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?
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.