Well, here we are again, for the latter installment of our chocolate liveblog (you didn't miss Part 1, did you?)
Cognac cup. Perhaps the pleasantest flavour of the bunch (soaring accolade indeed!) – and not so hideously sweet as its boxmates. Texture is a little too gooey – a burst of liquid would've been better than slightly over-viscous mousse. Still.
Wild Strawberry Mousse. This was never going to be great, was it? Let's start with the name. Wild Strawberry Mousse. I'm sorry to say: this is about as wild as the bass guitarist in fucking Travis. It's also disgustingly, hideously sweet, and has noxious overtones of air freshener. Truly unpleasant.
Caluwe's Praline has texture in its favour. The Intellectual Hooligan is an avowed fan of combined crunch and smoothness (unless in the context of walking across his bedroom floor, in which instance the likelihood is that he has just stepped on a CD case). And Caluwe's Praline (who the hell is Caluwe, anyway? Some toothless bastard, I suspect, the amount of sugar he must get through) combines a crunchy hazelnut bite with a 'super-smooth' filling. Still uber-sweet, mind. But texturally commendable. And bereft of unpleasant flavours. (Indicative, surely, that this last point be noted as a standout feature?)
This leaves us with just one remaining chocolate. Nestling so seductively in its moulded plastic bed. Its flavour?
Oh my dear sweet Jesus. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? Not even our mate Caluwe is prepared to put his name to this'n. 'An innovative blend', says the tasting note. Innovative in this case is the perfect adjective: one that implies approbation, but is actually studiously neutral. The Poll Tax, for instance, was innovative. So was apartheid.
(Sorry. That may have been excessive. But so're these chocolates, damn it.)
I dislike banana at the best of times. Banana flavouring I truly detest.
Look at it. I mean look at it. Heed the warning signs, for God's sake. I mean, it actually looks like a bloody turd.
And yet ...
For you, my readers, my subscribers, no stone – however mouldy and woodlouse-infested –shall be left unturned; no bile left unretched.
So it is that I raise (with trembling paw) Sainsbury's Banana Caramel to my reluctant lips.
(This is like one of those extreme stunts you see on TV where they have ambulances and firefighters lined up metres away, ready to leap to action at a moment's notice. Except instead of the emergency services, I've just got a pack of dried wasabi. Which I figure ought to be flavour-displacement-inducing enough ...)
Well. Here goes ...
(You'd better friggin appreciate this, that's all I can say.)
By the risen Lord, that was the most repulsive thing I've had in my mouth since ... well, let's not get into that.
Apocalyptically, bandsaw-shittingly horrible. Utterly, utterly repulsive.
Never again. Never again will I subvert my instinct for the cause of confectionary appraisal. In fact – hell on legs – give me one of these pieces of filth, won't you, if it'll take that piss-awful taste out of my mouth.
Taste the Difference?
Too fucking right.