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A little while ago, Cat and I had some house guests — old friends of hers. Who, as it happens, are pretty serious foodies. So I decided to introduce them to the weird world of Japanese Kit-Kats. They were totally game; in fact, I offered them several choices of bars to sample, and they picked the one that seemed strangest: Ginger Ale.

Ginger Kit-Kat. Photo by Jeremy.

I didn’t have high hopes for this one, because — well, look. White chocolate. Nothing good ever comes of that.

Or so I thought! But Ginger Ale Kit-Kat isn’t exactly plain white chocolate. The bar’s coating has a slightly lemony flavor, and the hint of citrus gives personality to what is normally a sort of overly sweet, lifeless mockery of real chocolate. It doesn’t exactly bring to mind “ginger ale,” though. In fact, the first sensation this bar gives is that it’s a lemon Kit-Kat — pretty decent, but not what was billed.

But then, something crazy happens. Right about the time you fully process the taste, the wafer and creme hit your tongue. Suddenly, the flavor totally changes. The candy bar begins to fizz, literally fizz, just like real ginger ale. The taste of the Kit-Kat mellows and loses the citrusy sharpness of that first impression, broadening into something much closer to ginger ale.

The secret of this particular confection is that the wafers infused with something akin to Pop Rocks. Our foodie friends suggested it’s some sort of citric acid; whatever the case, it creates a convincing sensation of eating ginger ale. It’s strange and unexpected, but it works, and it’s incredibly satisfying — an unconventional approach to the classic Kit-Kat that creates a curious confluence of snacks all at once: chocolate bar, fizzy candy, and soda. Unexpectedly, Ginger Ale Kit-Kat has become one of my favorite iterations in this particular venture.

Death of me? Yes, as in: “This project is going to be.” Although I think it’s very likely that today’s entry represents the absolute nadir of this endeavor. From here, it can only get better.

Unlike the other Japanese Kit-Kat bars I’ve been writing about, there’s nothing particularly exotic about this one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one exactly like it on sale in the U.S., but I’ve never really looked, and in any case it conceptual components are certainly widely available here. And I scrupulously avoid them! But here they are, combined in a single offensive package.

The villain of this piece? A Kit-Kat White Bar, aka a white chocolate Kit-Kat Chunky. It’s similar to the banana bar from a few days ago, except without even the promise of a slightly unusual flavor to spruce it up. It’s just… an oversized Kit-Kat covered in thick white chocolate. But it was donated to the Kit-Kat Densetsu cause by David Ellis the last time he went to Japan, and he contributed it in good faith! So I was determined to do my part and choke it down.

Photo tragically taken by Jeremy.

Crivvins! Look at that thing. You could kill someone by shoving it through their skull. It dwarfs the paper plate it was photographed on!

Needless to say, this was not good. At all. All the issues that beset the banana bar are present here — the chocolate shell is way too thick, and since it’s white chocolate, that means suffering through endless waxy mouthfuls of overly sweet cocoa solids and assorted sweeteners. The interior is totally decent, but it’s completely overwhelmed by the awful white chocolate-y-ness of the outer portions. I felt nauseous all yesterday afternoon, and I’m pretty sure I know where to point the finger of blame.

I actually don’t hate white chocolate as much as most people; it’s interesting in moderation. It’s delicious when it shares room and board with macadamia nuts in a cookie! But this is not moderation, it is a violation of human rights. I intend to file a complaint. Actually, I guess that’s what this post is.

Like I said, it’s all uphill from here, in a good way. But first, maybe I will write about something that’s not Kit-Kat for a while. I need a break, because this one broke me.

Today, a palate cleanser. After a harsh regimen of weird imported Kit-Kat flavors all built on a white chocolate base, I desperately needed something a little more normal. So I decided to crack open one of the flavors I’ve been saving for a rainy day: Whole Wheat.

Whole wheat flavor Kit-Kat. Photo by Jeremy.

OK, so I guess the premise of a whole wheat candy bar isn’t necessarily inherently appealing… in fact, it sounds a little odd, when you stop and think about it. But I’ve been banking on the hope that the “whole wheat” referred to the wafer inside the bar rather than some weird flavoring added to the chocolate exterior. Happily, I was right.

By and large, this was essentially just a normal Kit-Kat mini bar. A blind taste test would have left me thinking I’d just eaten a plain ol’ Kit-Kat, although I’d probably have walked away idly wondering when Kit-Kats got so darned good. The difference between this and your typical off-the-shelf bar is incredibly subtle, which is a welcome change of pace from all the bizarre colors and wackily intense flavors Japan usually churns out.

While I’m not entirely certain what makes a whole wheat wafer different from a normal wafer — what are they usually made of, anyway!? — from the end-user perspective, it’s definitely not as sweet. There’s a slightly nutty note to the flavor, and the texture is a bit… well, “grittier” sounds negative, but it’s slightly grainier and less crisp. But not in a bad way.

The change in the wafers has a similar effect to using dark chocolate: It cuts the sweetness just a bit. Given that candy bars tend to be a bit too sweet, that makes this one of the best Kit-Kats I’ve ever tried. Which, at this point, is saying quite a bit! I’d call it second-best, in fact… right after the amazing winter premium Kit-Kat I found in Inara in 2008, which had dark chocolate covering wafers with a black tea creme. Man, I’d kill for one of those… but in the meantime, whole wheat makes for a nice second-best.

Huh, another green Kit-Kat. Well, so be it. I wonder what “zunda” means…?

Hm. Oh. Oh. Oh, holy crap. It’s a doughy mochi dessert made with soybeans.

Japan, why you even got a do a thing?

Zunda Mochi Kit-Kat. Photo by Jeremy.

Needless to say, this was another Kit-Kat variant that I found myself approaching with sheer dread. I’m really not a big fan of Japan’s gooey foods, like this and monja-yaki. And, I gotta say, edamame and chocolate are not high on my list of “great tastes that taste great together.” Formula for disaster?

Yes! But fortunately — for a certain value of “fortunate” — this is one of those Kit-Kat bars that could only be described as “incredibly bland.” If my eyes were closed and I didn’t know it was supposed to taste like runny soybeans and rice, I’d think I’d been unfortunate enough to have been given a normal white chocolate Kit-Kat. There was maybe a tiny hint of vegetable-ness in the creme filling, I think… but then again, maybe I was just imagining things to rationalize the fact that I’d paid a buck-fifty to import a tiny candy bar that tastes like the sort of thing I wouldn’t normally eat for free if someone handed it to me.

Actually, that bit about my eyes being closed isn’t quite true, because this one smelled a lot different than a normal Kit-Kat. It took me a minute to place the odor, but it’s almost exactly like xôi (pronounced “soy”), which I confirmed with Cat in one of the goofiest conversations we’ve ever had:

Me: Hey, can you smell this?

Her: What is it this time?

Me: It’s supposed to taste like edamame, I guess.

Her: [look of revulsion]

Me: No, smell it. It smells like xôi, right?

Her: Well, edamame is soy, so that makes sense.

Me: No, like Vietnamese xôi. Sticky rice.

Her: [sniff] Oh, yeah, I guess it kind of does.

And that is all I have to say about that.

Every once in a while, these Japanese Kit-Kats surprise me. Sometimes it’s a terrible surprise, like when something that should have a savory soy sauce taste end up reeking of maple syrup. But occasionally, it’s a pleasant surprise. Such is the case with Kit-Kat Calpis flavor.

Photo by Jeremy

In case you’re not familiar with Calpis, it’s a yogurt drink that is sold in America under the name “Caplico.” This, one assumes, is because “Calpis” is distressingly close, phonetically speaking, to “cow piss.” Not really the association one wants attached to their beverage, yannow?

I wasn’t entirely certain what to expect from this one, but I didn’t have high hopes. I’m not too keen on yogurt drinks, and even worse this was yet another white chocolate variant of Kit-Kat. How could a white chocolate candy meant to taste like frothy yogurt possibly be delicious?

The answer: By totally not tasting like white chocolate or Calpis at all. Nope, this particular variant basically tastes like the candy bar version of a lemon poppyseed cookie. Is that rad, you may wonder? The answer is yes: It is rad. The flavor is largely concentrated in the wafer-n-creme portion of the bar, but there’s a faint hint of lemon to the chocolate as well. It’s a well-balanced mix, not overwhelming at all, and does a lot to redeem the entire concept of a white chocolate Kit-Kat.

I mean, I’m not gonna run out and marry this variant or anything, but it’s good!

Welp, I’ve been dreading this one for a while now, but I feel kind of obligated since Chris Kohler was kind (?) enough to donate the subject to the cause. And Cat started some hardcore diet of sadness and deprivation today, so it seemed as good a time for me to suffer as any. Love and solidarity through shared palate punishment, and all that. And thus I bring you: Kit-Kat Densetsu Banana Bar Edition.

Pray for me.

Photo by Jeremy

The notion of a Kit-Kat Banana Bar makes my stomach flip-flop a bit for not one but two, two, two exciting reasons!

First: it’s a Kit-Kat bar, not the usual mini-Kats I’ve been writing about, which means that it’s basically a single Kit-Kat stick xeroxed to brobdingnagian size, with all its component bits basically maintaining the same ratios and proportions as its smaller counterpart. Look at the thickness of that, uh, chocolate? If you can really call a waxy, yellow, banana-flavored substance “chocolate.” (Legally, I don’t think you’re allowed.) The scaled-up size means that if there’s a part of the bar I don’t like, it’s not a delicate hint like on a normal Kit-Kat. No, it’ll be a monstrous, never-ending beating of my taste buds.

Secondly: banana. I like bananas as much as the next dude, provided the next dude isn’t a monkey, but banana candy does not have a good track record in the history of our humble species. Banana-flavored sweets tend to be cloyingly perfumed and generally just too danged strong, savagely inflicting a chemical fruit taste upon your gentle taste buds without even offering a decent amount of potassium to justify the assault.

Needless to say, I approached this venture with some trepidation.

Funnily enough, though, that terror wasn’t fully justified. I can’t say I’ll be going out any time soon to stock up on Banana Kit-Kat bars, but at the same time I don’t feel a need to scald my tongue until it forgets the heart-rending sensation of what it’s like to taste, either. I have had considerably worse in the course of this endeavor, that’s for sure.

This bar has two redeeming traits. First, while the yellow “chocolate” is very definitely banana-flavored, it’s not stridently so. Uh, assuming flavor could be said to be strident. It’s nowhere near as delicious, rounded, or mellow as a real banana, but so far as grotesque polychemical mockeries of fruit go, it’s pretty alright. And secondly, the makers of this particular confection had the good grace not to make the wafer-and-creme filling part taste like banana, too. The actual flavor of it was sort of lost amidst the banana-ness of the coating, but at least it wasn’t suffused with perfumed faux-fruit essence. The straightforward neutrality of the wafer is a sort of… of… flavor oasis for your tongue. The eye of the fake-banana storm. A seventh-inning stretch for your tongue amidst an imaginary plantain home run rally.

I guess what I’m saying is that the Kit-Kat Banana Bar is surprisingly inoffensive — maybe well-balanced, even. So I guess we can take Japan off the trade embargo list again. You guys got lucky this time.

Wasabi and cheesecake. Gross combo, huh? It’s actually strawberry cheesecake. That’s even worse!

I decided to bootstrap Kit-Kat Densetsu tonight with a two-fer. To clarify, though, I did not eat these two bars consecutively, because the flavors don’t really seem compatible, you know? But they do make an interesting contrast, given that they’re ultimately just differently flavored variants on the same kind of mass-manufactured candy.

Kit-Kat wasabi flavor. Photo by Jeremy

The first of these, Kit-Kat Wasabi flavor, is one of those definitive “only in Japan” flavors that make the nation’s candy output so unique. Here, we have two or three variants of Kit-Kat which revolve around the chocolate they’re made with. Over in Japan, they have variants that include citrus fruits, maple, soy sauce, and… horseradish.

You can tell something weird is up by the slightly greenish tint to the candy. This is a white chocolate bar, but it’s dyed the same color as a hospital wall. I suppose this is intended to approximate the color of wasabi paste without being too similar to the classic (-ish) green tea variant of Kit-Kat. But as Cat said when I went to photograph it: “Green food just looks weird.” You know, if it’s not vegetation.

So, it’s an aesthetic bomb, but how does it taste? Weirdly enough, not too bad. The green outer coating is simply normal-tasting white chocolate, and the wafers are your standard Kit-Kat wafer. The paste, however, actually does taste like wasabi. It’s a very mild, slightly sweet wasabi without any real sense of “oh god my sinuses” — I felt a twinge in my nasal passages, but I think that was simply a Pavlovian reaction to the taste.

On the whole, it’s not a flavor I would actively seek out, but it’s decent enough that it’s not coasting entirely on novelty… at least, in my opinion, anyway. Cat’s opinion is that it’s completely terrible, but she can’t stand either white chocolate or mixing sweet and savory flavors, so wasabi Kit-Kat is a double K.O. for her.

Photo by Jeremy

At the other end of the Kit-Kat spectrum is the Strawberry Cheesecake variant. Well, maybe not the other end of the spectrum, exactly… but the other end of the white chocolate Kit-Kat spectrum, anyway. Cat actually didn’t hate this one! That’s no small feat.

The secret? Despite looking like a standard white chocolate bar, it has a much better flavor. White chocolate is normally excessively sweet and lacks much depth of flavor, but the cheesecake aspect of the bar is incorporated into the outer layer. So while it tastes a bit like white chocolate, there’s a slightly smooth richness normally that this most unloved of all chocolates normally lacks.

And the creme filling, of course, is strawberry flavored. Well, I say “of course,” but I guess it’s not obvious since they didn’t go crazy with the artificial colors and make the creme pink. But yeah, fake strawberry flavor. Fortunately, the flavor isn’t especially strong, making it subtle enough to taste fairly natural rather than perfumey.

Still, it’s a white chocolate Kit-Kat, which means it is genetically inferior to its darker peers. Not to be racist or anything!

A bit more chocolatey than real yuzu kosho (seen in the background for comparison's sake), but otherwise quite excellent! (Photo: Jeremy)

Today, we look at yuzu kosho flavored Kit-Kat, another curious variant unique to Japan. Please do not misread that as “Yuzu Koshiro” Kit-Kat, though I could understand the confusion. This was a very tasty piece of chocolate, and it made my tongue feel like my ears do when they hear Koshiro’s music. That is to say, very happy.*

For those unfamiliar with the term, yuzu kosho is a kind of Japanese seasoning made with the yuzu (a citrus fruit) and various peppers. It has a sharp, biting flavor offset by a fruitiness not entirely unlike that of an orange, and it’s a popular seasoning for chicken in particular. If you’ve ever had a chili-infused chocolate, you know that chocolate (especially dark chocolate) is wonderfully complemented by a little heat; and, of course, chocolate and citrus are a great combination as well. It would stand to reason that combining chocolate, citrus, and spice would make for some sort of holy trinity of flavor happiness, right?

Well, as it happens, that is completely right. Yuzu Kosho Kit-Kat is incredible. I mean, sure, it’s cheap, mass-manufactured candy — not exactly gourmet food — but as far as such things go, this is right up at the top.

I knew things were on the right track the moment I opened the wrapper and found a dark chocolate bar. Dark chocolate is pretty sadly underrepresented in the Kit-Kat family, somehow losing out to mundane milk or execrable white in far too many cases, but the upside to its relative scarcity is that when you do find it, it’s all the more enjoyable. I was also encouraged by the fact that I couldn’t smell anything but chocolate. Given the close link between taste and smell, nothing about is worse than when a bit of food greets you with a weird, inappropriate scent (like, say, maple when you’re expecting soy sauce). And even the venerable orange Kit-Kat has a strong, perfume-like, fruit smell about it. Not the yuzu kosho variety, though. The word we’re looking for here is “subtle.” And subtle is a good thing in most food, even candy bars.

This is a pleasantly subtle bar, from the scent to the flavor to the faint hint of chili heat that lingers after a bite. The chocolate is decent dark chocolate, but the wafers and creme inside are lightly infused with the taste of yuzu. At first, it almost seems like a restrained, dark chocolate version of orange Kit-Kat, but then the sharper taste of the yuzu pushes through the generic citrus flavor. Afterwards, there’s a faint but unmistakeable lingering heat on the tongue (the tip of the tongue, which is where you feel the spiciness of real yuzu kosho, too). It’s mild enough to almost feel like a pavlovian reflex — you know, this tastes like something you know is supposed to be spicy so you imagine it’s spicy — but there’s definitely some real heat there. But it’s more of a faint afterimage than a dominant sensation.

All in all, yuzu kosho is a really nice take on Kit-Kat. Everything is perfectly balanced, making it taste like a fairly standard bar with just enough tweaks to keep it interesting. Yet the changes never overpowering. I’m very sad that I was only able to afford one of these, because this is a flavor I would eat on a regular basis and thoroughly enjoy every time.

*Alternate Yuzo Koshiro joke if this selection had turned out to be disgusting: “I can understand the confusion, because this candy bar is eats of rage!”

Warning: Do not dip sashimi into this candy. (Photo: Jeremy)

Welcome to the second episode of Kit-Kat Densetsu! Please note that for proper effect, you should shout “KITTO KYATTO DENSETSU!!” in a booming voice whenever you read one of these.

The flavor this time out is Shouyu, or soy sauce. This is one I was really curious to try, because the prospect of a soy sauce-flavored candy bar has tremendous potential to be incredibly rank. But it could also be very, very good; the Japanese excel at mixing sweet and savory. Teriyaki sauce is basically a mix of sugar and soy sauce, right? So you can see why I was intrigued by the notion of a soy sauce Kit-Kat.

Cat and I went all out for this shoot. We even put the bar in a shouyu saucer for maximum irony! Sadly, the reality of a shouyu Kit-Kat is rather… well, shall we say, undeserving of such efforts. If I didn’t see the word “shouyu” on the package, I’d never have guessed that this is supposed to taste like soy sauce. It’s not salty, nor is it savory. In fact, it’s cloyingly sweet.

When you open the wrapper of the candy, you’re hit with the overwhelming scent of maple, of all things. It smells like you could melt this thing down and drizzle it over pancakes and no one would be any wiser.

And then there’s the appearance. It’s white! Completely white. Soy sauce… isn’t white. I expected this to be made with white chocolate, sure, because someone at the International Kit-Kat Planning Bureau has the mistaken impression that white chocolate is good and as a result half the flavors I come across stray from the holy cause of milk chocolate. But even so, I figured the wafers and creme would be dark, to symbolize the sweetness of the chocolate around the saltiness of the interior. Alas, though; in the words of one M.D. Tannen: “You thought wrong, dude.”

What about this wall of white says "soy sauce" to you? (Photo: Jeremy)

White chocolate is never as good as milk or dark chocolate because it lacks the bitter richness of cocoa, and I guess the same holds true of Kit-Kat wafers. The filling is more or less an extra-sweet version of the normal wafers and creme. There might be a slightly salty aftertaste, but I have a sneaking suspicion that’s a psychosomatic product of my imagination. It says “shouyu” on the package, so my brain tries desperately to invent a flavor to match. Shouyu Kit-Kat: It will make your neurons misfire!™

I’m definitely not imagining the overwhelming sweetness of this particular flavor, though. Cat remarked on the powerful maple smell — one tiny bar filled the kitchen with its aroma — and on its surprising lack of anything resembling soy sauce-like salinity. Interestingly, other Japanese Kit-Kat mini-bar flavors trumpet the fact that they’re 66 calories per serving, but this flavor is 68. I never realized you could cram so much sugar into two calories.

A little Internet research reveals that this is a limited-edition Kit-Kat sold only at the airport in Tokyo. I’m guessing it’s meant to be omiyage purchased by Japanese buyers as gifts for foreigners, because surely if someone from Japan ate one of these they’d call shenanigans on the distinctly not-soy-sauce-like flavor and the International Kit-Kat Planning Bureau would be forever disgraced.

Anyway, unlike Suppai Orange Kit-Kat, I don’t feel like we’re missing out with this one. White Kit-Kat is readily available here in the States, and I never buy it as it is. But if you’re ever in Tokyo and feel like gagging on the scent of pure, cloying sweetness, you know where to look.

Cat and I just finished watching Eat Drink Man Woman, and it was a beautiful movie. A beautiful story, filmed beautifully. But the most beautiful thing of all was the food! The glorious food. Classic Chinese cooking, prepared meticulously and elegantly by expert hands. And it reminded me, oh, hey, we have this food blog, huh? So, hey. Food blog.

Tonight, I’m getting back in the swing of things by launching a recurring feature called Kit Kat Densetsu. That’s “Kit Kat Legend” in Japanese, for those who don’t know Japanese terms that have become terribly generic through overuse in videogame parlance. The name fits, though, because this section is devoted entirely to the unique and exotic flavors of Kit Kat sold only in Japan. Yes, that’s right: The common, everyday Kit Kit, available in a pitiful three flavors here in America (plus a gross orange-colored white chocolate version at Halloween) exists in a cornocopia of flavors over in Japan. I make it a point to try every kind of Kit Kat I can find when I travel to Tokyo; some are unpleasant, like the “vegetable health drink” kind they were selling last fall. Some are utterly amazing, like the seasonal winter black tea bar I picked up two years ago at a convenience store at Inara. I’ve acquired more than a dozen different sample flavors, and at a needlessly high cost — but it’s all for the noble purpose of writing about the fascinating variants of Kit Kat sold in Japan. It’s funny, but my favorite Japanese mass-manufactured snack is actually an American candy bar.

Sour Orange Kit-Kat: Far too delicious to sell in America. (Photo: Jeremy)

To inaugurate this section, we’re starting with the classic: Orange Kit Kit. Technically, this edition is “Suppai Orange,” or sour orange, but it tastes about the same as the Orange Kit Kat I fell in love with the first time I ever went to Japan. Interestingly, they actually did offer Orange Kit Kat here in the states in select regions for a limited time, but like other great ideas of the early 21st century (see also: Diet Pepsi Twist), it was deemed unfit for this world. Except in Japan, of course. I bought like three bags of these things at TGS last year, and distributed most of them to friends. That is because I play a Paragon in real life, not just in Mass Effect.

The Orange Kit Kat is precisely as it sounds: A Kit Kat bar infused with a strong orange flavor. As we all know, chocolate and orange are one of nature’s most perfect combinations. Kit Kats aren’t exactly gourmet chocolate, but they’re one of the few candy bars I enjoy — they’re not overly sweet, and the chocolate is a great complement to the crispy wafer interior. I wouldn’t eat a bar made of just Kit Kat calibre chocolate, and I wouldn’t eat the wafers alone. Together, though, they’re pretty good! But mix in the taste of orange and you’ve officially reached “day-yum!” territory.

The orange mixes well with the chocolate, but it overpowers the flavor of the wafer. That’s OK, though, because the wafer is really more about texture. The orange flavor teeters at the precipice of being too strong, but it’s actually just right. More importantly, it doesn’t leave an unpleasant chemical aftertaste like a lot of fruit-flavored candies. The bar tastes sweet as you eat it (Cat described it as tasting “like an orange creamsicle chocolate bar”), but afterwards the lingering orange flavor becomes a little bit tart in your mouth. It’s something of a rarity in that it’s a mass-produced convenience store chocolate bar that you actually want to savor. It’s a pity this flavor never caught on in the U.S., but maybe they’ll bring it back someday. If not… well, I end up in Japan at least once a year, so I suppose it’s reason enough to suffer through those interminable trans-Pacific flights.