Description. A shockingly non-vile and genuine piece of candy — not what we expected from a cousin of the pathetically off-putting Chocletto. While the fecal-presentation problem is also present in the Walnetto, and to an even more troubling degree (…nuts; enough said), everything else is a marked improvement.
With that said, between the color, the nut hunks, and the unfortunate tendency towards…glistening at room temperature, the visual is extremely disgusting.
Packaging/Branding. The first sign that the depressing Chocletto experience is not to be repeated is the minuscule Diamond Walnuts logo on each Walnetto wrapper. The wrapper’s color scheme is an upgrade as well, not mistaking “institutional” for “classic” as the Chocletto’s does.
Description. How to pronounce the name of the airy chocolate bar? “Uno,” like the game? “You know,” as if eating the bar confers upon the consumer membership in an elite — albeit boring and fat-logged — secret club?
Our tester has chosen to go with “ooh…no.” The only discernible reason for selecting a chocolate novelty as dull as the U-No is the hope that its stratospherically high fat content will induce a stroke.
Packaging/Branding. A sleek silver wrapper and mid-century lettering belie the utter tedium of the product within.
The candy’s cheery attempt to spin its utterly uninteresting stale-pudding center as a delicate truffle is a deluded failure.
Description. The Chocletto is, in theory, the waking embodiment of every candy-loving child’s wildest dream: a hybrid of the Starburst shape, the Kraft caramel’s smooth chewiness, and chocolate.
The poo-hued reality falls short of “revolting,” but then, it just falls short, period.
Packaging/Branding. The Old Time Candy Company sends an eight-pack of Choclettos in a plastic dime-store sleeve; each candy is folded into a white waxed wrapper with “Choclettos™” printed in purple on the side.
Description. The proportion of chocolate in each individual Neapolitan Sundae candy is apparently a direct response to the Simpsons episode in which Homer finds that Bart has stripped numerous cartons of Neapolitan ice cream of the chocolate segment. An understandable decision, but an unfortunate one as well; that segment’s shade of brown is reminiscent of feces, and showcases the candy’s tendency to perspire. The tester expected a handful of barnyard flies to begin circling the unwrapped candy.
Packaging/Branding. If said flies failed to materialize, we may blame the extremely persistent plastic wrapping, as well as the candy’s propensity to melt into the wrapper’s folds. Prying a Neapolitan blob loose from its crinkly lair is a sticky affair, and traces left on the hands will act like superglue.
Description. Also known in certain quarters as “Italian flag cookies,” “tri-color cakes,” and “those pink-and-green thingies,” the seven-layer is recognized in almost all quarters as the last sweetmeat left on the Italian-bakery platter. Our tester’s customary strategy when confronted with a platter of that type is to divest it of every last pignoli cookie, then retire from the field to enjoy three hundred abdominal crunches and a nap, so she had little experience with the seven-layer — except to note that it, and it alone, remains on the plate at the end of a dessert service, a few of its number scarred by a single half-moon of teeth.
Anecdotal evidence suggested a determination of “revolting.” What would formal testing reveal?