KULFI ICE

Ice lollies are a tricky genre of essentially average food to get right. The trick, generally, is to stay reasonably close to the fundamentals, of which the bedrock is a stick.

All ice lollies abide by this base, but beyond that, it’s chaos: icy ice lollies and ice creamy ice lollies and those that opt for the blend, with mixed success. You can stretch far beyond the average and fail, but you can also be far too average – see plain orange lollies. You can also succeed wildly by pushing the lolly game in directions that seem so inherently wrong, such as in the case of Slovenia’s finest, the Maxim Premium.

Kulfi Ice strikes one immediately as a product of a similar origin to the latter: the continental food store, either literally on ‘the continent’ or just down your UK city’s street. Victories and tragedies can be found in the freezers of such places.

Yet in a shock development, Kulfi Ice can in fact be sourced from a freezer in any medium-sized Tesco store and above. How the partnership coalesced is shrouded in mystery, but the fact that it did is a joy. For Kulfi Ice is a banger, make no mistake.

It has taken the model of the Mini Milk and pushed that particular ticket significantly. Firstly, it’s not so mini; this a satisfying snack of not-insignificant length and girth, offering the opportunity for at least a degree of savouring.

Then, it has the audacity to throw nuts into the mix, not as a crunchy outer coating put as a fundamental part of the thing itself. It’s a bold move which pays off in spades. Pistachios! Almonds! Nightmare times for the nut-allergic but for their devotees, wonderment. The flavours are mild but appreciable, created by masters deep in understanding of the need to stray beyond ‘cool thing on stick’, but not too far.

Another thing Kulfi Ice has got going for it is endearingly crap packaging graphic design. In a world where every second person claims to be a professional graphic designer, this is as refreshing as the lolly itself. It appears to feature clip art, as well an aggressive range of typefaces. ‘A true taste of the East’ claims the dubiously-aligned slogan. We’re not sure about that, but we’ll let them get away with it.

This may be the best thing presently on the aisles of Tesco PLC. Ice lolly aficionados take advantage, before the innate British fear of the foreign stops this low-level freezer revolution in its tracks before it’s truly begun.

KULFI ICE: 9/10

VIENNETTA/ ARCTIC ROLL

Born for a double-bill, Viennetta and Arctic Roll both sit in a unique socio-economic and philosophical niche. They are also both, clearly, ice cream centred.

This pair of freezer fancies are low-value products with ever-diminishing status – possibly even maligned. They are most commonly seen in highly mediocre convenience outlets such as Costcutter and Spar. They are local and relatable, yet so highly contrived as to be vaguely mysterious.

They are the dickhead mates with hearts of gold, there when you need them to somehow both mock your situation and improve it, if only for a short while. They are a cold warmth, a gaudy backslap in times of struggle.

Reader, I have been in both Viennetta and Arctic Roll moments on many occasions. Admittedly, Arctic Roll is generally a fallback in the case of no Viennetta stock, and my consumption of it so infrequent that I neglected to notice that it had been both discontinued and revived. Regardless, the links continue.

Wall’s and Bird’s Eye, the respective manufacturers, find themselves struggling for relevance in a world of faux-artisan options. It is somehow incredible that these products cling on to the shelves of mainstream commerce, yet they do, rather like the fallen big-time comic now doing free shows of the same material in the upstairs rooms of pubs at the Edinburgh Fringe to die-hard returning customers.

It is time for the reviews, I suppose. OK then.

Viennetta is almost indistinguishable across its various flavour and colour guises. This is reassuring. The ice cream is more often than not initially rock hard, then on the verge of melting after three minutes in a bowl with no intermediary period of consistency. This is also reassuring. The crunch of the chocolate layered effect is delectable, the chocolate itself less so. All in all, it is uniquely of itself.

Arctic Roll offers a vanilla/raspberry and a double-chocolate option. The latter is untrue to the source material, so should not be considered as an edible option. The soft-sponge-meets-ice cream effect does not pack the punch of the Viennetta. Ultimately, despite also being uniquely of itself, it does suffer additionally in comparison to its review-mate due to it bringing back horrible flashbacks of school lunch hours.

There may not be many years of shelf life left for these hardy veterans of low-brow dessert. My advice: stockpile.

Viennetta: 9/10

Arctic Roll: 7/10

MAXIM PREMIUM ICE CREAM LOLLY – BOROVNICA (BLUEBERRY)

As a child, my mum always used to say to me: “Never underestimate Slovenian ice cream lollies.”

I nodded dutifully, while never fully understanding the weight, or indeed point, of her words.

But now the day has come, and I understand clearly. For Slovenia’s very own Maxim Premium blueberry-flavoured ice cream lolly is one of the leaders of its kind.

From the sublime crunch of the white chocolate coating to the subtle nudges of fruit provided by the cold creamy goodness within, this is a once-in-a-generation sweet freezer-originating treat. Inspired. Experimental. Traditional. Confusing, in all the right ways.

I cannot give it a ten out of ten. The Slovenians, as far as I’m aware, are a modest people, and I am very concerned that they would take a full marks as a badge of satire. I am absolutely not here to lampoon. In the realm of European sweetmeats, I have a reputation for taking matters extremely seriously indeed.

Also, if we’re going to get down to the very brass tacks of the matter, this ice cream lolly is too small. You could argue that eating a Maxim Premium is an experience to be treasured regardless of such crass issues as size, but it’s also, crucially, one that calls for elongation. The latter argument is, for me, far more compelling, so gets 0.5 points knocked off.

Another 0.5 reduction is for having a brand name that more evokes a type of scented condom than a delicious cold food experience. 

I can admit it now: for all these years, I have unconsciously been underestimating Slovenian ice cream lollies, flying in the face of my mother’s marvellous advice. Never again. Never. Again.

Oi, Magnum: Ljubljana called. It’s just chuckling on the end of the line. Shall I tell it you’ll call back later?

9/10

WHITE CHOCOLATE FINGERS

some fingers, yesterday 

Fingers. Sticks. Rigidity. Mouths. I’m not going to make any jokes involving these notions. What do you think this is, a Year 8 playground? I’m trying to run a highly respected gustatorily-based academic journal here. Save the puerile shit for Giles ‘I used to be funny but now I’m a prick’ Coren.

Ok, let’s crack on.

I am a relative newcomer to the Finger scene. They were a ubiquitous presence at birthday parties from between the ages of about 2 and 12, before a whole different sort ‘finger’ became de rigeur (I’m sorry, I’m sorry), but even then I only went to about two or three such parties a year. Never had many friends, you see. (And just LOOK at me now!) It is very rare to encounter chocolate fingers outside of the context of a children’s party. I’ve no idea why this is the case, it just is.

With the aforementioned finger lodged somewhere in the dusty recesses of my anus consciousness, I went shopping recently. I happened upon a box of chocolate fingers, and I thought to myself: “I could bosh a pack of those. Why the hell not?” And why the hell not indeed? Last time I looked, there was no law against it. #MeToo has surely not extended to this type of finger (I’m so, so sorry).

So, dear reader, I bought. I bought, and I boshed. I boshed the entire pack in a single sitting. Beaucoup de boshing ensued.

The fingers were of the white chocolate variety. The lesser spotted albino chocolate finger. And they were delicious. Crunchy yet firm, and fearsomely addictive. Try eating a single white chocolate finger and then not boshing another few; it’s impossible. They make Pringles look like dates. (Seriously, dates are the opposite of addictive: have one date and you won’t want to even look at another date for about a year.)

Another great thing about chocolate fingers is that you can eat them in a variety of ways. Here is my preferred method: (1) snap in half, (3) put half the finger in your mouth, WITHOUT CHEWING, (3) suck the chocolate off until all that remains is some slightly soggy but nonetheless al dente biscuit, (4) chew/crunch the biscuity bit, (5) repeat with the other half of the finger, (6) continue with the rest of the pack. Hours of fun for all the family.

Chocolate fingers, according to a respectable source,* come in a plethora of flavours, including toffee, white chocolate, milk chocolate and dark chocolate. I’ve never had the dark chocolate ones but I can’t imagine they are much good. If I want dark chocolate I probably am not in the mood for a finger, and vice versa. I’m also not quite sure how toffee fingers would work. Surely the elasticity of the toffee would have a deleterious effect on the crunch of the biscuit. I don’t know, I haven’t tried them. And quite frankly, after boshing the white chocolate variety, I’m never trying another finger again.

Once you’ve gone white, you’re all right.

White chocolate fingers: 10/10

(This blog wins the award for the most uses of the verb ‘to bosh’ in a single blog post.)

*Wikipedia

PINGVIN LÆKKERMIXEN

Average Food Blog does not shy away from niche international foodstuffs, and after a Danish friend left a half-finished bag of these Scandi snacks in my home, it provided a perfect opportunity to slip back into a subgenre of mediocre food writing we know so well.

First things first: on the packaging reads the words ‘Blød SKUM’. This means ‘blood SCUM’, and I have no desire to hear the views of either a) Google Translate or b) Danes as a means of proving me otherwise.

The pingvin after which these sweets are so named is also illustrated on said packaging, taking on a downright threatening pose. Armed with knife and fork, instruments of no traditional role in the eating of liquorice sweets, it is a blatant admission that the blood scum in question is of human origin.

As it transpires, the liquorice/blood scum mix is very pleasant.

I am an unashamed Liquorice Allsort fan, against all whims of fashion and good taste, and despite the addition of blood scum, these are very much playing on a similar stage. In fact, with all due respect to Bassett’s, the murderous polar bird sweets are the headliners, to Allsorts’ mid-afternoon set.

There is a broader palette of flavours here, from a deeper, more oaky liquorice than the British tongue is quite used to, to the tang of fruit. The sugary bits are more subtle than Bassett’s, more an exciting courtship than a hook-up in a pub toilet.

While this is not a Euro sweetmeat selection on a par with Isleri + Eurocrem or even Salam de Biscuiti, it is a solid, varied and worthy effort from our north European neighbours. Ultimately, though, not one for the squeamish.

7/10

FERRERO ROCHER

Reader, I know full well what you want me to write in this blog.

You want me to go straight in on The Ambassador, don’t you.

You want me to put down on this niche blog what you’ve always wanted to express, namely this: fuck you, The Ambassador. Fuck your impeccable taste in mediocre sweetmeats, your mediocre moneyed guests with shit accents and over-enthusiasm for your mediocre sweetmeats.

Fuck everything you stand for, The Ambassador, you utter besuited prick. Fuck the diplomatic codes of politeness, clandestine soft intelligence gathering, sweetmeats arranged like ancient tombs.

But I can’t express any of that with honesty, no matter how much you might want it. Average Food Blog cannot be the crowd-pleaser you so eagerly crave.

Because Ferrero Rocher, if you look beyond all the abject wankery of Ferrero’s marketing department, are pretty decent.

Sure, it’s hardly the world’s best chocolate or premium nuts involved in the mix, but the combination of flavours and textures is somewhat compelling, especially within the context of finding yourself lolling in the sort of advanced state of passivity that only major Christian festivals can bring.

They are not the best of their food genre but nonetheless are indelibly linked to serial eating, much in the same way that Pringles are not a leading crisp but have the same effect.

Of course, there is some possibility that mind-altering chemicals have been injected into each and every bobbly, spherical melting pot of doom to make me feel this way. That ultimately I’m being duped, that the powers that be have got their claws into AFB in a way that strongly suggests the direct or at very least implied involvement of yes, you’ve guessed it, The Ambassador.

OK OK, fuck The Ambassador. You happy now?

Season’s Greetings to all on the internet.

FERRERO ROCHER: 7/10

REDUCED-SALT

This is a reduced-salt blog post.

See?

You feel short-changed now don’t you.

Exactly.*

 

*basically, fuck reduced-salt shit.

MRS CRIMBLE

I won’t hear a bad word said against Mrs Crimble. Her macaroons are delectable.

But look; I was as suspicious as the next baked goods consumer at the advent of the Mrs Crimble’s cranberry macaroon. My guard immediately fell to pieces on mouth entry. It’s arguably an improvement on the coconut model; an innovation hitherto thought impossible.

Much gluten-free food is overpriced, pointless, weird-textured twaddle peddled by cynics at those who are fearful of their bodies, their minds, and life. But Mrs Crimble applies herself with love and attention to detail that must be recognised in the top echelons of media that Average Food Blog surely embodies.

Sure, there are lesser vehicles in her garage: the bakewell slices are strong performers if not quite reaching peak Crimble, and the flapjacks are derivative of every pre-packaged flapjack in Christendom: decidedly mediocre. But she has not lost my trust while she continues to roll her macaroons off the production line.

If Mrs Crimble got herself into a war, I’d be on the front line with her, battling gamely against the amorphous armies of gluten with a joyous mastication of macaroon in my gob.

MRS CRIMBLE’S COCONUT MACAROONS: 9/10

MRS CRIMBLE’S CRANBERRY MACAROONS: 9.5/10

FIG ROLLS

Ladies and gentlemen, before I start typing solely in capital letters, I want you to strap yourself in for a stunning revelation.

OK? Good. Off we go.

DRIED FIGS AND FIG ROLLS TASTE EXACTLY THE SAME. THE ONLY DIFFERENCE OF ANY KIND IS THAT DRIED FIGS ARE SLIGHTLY CHEWIER, BUT THIS, AS IT TURNS OUT, IS AN ENJOYABLE ADVANTAGE.

THE MAIN IMPLICATION OF WHICH BEING THAT THERE NEVER WAS ANY NEED FOR THE ‘ROLL’ ELEMENT OF THE FIG ROLL.

I REPEAT: THERE NEVER WAS ANY NEED FOR THE ‘ROLL’ ELEMENT OF THE FIG ROLL.

LOGICALLY, THIS LEADS TO A REVEALING OF THE SECOND, NO LESS SHOCKING IMPLICATION: THERE WAS NEVER ANY NEED FOR FIG ROLLS AT ALL.

WE HAVE BEEN SWINDLED FOR ALL THIS TIME, PEOPLE.

SOMEONE*, SOMEWHERE** IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS HIDEOUS PULLING OF SOFT PASTRY-TEXTURED WOOL OVER JUST SO MANY EYES.

I’M SORRY FOR RUINING YOUR DAY.

DRIED FIGS/ FIG ROLLS: 6/10
*THE ILLUMINATI, IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE FLOUR INDUSTRY

**I’M SAYING AN INDUSTRIAL ESTATE JUST OUTSIDE OF SWINDON

MALTED MILK BISCUITS

some malted milks, yesterday

When I was little, the non-chocolatey biscuits were always left languishing on the biscuit plate once all their chocolatey mates had been snapped up, a bit like children in care at the end of a school day. Just like athlete Kriss Akabusi, Big Issue founder John Bird, actor Samantha Morton and my own adopted uncle, however, malted milk biscuits go to show that growing up in such circumstances is far from a barrier to future greatness.

Malted milk biscuits are defiantly unglamorous; they are the Jeremy Corbyn of the biscuit world. They will win no prizes, and let’s not kid ourselves: in a general biscuit election they will always be beaten by a posturing, overrated Bourbon or a solid, straight-down-the-line chocolate digestive. But malted milks are quietly, understadedly classy. The epithet ‘malted’ expresses a certain rural, artisanal wholesomeness and refers to the pleasing, low-lying barley ambience imparted by the biscuit, and the milk element, whilst lying at a mere 1%, provides a certain je ne sais quoi. I could happily eat a whole pack of malted milk biscuits in a single sitting. They are nice. But they are not Nice – that is another type of biscuit. (Incidentally, is the word ‘Nice’ pronounced ‘nice’ or ‘nice’? Answers on a postcard, please.)

What’s more, in what is surely the ultimate test for any biscuit, malted milks are eminently dunkable: they cohere in their original shape and can withstand a fairly vigorous dunking, whilst at the same time becoming infused with tea. (If you dunk biscuits in coffee you are a monster.)

Malted milks are the thinking person’s biscuit. If you are the kind of moron who watches the Kardashians, listens to stuff by Simon Cowell, reads FHM and lols at Dapper Laughs, then fuck off and have an Oreo.

Malted milk biscuits: 10/10