why I failed to notice the world of chocolate pills until now.

That's right. Chocolate pills. In its plastic jar, Cacao Power 70 looks like every other dietary supplement in Japan, full of healthy acronyms and unexplained numbers -- not to mention POWER. Until you open the jar and see the candy looks just like M&Ms, the dark brown ones. The outside isn't crackly like an M&M, but there is some sort of coating to keep the candy from melting immediately in your hand. It's more bitter than other 70% cacao chocolates I've eaten, possibly due to all those acronyms and numbers, but it's as good as most plain Japanese dark chocolate bars. Which is to say: it's mediocre, but not awful.

And what are those acronyms and numbers? GABA is gamma-aminobutyric acid, which is supposed to have a relaxing, anti-anxiety and anti-convulsive effect. CoQ10 is an antioxidant which may protect you from Parkinson's disease and strokes. It's unclear how much of each substance is in one piece and I don't even know how many pieces make up a serving. (Or is it a dose?) I've eaten three pieces today -- I can only hope I haven't OD'd.

Now that I know what it is, I realize GABA is all over the candy aisles here. I guess people in Japan just need to relax. Or they need to pretend their dirty chocolate-eating habit is actually for their health. I'd never make such a claim, but I'll still be keeping some Cacao Power 70 at work for any emergency chocolate cravings. Or sudden anxious convulsions.

Mistakes were made in the purchase of Forme, I'll admit it. The first problem: I thought it was called For Me. This made me giggle, wondering if the candy was intended for selfish chocolate eaters ("For me!") or surprised chocolate recipients ("For me?") Then I got home and noticed the katakana pronunciation -- "forumu." In the bizarre world of katakana, that's just boring old "form." Snooze...

Second problem: I thought there would be some sort of almond cream inside the chocolate squares, something like the substance pictured in the upper right corner of the box. I thought it might be a little like the fondly-remembered chocolate bars I had to sell for a fundraiser in junior high school, smooth rectangles of chocolate filled with soft peanut butter that I inevitably ended up buying off of myself half the time. Alas, no almond cream. Just a faint almond flavor peeking through the unremarkable milk chocolate. Yawn...

A look at the candy's website has revealed that there is a 4mm layer of almond cream inside of each square -- an invisible, nearly tasteless cream, apparently. This candy also has, for some reason, a blog with some cute pictures people have posted of their toys and amigurumi dolls pretending to eat Forme. What the...

I have never been so utterly confused by the niche a candy is attempting to occupy in the Japanese candy world. I underestimated you, Forme. I thought you were just a straightforward chocolate in a rather elegant box. When in reality, you're just as weird as the rest.

I'm sick, so the only candy I can and should eat is kurozatō nodo-ame, black sugar throat candy. When I first heard the term "throat candy," I thought it was all a big racket, because everyone knows their mom always said, "Sweet things are bad for you when you're sick!" (Please read with with whatever voice you use to imitate your mother. I know you have one.) It turns out that rule doesn't apply when you're talking about black sugar from Okinawa, sticky, chunky, unrefined stuff that Japanese people sometimes like to eat whole. Unlike brown sugar sold in the U.S., which is refined white sugar mixed with molasses, Okinawan black sugar has nutrients not found in more processed sugars, most notably potassium. It also has a throat-soothing quality, which makes it a popular addition to nodo-ame. It also may or may not extend your life -- black sugar is one of the foods credited for the extremely long lives of the Okinawan people.

I've tried a few black sugar candies, but none has ever lived up to this one, the first brand I ever bought. That's because lurking beneath the sweet, smooth exterior is a molten core of pure, raw black sugar, bitter, molasses-y stuff with the dark sweetness of the best gingerbread. Crunching through the final layer of the outer candy and into the center is the best part, the two textures blending under your teeth into something chewy yet crisp, like a very dark toffee.

They're pretty addictive, especially when your throat is tickly. I've also tried dropping them into hot lemon tea, the way I see my coworkers sometimes drop chunks of actual kurozatō into their coffee. It's good. But the best part is knowing I will undoubtedly live to be at least 100 years old with all the black sugar I'm eating.

I have a terrible confession to make. In recent months I've found myself craving the worst things. Foods I would have shunned completely in the U.S., like this monstrous bread creation (basically white bread filled with sweet margarine and topped with icing), now seem not so bad, pretty enticing actually, maybe even...delicious.

When boxes of Oreo Chocolate Pie began popping up on the shelves of my local supermarket, I was immediately tempted to buy them, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. The idea of finishing off six Oreo marshmallow sandwiches all by myself seemed a bit depressing. Luckily, Rob came into town, bringing with him a love of all things strawberry-flavored and an excuse to finally try out these disgustingly alluring choco-pies.

"Do you want to try these?" I asked, casually slipping the box into our cart. "Look -- strawberry flavor. You love strawberry."

"Uh...I guess so."

With that enthusiastic endorsement, I was in possession of the pies, my cover story intact. So that Rob could enjoy the pies, I brought them out while we were watching the pilot episode of Battlestar Galactica (another new obsession). He didn't touch them. I opened the box and put one in front of him and one in front of me. Nothing. Finally, I opened up the wrapping on mine and he did the same.

If you put an Oreo on a copy machine set to increase the size by 125%, then the same machine somehow also softened the cookie, turned the cream filling into strawberry-flavored marshmallow and covered the whole thing in chocolate, you would find yourself with an Oreo Cookie Pie (strawberry flavor). In other words: yum.

After the first one, I kind of wanted another, but decided to wait for Rob to make a move. No luck. It wasn't until the next night during more BG that I cracked open another.

"Do you want one?" I asked.

"Ugh. No. Those things are disgusting."

"Really? But they taste like strawberry. You love strawberry!"

"They make my teeth hurt when I bite into them."

"Oh."

My plan was destroyed. But that did leave two extra Oreo Chocolate Pies for me, so I couldn't really complain. I did, however, object to the unnecessary commentary I discovered written on the box flap the next day. I suppose you can consider it sort of a second review. I'll leave it to you to decide which one of us is right.

Before we begin this week's review, there is some business to take care of.

First, the winner of the First Ever Giant Jeans Parlor Japanese Candy Friday Candy Giveaway is...Sabra (a.k.a. Chocovore)! She will soon be receiving a package of three types of Japanese candy to eat and ponder at her leisure (not necessarily in that order). Thanks to everyone who left a comment and look for more candy giveaways in the future!

Second, this week's Japanese Candy Friday was written by a special guest reviewer. Enjoy!

JAPANESE CANDY FRIDAY: Capt. Tenderheart Edition

First of all, it is an honor to be the first official guest Japanese Candy Reviewer. I can only hope that I come even a little bit close to continuing the great tradition started by Anjali, who is my girlfriend and is cute and smart and cute and awesome.

Apollo. Greek god of the sun and music. Top notch pilot in Battlestar Galactica. And most importantly, a fine Japanese candy.

However, I might be a bit biased. As a tiny tot growing up in the harsh wilderness of coastal Massachusetts, I automatically assumed that anything pink was delicious. And not to toot my own horn, but many times I was right. Frankenberry cereal… Strawberry Pudding Pops… Pink Starbursts… Ham. All correct assessments.

Sometimes I was wrong, though. Like the time I got pneumonia, yet did somersaults of joy when I was prescribed a bottle of creamy, pink, antibiotic fluid, fluid that turned out to be the worst tasting liquid on the face of the earth. (The type of thing that when you first swallow it, you say, “Huh. Did I just die? Is that the taste of death?” Kinda like when you drink Jagermeister…) And why I thought a bottle of pneumonia medicine would be delicious is beyond me. At that point, the pneumonia must have already reached my brain.

It’s worth noting that some people would say my predilection for pink foods makes me secretly gay. Smarter people would say that I just like strawberry.

Anyway, my pink bias kicked into full effect when I gazed upon the box for Apollo. It went into overdrive when I discovered that the box opened via a tiny door in the front. Upon opening the door, I discovered an entire family of individually wrapped candies welcoming me into their home, inviting me to devour them. Which I promptly did.

There are two different types of Apollo. Both are tiny Reese’s cup shaped discs of chocolate topped with strawberry cream. However, one variation has tiny, Nestle crunch-inspired bits in it. I found myself alternating between the two, but you may be the type to blow through one kind to get to the other. That way’s cool too, if you want to be wrong.

Bottom line, Apollo is creamy. And delicious! Why it’s called “Apollo” is still a little bit beyond me. Maybe, after pursuing one of the many nymphs he was infatuated with until they eventually committed suicide, Apollo turned towards Mt. Olympus and bellowed at Zeus, “Father! These nymphs keep killing themselves by diving into springs and turning into laurel trees and shit! Make them remember me! Let it be that I am forever associated with tiny, conical fruity chocolate things in Japan! Cause that just really screams, ‘ME’!!”

But I think, the most important thing to learn from the Apollo candy is that It continues to add more credence to my theory that pink things (with the notable exception of antibiotics) are inherently delicious. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go try some of this mouth-watering “Pep-to Bis-mol”.

Captain Tenderheart, who typically answers to the name "Rob," spends his days playing video games for money and his nights being funny for free (but hopefully not for long). He likes black raspberry ice cream, nerdery and making mix CDs with a commitment to excellence. If you like his writing, please visit his blog and hound him about updating it more often.

Engaged in important research at a toy store in Tokyo.

No candy review this week, as today is the day Captain T. arrives in Japan and I am far too excited to eat candy or much of anything, really. (Here are some things you might not know about him, in case you forgot.)

Instead, I am going to let you be the judge of some Japanese candy. By that, I mean I am having the First Ever Giant Jeans Parlor Japanese Candy Friday Candy Giveaway (FEGJPJCFCG for short). And by that, I mean that I am giving you all the chance to receive a free package of three types of Japanese candy, delivered to your doorstep! All you have to do is leave a comment on this post with your email address (only I will see it), telling me your favorite Japanese Candy Friday candy so far.

All the reviews can be found here and you have until noon on Friday, September 29 to comment. (That's Japan time, by the way. In California, it would be...8pm on Thursday, September 28. I'll leave you to figure out your own time, as time differences make my head hurt.) I will cover postage to anywhere in the world, so this is open to everyone.

Once the deadline passes, I'll do a random drawing and announce the winner in that day's JCF review. If you win, you may specify what types of candy you'd like to receive, but I reserve the right to substitute whatever looks interesting to me. And you can reserve the right to refuse all marine-creature-flavored candy. I wouldn't blame you.

And if you don't win, don't worry. I'm planning on more GJPJCFCGs in the future!

Back in February, I told you about the dark chocolate diet fad that was sweeping Japan, a genius eating plan that involves consuming 50 grams of dark chocolate every day as a way to lose weight. Since then, dark (or bitaa, bitter) chocolate has spread like a shadowy plague over the candy aisle. I mean this literally, as the packaging for all this dark chocolate is invariably black or brown, making for very monochromatic supermarket shelves.

But this isn't one of those disastrous shadowy plagues. Nothing leading to the mass-marketing of KitKat Bitter could be considered a disaster -- unless you happen to be on a non-dark chocolate diet. Then it would be very bad indeed.

Because this candy is GOOD. I-could-eat-this-every-day-and-maybe-twice-on-Sunday good. Here are my feelings on limited edition KitKats, since I'm sure you're dying to know: they're generally overrated. I've tasted KitKats flavored like sakura, uji-kintoki, fruit parfait, azuki and wine. In my opinion, none tasted better than KitKat the Original, a very good candy indeed. Basically, I'm not a fan of fake-chocolate coating, no matter how exotically flavored.

But sometimes the milk-chocolatiness of plain KitKats can be a bit cloying. This is where KitKat Bitter glides in, sleek in its deep brown box and sporting "high grade cacaomass," not to mention 139mg of polyphenols. You won't contemplate buying a whole store-display's-worth of these for health reasons, though, believe me. The perfect balance of bitter and sweet, this is a KitKat worthy of all the KitKat hype.

And the best news? This isn't a limited edition candy, at least not in bitter-chocolate-obsessed Japan.

Mont Blancs (or monburan) are impossible to avoid in Japan if you are one of those people who spends lots of time peering into pastry shops or wandering through bakeries. (I freely admit I am one of those people.) Apparently, in France the dessert is a meringue base topped with chestnut puree and cream. Here, it is a shortbread base with loopy rings of chestnut puree surrounding a creamy middle, usually topped with a big chestnut that looks as shiny and plump as a cartoon dog nose. (A peek here will give you an idea.) Mont Blancs are okay, but I'd rather have a Beard Papa cream puff, thanks.

Lucky for the Mont Blanc Mocha Takenoko no Sato candy, the geniuses at Meiji decided to make the cookie base coffee-flavored. The bitterness of the cookie cuts through the sweet milkiness of the chocolate perfectly. It's like a dessert-plus-coffee set at one of those pastry shops I'm always peering into. Earlier in the week, as I sat on my couch knitting, rain falling outside, this candy was the perfect thing to munch on while pretending it was already autumn. Unfortunately, my fake autumn was short-lived and today's heat has reduced the chocolate tops to mush.

So please wait for the real autumn before eating these. Unless you're too busy eating actual chestnuts. But you probably won't be, unless you're one of those stick-wielding old Japanese ladies who comb the ground under chestnut trees until every. last. chestnut. is gone. But you're probably not one of them. They're usually too busy foraging to get on the internet.

So you know about the five elements and the five senses. And maybe you've heard of the five colors in Japanese cuisine. Perhaps you're even familiar with Buddhism's five states of enlightenment. But have you heard about the Pocky Five Fruits and Black Five? No?

...That's okay. Neither had I until two nights ago at Family Mart.

I became an instant fan of the Black Five (Kurogo). Not only does its name sound like an ultra-cool group of hitmen and/or spies -- whereas "The Five Fruits" is more like a fourth-grade talent show dance troupe -- its nutty flavor is almost exactly like my favorite Pocky ever: Black Sesame (Kurogoma). Which makes sense, since kurogoma is a member of the Black Five. The lineup also includes the Japanese favorites kuromame (black soybean) and kurogome (black rice), as well as the lesser-known kuromatsunomi (black pine nut) and kurokarin (black quince). (I hope you've figured out the Japanese word for "black" by now.) But I'll be honest -- I only really taste the black sesame flavor. Which is fine by me.

Similarly, though the Five Fruits (Goka) includes chestnut, apricot, plum, peach and jujube, I only taste the momo, peach. Although I actually have no idea what a jujube tastes like, so maybe the Five Fruits reeks of jujube, who knows?

This new Pocky marks the end of summer, I think. Gone are the Pocky Pine Cream and Coconut days; it's time to start thinking about quince and chestnuts. Life in Japan is all about the subtle markers of seasonal change. Some people watch the ripening rice or the changing leaves. I watch the Pocky.

If I had my way, I would own some property on the island of Coffee Rhumba. Not only could I dance in a tropical sunset under a palm tree to the smooth tunes of Coffee Rhumba, an album apparently put out by a cute Japanese lady circa 1965, I could also eat unlimited amounts of Coffee Rhumba chocolate, which would make me very happy indeed.

The Espresso flavor is milk chocolate filled with a sweet espresso syrup, a nice balance of bitter and sweet. The Cappuccino has a layer of coffee-flavored chocolate under a layer of fresh-cream-flavored chocolate; it's extremely smooth and the sweetest of the three. But my favorite is definitely the Coffee Nougat, which is milk chocolate filled with coffee-flavored caramel. I think I would probably swim all the way to the island of Coffee Rhumba in exchange for a coconut filled with coffee-flavored caramel. It's that good.

Once I arrived on the island, I would additionally demand a copy of the Coffee Rhumba album and a small record player upon which to play it. I would then find a palm tree, a sunset and a hat-wearing stranger, and dance the night away, fueled only by my coconut of coffee caramel and the rhythm of the rhumba.

Friends! Lovers of Japanese candy and '60s kitsch! I have an important announcement to make! Coffee Rhumba is real. Not the island, I totally made that up, but the album actually was released by one Sachiko Nishida and is still available for sale. As a special gift to you, dear readers, I present to you the song "Coffee Rhumba" in all its tropical-Japanese-1960s-coffee-caramel goodness. Enjoy!

What do you get when you mix the glamorous skyline of New York, sea-creature shaped hollow pretzels and cheesecake choco? ...Pucca New York Cheesecake, of course! You may be asking what business cheesecake has filling the inside of a pretzel. And I'm here to reassure you cheesecake has every right to consort with pretzels, especially when they are shaped like tiny fish and octopi -- unless you are one of those people who doesn't believe in the deliciousness of peanut-butter filled pretzels, in which case you will most certainly throw a handful of tiny fish and octopi in the face of my reassurances. But that's okay, because that just means more Pucca New York Cheesecake for me.

These are more a snack than a candy, though the filling is sweet and a little tangy. I like that the picture on the front looks more like a JAPANESE cheesecake than any New York cheesecake I've ever seen and that the package design has the sort of cheesy (ha!) '80s glamour remniscent of the opening credits of Moonlighting.

Eating these gives you terrible breath, though. I have christened it "Japanese cheese breath." Buyer, beware.

You've probably already heard this, but vending machines are everywhere in Japan. It's not really the wonderland of products at the push of a button the rumors would lead you to believe, though; it's mostly drinks. (Although you really can find bizarre undergarments.) I'm mostly a tea-drinking girl, as the other drinks are often way too sweet for me, but I couldn't resist this bag of "Mix Candy," flavored like five popular vending machine drinks.

I had hoped the candy themselves would be shaped like bottles, but they were just your normal lozenge shape. The C.C. Lemon and Dekavita C are, not surprisingly, fortified with Vitamin C -- too bad the Dekavita C tastes bitter and almost-medicinal, like something a swindling snake-oil salesman in a top hat might have sold out of a battered doctor's bag at the turn of the century. The other flavors are inoffensive, refreshing and citrusy, my favorite being the green Bubble Man flavor, which is actually bubbly. Plus he has the coolest individual-package design, I think. I absolutely loathe Dakara Life Partner -- a grapefruit-flavored sports drink -- as a drink, but it's won me over in hard candy form.

As my candy collection is growing faster than I can possibly eat it, I brought these to the summer English workshop where I've been teaching for the past two days and passed them out to the high school kids in an attempt to quickly get rid of them. A good number of the students gave me one of the hard candies they brought in exchange, so my candy-reduction goal wasn't exactly achieved, but I did get to see what flavor the kids preferred.

And we're in agreement: it's Bubble Man all the way. The only candy left in the bag? Dekavita C!

It's too hot for chocolate candy. Even just sitting in a bag in my kitchen, my Uji-kintoki Milk KitKats have turned smudgy and soft. Biting into one, I taste aggressively sweet, too-soft matcha chocolate and feel disappointed. The only thing that makes any sense is a bowl of real kakigori, shaved ice topped with (in this case) green-tea syrup, azuki beans and condensed milk. That, or putting my KitKats in the freezer. Which -- lacking a reliable kakigori delivery service -- I do.

They emerge exactly right: the cool chocolate shell breaks with a snap and immediately melts into creamy matcha-ness, while the crackly layers of wafer and azuki bean somehow give the illusion of shaved ice, a cold crispness that softens on the tongue. It's the perfect post-shower, pre-bed, hot summer night snack.

I lie on my cool tatami next to the fan and think about how much better summer is than winter. I don't think they could possibly invent a special edition KitKat that would make me feel happy it was winter. Maybe if it came wrapped in an wool sweater. MAYBE.

But what am I doing? It's way too hot to talk about sweaters! Shaved ice. Cold green tea. Frozen Uji-kintoki Milk KitKats.... That's better.

I've never been very interested in Fran. Maybe it's because it always just seemed like the poor girl's Pocky. But I've been seeing Cool Fran in stores since the start of summer, along with a couple other candies labeled "cool" and the whole "cool" candy phenomenon was too intriguing to ignore.

Cool Fran is a choco-biscuit stick covered in something identified as "whipped white," which is further covered with lemon chocolate and bits of kishiritouru.

...Wait. What's kishiritouru?

After some multilingual Wikipedia-ing, I came to the conclusion that it's xylitol, a sweetener commonly used in chewing gum, which apparently gives the sensation of coolness when chewed.

And it really works. After eating a Fran, my mouth had a subtle, mentholated sort of coolness, but without the minty taste you usually associate with the feeling. The Fran itself was just okay. It was kind of like a lemon-filled cookie turned inside out, but with too much cream filling. Whipped white, you are unnecessary.

The real question is: after eating my Cool Fran, did I feel any cooler? The answer: no, no I didn't. I was as hot as ever. And Fran, even Cool Fran, is still the poor girl's Pocky.

I think I might be becoming immune to cute.

Okay, not immune, but I definitely am not as easily impressed as I once was. After a year in the Land of Cute, I have become more discerning in my tastes. ("A hedgehog wearing a rain hat? That's fine, I suppose, though I prefer vegetables with grumpy faces myself.") It's not terrible though. I'm just a conscious consumer of cute.

So when something different comes along, something that sets off my cute-dar, I snap it up in an instant because I know it must be something special. So it was with Cubyrop.

First, there's the name. Cubyrop! It's even fun to type. The siren-like pull it exerted on me in the grocery store may have to do with a habit my high school best friend and I had of adding "-ie" to the end of anything, with the reasoning that it immediately made it more cute. Cube. Cubie. Furthermore, when "cuby" describes a tiny, colorful, fruit-flavored cube candy, the kawaii factor is off the charts, I'm sorry.

(It took a bit of thinking to explain "rop," but I'm fairly certain it is supposed to connote "drop," like a gumdrop. Cubyrop!)

The double-cube packaging is adorable, like each cubyrop needs a pal so it won't be lonely. It also results in some nice color combinations. And, as Japan has had 95%+ humidity this week, I appreciate that it keeps my little cubyrops from becoming a giant sticky cubymonster.

The flavors are fresh and yummy: mango, melon, lemon, pineapple, orange, peach, grape and strawberry. I think melon and mango, the newest additions to the Cubyrop family, are my favorites.

In conclusion, I have composed a haiku for Cubyrop:

Cubyrop is cute.
Cuter than a hedgehog in
a rain hat, I think.

(But not as cute as a grumpy-faced vegetable.)

Dear Non-residents of Japan,

I'm so sorry. It must be terrible, living in a place where you can't walk to your local grocery store and purchase Coconut and Pine Cream Pocky, then return to your apartment and happily munch your way through one pack of each, alternating between the two flavors (a maneuver which surprisingly does not replicate the taste of a pina colada), while watching the latest antics of Hard Gay on TV.

I just feel so bad, especially about the Coconut Pocky because really, the combination of biscuit stick, chocolate and tiny, chewy chunks of coconut is as wonderful as the time Hard Gay went to the Yahoo Japan headquarters and tried to convince them he should be the new mascot. The Pine Cream Pocky is pretty good too, tangy and yellow with little flecks of pineapple, but it's a lesser treat, standing in the shadows of its coconut cousin. Like the time Hard Gay tried to help that failing ramen shop -- it's better than most things, but not as good as it gets.

That's why my heart goes out to you, living as you do in a country where you can't see a grown man in leather short-shorts giving another man a ball-gag for Father's Day on primetime TV, and even worse, a country without tropical-themed Pocky. It's just sad.

Maybe watching some Hard Gay will help.

Your friend and sympathizer,

Anjali

Umeshu, or plum wine, is made by steeping green ume in sugar and alcohol, producing a sweet, sour and entirely yummy drink, especially when served over lots of ice. This is what Choya, one of the leading producers of umeshu, has to say on the subject:

On those nights you feel a bit tired or after a hot shower.
While eating an elegant meal in a classy restaurant or while you're on an airplane or train during an excursion.
And, of course, for a sweet engagement just the two of you....
It will turn any occasion into a relaxing, soothing moment.

Who can resist that kind of sales pitch? And now, with umeshu in chocolate form, you can also enjoy it while riding your bicycle through a rice paddy, while sitting at your desk at school (hiding the box, which trumpets the candy's alcohol content), while standing in line at the supermarket, and so many more moments when it would be inappropriate to stand there sipping an icy glass of umeshu. Japan, you've done it again.

The alcohol is barely discernible, actually, and just lends a fruity taste, similar to a raspberry chocolate. For an alcoholic Japanese candy, it's pretty great: flavorful dark chocolate, smooth texture, subtle taste. It almost makes me forget the horror of Rummy. Almost.

The last thing I want to talk about is this: why is every new chocolate in Japan calling itself "chocolat"? (The usual way of writing chocolate is "chokoretto" and now it's being written "shokora." Not that either way looks particularly true to its language of origin.) Is France replacing America as the center of cool in Japan? Should we start panicking and dropping DVDs of The OC and Desperate Housewives from planes flying over urban centers? I don't know. All I know is when I asked a student yesterday, "What's your dream for the future?" she said, "I want to marry a Frenchman." Uh oh. We need 600cc of Seth Cohen, STAT!

Summer is here and the shelves are stocked with a new season of baffling and intriguing candy flavors. This week I picked up a couple different Kokage no Chocolat flavors, including Iced Lemon Tea. Not only are these filled with lemon-tea-flavored chocolate, they're also studded with bits of ceylon tea leaves. It's double the tea and double the weird!

When I bit into my first piece, I thought, "Tree. I'm eating a tree." The lemony center mixed with the herbalness of the ceylon gave the overwhelming impression of a mouthful of leaves. Eucalyptus, perhaps. My next thought was of Lemon Pledge and other fake-lemon scents, and I set the box aside for awhile. But when I came back to it, the sharpness of the flavors were gone and I enjoyed the herb-and-chocolate combination. I definitely couldn't down a whole box in one sitting, but I've been eating these periodically for the past couple days and will undoubtedly finish them off. Which is more than I can say for most of the candy I buy.

See the little penguin on the front of the package? He's saying this candy tastes good chilled. He's right, but it tastes better at summer room temperature, I think, because the milk chocolate on the outside gets a little bit soft and everything is all creamy and good.

Kokage no chocolat means "arbor chocolate." If you're like me, you'll look that up in your Japanese dictionary and still not be entirely sure what "arbor" means, so you'll look that up in your English dictionary and see it is "a shady garden alcove with sides and a roof formed by trees or climbing plants trained over a wooden framework." And that will make sense. This is the kind of candy you should eat on a blanket in the shade on a warm summer afternoon.

Any self-respecting Southern Californian living in Japan will tell you one of the things she misses most is Mexican food. She'll inform you that the Tex-Mex restaurant two train stops away makes pretty good steak fajitas and clue you in on the Brazilian supermarket in her town, which stocks all manner of beans. But mostly she'll daydream of late-night taco trucks glittering under portable fluorescent lights, plastic cups of chopped cilantro and onions, grilled fish plates. She will have actual dreams, more than once, about finding a secret taco window behind a sushi shop. She will wake crushed every time.

So when a lovely Texan sends her a giant box of Mexican candy and other things, one of the first thing she will eat is the hot watermelon straws, because they remind her of the fruitseller who always stood outside the Echo Park post office, the one who chopped a mean mango, then sprinkled it with chili and salt. Sweet and salty and spicy, scooped out of a clear plastic bag with a flimsy plastic fork.

She will underestimate the power of this candy to exactly hit the spot. She will remember there are flavors she forgot. She won't especially like the packet of tamarind sauce, which makes it too salty, but she will polish off the straws in record time, then wish she had savored it a little more. But then she'll remember: no one saves a taco. The joy of the taco truck is standing on the street, wolfing down a dripping taco that just moments ago was thrust out of the window, hot from the grill. Even though they're gone in minutes, they're still savored.

She'll then wish she was eating a taco.

The fact that dietary fiber chocolate exists in Japan is not so strange. Most of the candy-like items sold near the registers of my local supermarket are some sort of fiber or vitamin supplement disguised as fudge or cookies. What is odd is that I found this particular candy displayed with the normal, bad-for-you candy on the shelves of a convenience store.

...Okay, it's not actually all that odd. It's probably more strange that this box of fourteen individually-wrapped chocolates has 12 grams of fiber. Stranger still is the bitter, aspirin-like aftertaste the chocolates had, especially the piece I let melt on my tongue instead of chewing. Strangest of all was my desire, as soon as the bitter taste had left my mouth, to eat another piece. This is most likely attributable to my mild chocolate addiction rather than the appeal of this candy, as I tried this while at school, a barren, chocolate-less place where even fiber chocolate seems better than nothing.

Every time I look at the pink-and-white package, I have the brief impression I bought something that somehow benefited breast cancer research. But in actuality I just bought something geared toward fiber-deprived Japanese women trying to get a little nutrition in this fast-paced world. Or trying not to feel so guilty about their chocolate consumption -- which may be why it was displayed with the bad-for-you candy in the first place. Mystery solved!

A special salute to the candy-package-design person who decided to print the words "dietary fiber chocolate" all over the box in loopy font. Dietary fiber has never looked so appealingly girly.

It's raining, I've been stuck at home all day with severe back pain, my weekly massage was just cancelled* and I'm out of Almond Chocolate Fried. I doesn't get much worse than this.

Until Christian missionaries from Spain and Portugal began arriving in Japan in the 1500s, fried foods were unheard of, as oil was not an ingredient normally used in Japanese cooking. But, happily, this nanban ryōri ("southern barbarian cuisine") was embraced, leading to such delightful inventions as ebi fry, tempura and Almond Chocolate Fried.

Part of me bought this candy for the sheer thrill of purchasing a food so prominently labeled with the word "FRIED." There are no KFC-like euphemisms here; fried foods are called agemono, fried things. No one is pretending these almonds weren't bathed in oil at some point, and I appreciate the honesty. Other selling points were the description ("Big fried almonds coated with rich chocolate, indescribably delicious!") and the promise of a "Fragrant & Tasty" candy. Those are my two favorite features in a food, you know.

A giant almond that has been fried, coated with a crisp sugar shell, then cloaked in a thick layer of milk chocolate tastes a lot like chocolate with a giant hunk of toffee embedded in it. This is a good thing. I believe it was wise of the candy-makers to wrap each piece individually in foil because otherwise it would be too easy to eat the whole package in one sitting. One deliciously fried, one-quarter-of-your-daily-caloric-intake sitting.

* I've been tutoring a Japanese masseuse who wants to practice speaking English so she can work with foreign customers. All I have to do is speak in English to her and I get a free hour-long massage every week. Best. Trade. Ever.

With the recent dismal weather, I needed some candy to cheer me up. Specifically, I needed candy presented by a flightless bird named Kyorochan. It’s true—while once I was annoyed by dear Kyorochan, I have now come to love her lack of wings and penchant for wacky costumes. When browsing the kids’ candy aisle, I couldn’t resist the Chocoball Gateaux Chocolat, mostly because the package featured Kyorochan dressed as a painter. With a beret. Holding a fork in her beak instead of a paintbrush. Ostensibly in an apartment in Paris. But the cake in the tableaux is missing, apparently because it has been whisked away to Japan and turned into Chocoballs.

Gateaux Chocolat comes in various packages, undoubtedly to trick small children into tricking their parents to buy more than one pack of the exact same candy. Having no children, I was forced to trick myself into thinking I also needed the package featuring Kyorochan pondering the clouds, thinking, “I found a cake cloud.” (At least I think that’s what it says.) You may not be surprised to hear it tasted the same as the other package.

But that taste was…yummy! Good, not-overly-sweet milk chocolate covering a crunchy chocolate center. A package was just enough to eat in one sitting, a sitting spent crunching and staring at the picture on the front. Which is probably how a lot of kids eat Chocoball, come to think of it, except they most likely sit there imagining Kyorochan’s jet-setting life in Paris, whereas I know the picture was actually taken in her Tokyo apartment which they just decorated to look like Paris for the shoot.

It should be noted I had to wait five minutes for a three-year-old girl to make her candy choice before I could get down on my knees to browse the kids’s candy. Her dad, standing nearby, kept asking, “Are you ready?” and she kept shaking her head no. I pretended I was looking at the gum until she finished. I can't fault the girl for taking her candy seriously.

It should additionally be noted that I just looked up the word kyoro and found out kyorokyoro means shifty or restless. It’s possible Kyorochan is evil after all.

In honor of Children's Day, I decided to review a candy I normally would never buy because it's sold with the kids' candies, a section which includes things like Ultraman gummies and Hello Kitty lollipops, invariably displayed from around knee height down. But within the enormous bag of snacks I won at the sushi party, I found this: Chocoball Apple Pie, which promises, "It's like having a piece of apple pie with vanilla ice cream..." above a very-'50s picture of apple pie a la mode. I was intrigued.

I had seen the line of Chocoball products before, but never trusted it enough to try it. I blame the mascot, a big-beaked bird named Kyorochan. For some reason I cannot currently explain, I just didn't like her face, which always looked a bit smug to me. Why should a wing-less, flight-less, scarf-bedecked bird look so smug? I thought. But now I understand. It's because she has invented a chocoball candy that's like having a piece of apple pie with vanilla ice cream. It's pretty incredible, actually. In a tiny ball of white-chocolate-covered crunch are the subtle tastes of apple, cinnamon and vanilla, neither too sweet nor artificial, with the crunchy center providing a sort of pie crust sensation. It even smells like apple pie. Kyorochan, I salute you.

Once again, Japan has provided me with a bizarre, Wonka-esque candy experience, but this time it is actually good, a realization of all the candy fantasies I had while reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I was a kid. From now on, I might have to start getting eye-level with the kids' candies more often.

I bought Ayamurasaki because it was so murasaki -- purple. A shockingly purple dessert in Japan nearly always involves some form of satsumaimo, Japanese yam, and this candy is indeed a mixture of yam and white chocolate. I never really considered potato-type vegetables as good dessert eatin' before, but as with my torrid relationship with sweet beans, much has changed since I got here. Although my favorite way to eat satsumaimo is steamed plain, preferably by a craggy old man operating a pushcart outside a tourist attraction somewhere, I also find them irresistible in little pies and pastries. I think what I like best is also what I like about azuki beans: the texture, which is smooth yet substantial, and somehow meaty.

Ayamurasaki doesn't satisfy this craving, but the satsumaimo flavor is unmistakable. It's creamy and slightly yammy and very sweet, so sweet it is impossible for me to eat more than one at a time. But the box is pretty. And it's purple. It would probably make a nice gift for that person in your life who loves purple -- you know who I mean. She is most likely either under the age of 6 or over the age of 50. If the latter, she's always sporting a new purple accessory or zipping around town in her purple car with the personalized license plate that says "LDYPRPL."* She'd probably appreciate the elegance of the packaging, since purple processed foods are almost always directed toward her younger compatriot. Even the word, murasaki, sounds more refined than "purple," which somehow manages to sound similar to both "burp" and "pimple." Maybe she'll adopt murasaki as her own.

But I guess it's impossible to fit "LDYMURASKI" on a license plate and "LDYMRSK" just looks like "Lady Mrs. K," so that might not work after all.

*I really knew a woman who had this license plate. She used to come in once a week to the coffee bar where I worked. I never saw her dressed in anything but a purple sweatsuit.

In the game of "Can You Eat Japanese Food?", umeboshi and natto are in the final leg of the gauntlet, the two Japanese tastes thought least likely to appeal to tongues raised on Campbell's Chicken Noodle and Quaker oatmeal. If you admit to enjoying either, you are immediately handed a crown, scepter and Miss-America-style ribbon emblazoned with the words "CAN EAT JAPANESE FOOD." If you admit to liking both, you are additionally given a set of bejeweled chopsticks.

I hate natto (fermented soybeans that smell like dirty socks and have the disturbing texture of mucus). But I love umeboshi (pickled plums-which-are-actually-apricots-but-everyone-calls-them-plums with a bracingly sour bite). So i decided to try some ume gummies, partly because the package is so cute and perfect for spring, and partly because I wanted to see just how far, exactly, I "CAN EAT JAPANESE FOOD."

I'm pleased to report my ribbon is intact. These candies have a refreshing herbal taste, neither too sour nor too sweet. I didn't think they tasted at all like umeboshi at first; the only thing I thought of was yukari, the mixture of salt and dried red shiso leaves sometimes sprinkled on rice. I was convinced I had discovered some kind of hoax perpetrated by the Lotte candy company on the unsuspecting gummy-eating public, until I remembered umeboshi are made using red shiso leaves, which are what turn the fruits pink. So much for my undercover food detective work.

I also learned a new texture word: buruburu, quivering. The fact that the idea of quivering food appeals to me should qualify me for those bejeweled chopsticks despite my multiple failures in the natto corner, don't you think?

Platinum Cats is part of of the Chocolat New York series, which has brought Japan such hits as Feel Safari, Feel Envy and Blonde Cats. Like Feel Safari, the chocolate paddles are neatly packaged in a faux wallet (silver basket-weave pattern), but unlike Feel Safari, the candy is actually good. I bought Platinum Cats for the flavor, Milk & Salt, described as, "Rich milk chocolate featuring a blend of caramel flavor and French salt." (Blonde Cats, because it was Bitter & Vanilla flavor and therefore had little potential for horror, just did not interest me.) The thin paddles of chocolate snap in half easily, but instead of crumbling unpleasantly in the mouth like Feel Safari, they are creamy with a full flavor, I think because of the salt. They are also very blue, but in a nice way, like Easter M&Ms.

The back of the box illustrates a piece of the candy snapping in half with a "pakin!" sound. The Japanese language has an overwhelming number of words to describe texture, many of them fun and onomatopoetic. Pocky candy, for example, is named after the Japanese term for something breaking with a snap: pokipoki. Other vivid words I like are baribari (crackle), fuwafuwa (fluffy) and pakupaku taberu (to munch -- taberu means to eat). When I hear fuwafuwa, I just feel like stuffing my mouth with cotton candy.

Thanks to Platinum Cats, I haven't completely written off this candy series, though after exploring the themes of envy, safari and blonde-haired cats in New York, I really don't know where the people of Fujiya can go from here.

A non-platinum cat I befriended at a shrine yesterday.

Usually I'm a great supporter of the variety of "Japanese taste" Western food products available. When someone warns, "Are you sure you want to order the pasta? It's Japanese taste..." they usually mean the dish involves a lot of seaweed and/or roe, which I am fine with. And I love finding new and ever-more-strange soft-serve flavors, like hooji-cha (roasted green tea), kuri (chestnut) and even ikasumi (squid ink).

But as with gene experimentation, flavor experimentation runs the risk of producing monsters, mistakes of nature, three-headed babies born with flippers and a full set of teeth.

In other words: wasabi white chocolate.

Wasabi is good with sashimi. It is good in little smudges on sushi. It is good mixed in salmon ochazuke, hot tea poured over rice with bits of fish or vegetables. It is not good in white chocolate or (I hear) ice cream or -- I'm going to go out on a limb here -- anything answering to the name "dessert." Do you hear me, Japan? Keep churning out your azuki-bean parfaits topped with cornflakes, your satsumaimo (sweet potato) pastries, your myriad of jellies. I swear, I'll eat them all. But only if you stop with the wasabi sweets. And the beef, crab and fish sweets while you're at it. Consider it an act of international goodwill.

And one more question, Japan: any suggestions for what to do with 15 pieces of uneaten wasabi white chocolate? I don't even want to inflict this taste on the Japanese.

At first I thought Honey Coming was just a candy with a weird name marketed toward hip, urban girls. Then I looked up the website and discovered Honey Coming was a dating show on Japanese TV, now defunct, in which two wacky actresses observe a couple on a first date and give advice to one of them. (While they are actually on the date? It is unclear.) When it was finally time to eat some Honey Coming, I brought the box to school, thinking I might distribute the candies amongst the teachers in my office, since they always leave little treats for me. When I opened the box, however, I noticed there were instructions on how to open the individually-wrapped candies, which gave me pause. I looked closer. Under the flap of each candy there were two sentences, one pink, one blue, prefaced with the kanji for woman and man. A fortune maybe? I was suddenly wary. I put the box away.

I am the master of observation now, after almost eight months here. It's kind of like how a blind person develops super-sharp hearing, the effect of moving to a place where for all intents and purposes you cannot read, speak or hear. I've learned to pick up on the smallest clues to figure out whether or not I'm on the right train, or standing in the correct line, or buying what I want at the grocery store. Traveling to an unknown town together with people who actually understand Japanese, I am at times better at navigating than they are because I spot things they don't. I'm like a detective, using the smallest bits of unconnected information to form theories and eventually discover a cohesive truth (such as: I think I just walked into the men's toilet -- yup, I did).

I was glad for this skill when I brought the candy to someone who could interpret the fortunes for me, as they turned out to be things like: "Take a picture of yourself blowing a kiss and send it to her" or "Give him a shoulder massage." Clearly, this is candy for sharing on a date. Horror crept over me as I imagined myself cheerfully distributing the candy among the teachers in my room and confusedly watching the jolly brass band teacher or the mousy chemistry teacher read instructions to feed me the candy or rub my toes. You know that feeling on the freeway when you start to change lanes and the person two lanes away does the same and when you realize it, you jerk back into your lane at the moment before impact, breathing hard and buzzing all over with the relief of danger averted? It was kind of like that.

Honey Coming is actually really good, soft, creamy squares of milk chocolate, some with a layer of strawberry-flavored white chocolate, so I don't mind in the least finishing it off myself. But who's going to rub my shoulders now?

Today is Girls' Day, also called hina matsuri, the Doll's Festival, because families with daughters are supposed to put special dolls out on display at this time of year. It feels like a holiday to welcome spring, the shops cloaked in shades of pink, reminding everyone that the sakura, cherry blossoms, are on the way.

Unfortunately, it snowed today. Spring feels far away.

It seemed, then, the right time to eat my sakura-flavored Kit Kat. The outside is pink chocolate and tastes mildly of cherry, while the inside is the usual milk chocolate and wafer, which I like. The pink and brown color combination, revealed when you bite into it, is also pleasing. But is this really what a cherry blossom tastes like? It's my first spring in Japan; I haven't been able to munch on any blossom-laden branches yet*, but I suspect the flavor isn't much like this Kit Kat. A couple weeks ago I ate a tiny pink cake stuffed with bean jam, also advertising itself as sakura-flavored, but it had actual cherry blossoms listed in the ingredients, and the taste was delicate and fresh, like nothing I had ever eaten before. Until another treat comes along to make me change my mind, that cake will remain the taste of cherry blossoms for me.

But truly the taste of Girls' Day is pink, white and green mochi, which the other teachers have been stuffing me with all day. The best was the first kind I was given, laid out beautifully on a piece of textured paper, three cubes of mochi dusted with rice flour. They were chewy and slightly sweet, like a very fresh marshmallow, and almost melted in my mouth. A Kit Kat dipped in pink just can't begin to compete.

* I just finished reading a short story called "The Flower-Eating Crone" by Enchi Fumiko. In the story, the crone says, "It's natural: you see a flower you consider especially lovely, and you want to get as close to it as possible. but after awhile, looking is not enough -- you want to touch it with your hands, pluck it off, crush it, force it open. Finally, you become so consumed with desire, you want to fuse with it, make it a part of you. That's when you end up cramming it into your mouth." Is this why we are compelled to eat cherry blossoms? Is it why food here is often so beautifully arranged we feel both a sadness and a deep excitement about the prospect of taking it apart and swallowing it? Both ruining the beauty and absorbing it? Should we all start eating flowers?

Dear Rummy,

I know you know I only picked you for your looks, Rummy. It certainly wasn't because you are 3.7% alcohol and your package warns against eating you and driving; I didn't discover this until I got home and stared at you for awhile, expecting only the worst. You sat on my shelf for over a week. I apologize -- I had Valentine's Day candy to contend with.

But it was unavoidable: the first crumbly bite of one of your two neatly-wrapped bars. Your center was a lighter brown, studded with raisins. "Ack!" I exclaimed to my empty apartment. Usually I am not one to exclaim to my empty apartment, but you tasted so strongly and throat-burningly of rum, there was nothing else I could say. As the alcohol dissolved, you turned into a creamy mouthful of chocolate and raisins, which reminded me how much I love chocolate-covered raisins. Then, Rummy, you were yummy. But cresting that first wave of eye-watering taste wasn't worth it. I had a second bite, gave an "Ugh!" and wrapped you up. Rummy, I don't know what to say. It's not you, it's me. I know this because I gave you to someone else who was happy to have you, polished off one of your bars on the spot. But I just can't stand the raw taste of rum.

Maybe it's because my first drinking experience involved dark rum and Cokes, the alcohol quietly pilfered by my half-Jamaican friend from the shelves of her parents' liquor cabinet, downed by the two of us and another friend in the living room of my unsupervised house one New Year's Eve in high school. After two drinks apiece, we called my ex-boyfriend, the one who had mangled my 15-year-old heart when he broke up with me with no explanation (I suspected it was because I was not like the coiffed, carefully-ditzy girls his friends dated), and held the phone up to the TV, which was tuned to the scrambled porn station. We turned the volume up. The groans were deafening. It was two in the morning. His voice sounded groggy when he picked up the phone, but as soon as he heard the moaning and flesh-slapping, there was something alert in his silence. One of us held the phone up to the TV while the other two ran to listen in on the phone in my mom's bedroom. We made faces at each other as we cradled the earpiece between us. How long would he stay on the phone? Couldn't he tell this was a crank call? I felt my sadness over our breakup evaporating with every passing moment. I could never be heartbroken over someone who chose the sad sounds of scrambled porn over the dignity of hanging up. After awhile, it stopped being funny. We raised our eyebrows at each other. Ready? We knew what to do. "Pervert!" we yelled in unison, and hung up.

Then we giggled like crazy, rolling around on the suburban carpet, the groans still going until one of us yelled, "Turn it off!" and the squiggly porn people were silenced finally. But there was something raw at the back of my throat, something that made me feel sick, despite the laughter. I coughed and coughed, I drank a glass of water, I sat on the bathroom floor facing the cold toilet bowl, but still it didn't go away.

Disappointment. That's what you taste like, Rummy. Don't take it personally.

Your friend,
Anjali

Although Valentine's Day is celebrated in Japan, it is not a day of giving candy willy-nilly, nor is it a day for the exchange of chocolates between couples only. Instead, Valentine's Day is about the exchange of giri-choco, "obligation chocolate," which sounds like a dream come true ("Hand over that truffle or face estrangement from society!") until you find out women are supposed to give chocolate to the men they work with, but not the other way around. For the sake of fairness, another holiday was invented called White Day, exactly one month later, when men give chocolates to women, but I don't think it's actually fair, because first, white chocolate is the tradition on White Day and a piece of white chocolate is simply not suitable recompense for a nice milk or dark giri-choco in my opinion, and second, I will be in Los Angeles on March 14th and therefore will not receive my socially-obligated chocolate.

This seemed reason enough to buy three kinds of chocolate for myself.

Dark ("bitaa") chocolate is popular in Japan right now, and I think it has something to do with this new Japanese diet fad involving the consumption of 50 grams of dark chocolate every day as a way to lost weight. The main benefit I see to this diet is the sudden prominence of dark chocolates from all over the world which I, a non-dieter, can purchase and eat in over-50-gram servings. With so many choices now available, I feel it is necessary to research by buying several different kinds of dark chocolate at once, then deciding which I like best, then eating all of them, even the ones I didn't like best. Atkins schmatkins, the dark chocolate diet rocks.

My intensive research has led to the following conclusions:

1. My choco-enjoyment level peaks at around 75% cacao.

2. Japanese chocolate is chalky and terrible, even when the package says, "This chocolate is particular about especially materials. Exquisite combination is characteristic of it."

3. Russian chocolate is appealingly packaged, but only so-so tasting.

4. Sometimes, after eating dried scallops and beef taffy, you just want to eat candy you actually like, so even though you have a candy with a funny name sitting on your shelf, you don't review it because you know it will be gross. Instead you pretend that something is a review when actually it was just an excuse to buy and eat a lot of chocolate.

These candies are weird omiyage (edible souvenirs) given to a friend of mine who generously (and possibly gratefully) donated them to my strange-candy-eating effort.

On the right: dried scallop candy. Yeah. Out of its wrapping, it really looked like a little mummified piece of an unidentified internal organ which had no place calling itself "candy." Or even "food." But once I got over its alien-spleen appearance and actually put it in my mouth, it wasn't so bad. Chewy and teriyaki-flavored and honestly not that different from teriyaki-flavored beef jerky, except for the slightly fishy undertone. Was it terrible? No. Do I think scallops have any business being candy? Most definitely not.

In the middle: Hida beef taffy. Hida, an area in Gifu Prefecture, is famous for its tender and flavorful beef. As you may know, there's not a lot of grazing room in Japan, so beef is much more expensive than in the U.S. Taffy, on the other hand, is a mixture of sugar and butter and is therefore relatively cheap. It doesn't take a genius to figure out this money-making equation: sell the delicious flavor of beef in taffy form! Wrap it like a Now & Later and call it candy! It will have the unsettling taste of garlic and soy sauce! But don't worry, it strangely won't be as gross as the dried scallop candy! You might even consider eating it again!

On the left: wine hard candy. Though at first glance, this candy was the most appealing, possibly because it was the only one not involving the flavor of surf and/or turf, it was ultimately the most disappointing. I think my hopes were too high. The texture was that of the sugar-free candies I used to get from my dentist when I was a kid and the flavor was... rotten grape. I'm not saying it doesn't make sense that a wine candy would taste like what wine is, I'm just saying I'd rather have some wine. Ironically, I hate most of the wine I can get in Japan because it's way too sweet. So the wine candy tastes too much like wine and the wine tastes too much like wine candy. I can't wait to be back in California....*

In retrospect, this was kind of like eating a meal at Black Angus in candy form: an appetizer of scallops, a juicy steak and a glass of red wine. Wasn't Willy Wonka trying to invent this exact thing? Good thing I didn't eat the last omiyage in the bunch -- it was chocolate covered blueberries.**

*I will be back, and soon: March 11 - 22, to be exact. Mark your calendars, my friends!

**This really was the other kind of candy given to me, which I decided not to include because it seemed like it might actually be good, not because I was afraid I would balloon into a giant blueberry like Violet Beauregarde.

A tiny box of traditional Japanese candy (wagashi) was given to me by another teacher. Pretty, isn't it? I'm not going to say much about it, except that I wish I hadn't bitten into it because it was much nicer to look at than to eat....

Yes. This candy is called "Collon." Collon are pieces of crisp tube-shaped cookie filled with chocolate and bits of toasted almond. The colon, you may know, is part of the lower intestine. And a crisp tube-shaped cookie filled with chocolate and bits of toasted almond, you may know, looks just like slices of intestine filled with -- well, let's just say they look like very full intestines.

These aren't bad, kind of like any number of crispy creme-filled cookies from Europe you can buy at Trader Joe's. The almonds add a light nutty flavor that is nice.

But really. "Collon"?! Whoever came up with the name must know. The cookie part is even ridged in that uneven way I recognize from attending the Bodyworlds exhibit at the California Science Center and staring at a plastinated digestive system. I imagine it was a sniggering American, jaded after years of teaching English in Japan, who first suggested the name.

Jaded English Teacher: Whoa, this stuff really looks like -- hey... you should call this candy "Colon."

Japanese Candy Developer 1: Really? What does that mean?

Jaded English Teacher: It means... "chocolate" in... German.

Japanese Candy Developer 2: German? I studied German in college. I thought "chocolate" was "Schokolade."

Jaded English Teacher: Listen. Who are you gonna believe -- Kobayashi-san here, or the guy who spent three weeks in Austria after graduation?

Japanese Candy Developer 1: How do you spell "colon"?

Jaded English Teacher: C... O... L... uh... L... O... N.

The extra L was so no one in Japan would Google "colon" and find out the truth, I'm convinced.

I love eating candy. I also love looking at candy: the smooth chocolate shells, shiny fruit colors, perfect swirls of caramel. And I love candy packaging, especially here in Japan where there is always some new and beguiling candy box prominently displayed on the shelves of my local supermarket. A few months ago, I made a pact with myself to buy a new kind of candy every time I went grocery shopping; this pact was tossed a few weeks later after the unfortunate purchase of the previously-mentioned, truly repulsive Meltykiss.

But on my kitchen shelf there still teeters precariously a large pile of half-eaten boxes of beautiful-looking, awful-tasting candy which I can't throw away because this box looks so pretty and this one is so funny and this one is amazingly strange. By initiating an official Candy Friday, a day each week when I can document one of these finds, I hope I can finally bring myself to throw them away. Or at least take them into work and make other people eat them.

(I'll also review some candies I like; there are a few.)

The first contender: FEEL SAFARI
Self-proclaimed flavor: "Bittersweet chocolate infused with a special blend of Cinnamon and spices."
Brand: Fujiya, released as part of their "Chocolat New York" series. They also released a similarly packaged candy called FEEL ENVY. This series apparently encompasses the glamorous life of New York City. In candy form.

Obviously, I bought this for the package. How can you resist candy that looks like a giant box of exotic condoms? Indeed, the packaging is the only reason to buy Feel Safari, as the chocolate itself is chalky (as is much of the chocolate in Japan, I've found) with a mild spiced flavor, like Mexican hot chocolate without any of the creamy yumminess. The wafers, shaped life the wooden paddles that came with ice cream cups in elementary school, just kind of sit unmeltingly on your tongue until you chew them up, and then they crumble.

But the package! It's like a big wallet made of snakeskin and leopard fur and it closes with a cool tucking action. And on the inside flap there's a crazy neon-orange picture of a leopard on a turquoise background. Every time I look at it I have the urge to carry it around in my back pocket, so I can pull it out whenever I run into someone and say, "Do YOU feel Safari?"while offering them a candy.

At the very least, it would be a way of getting rid of the contents. Then I could keep the wallet and feel safari every day.