BakeSpite.net

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.

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.