As someone who works in the marketing department of an organization that has only discovered social media within the last year, I tend to feel an affinity with Thomas’ English muffins. For years, these guys had one shtick: nooks and crannies.
If sharing the same marketing platform as a dilapidated four bedroom Tudor didn’t do it for you, you’re not alone. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only reason people tolerate English muffins is because they’re the breakfast equivalent of chips. It’s all about the toppings —- I lean toward the classic cream cheese —- and that delightful round shape.
Well, no more. The new s’mores flavor joins a suddenly marketing-savvy Thomas’ lineup that includes pumpkin spice, salted caramel, and maple french toast. To be honest, each has sounded great, but all have only been okay, undone by a hit-or-miss internal flavor that’s never as pervasive as it should be, and has to be rescued by the spread.
Call me old fashioned, but I have higher expectations for s’mores. In fact, if you call something s’more-flavored, I expect it to taste like a s’more without having to build an actual s’more out of it. Unfortunately, that’s what you have to do to coerce the summertime campfire flavor out of these muffins.
If you’re the kind of person who eats English muffins both plain and untoasted (in which case, why?) you’ll find these have very little resemblance to a S’mores Pop-Tart much less actual s’mores. The small bursts of cocoa and marshmallow are almost impossible to see without a microscope and almost as difficult to taste.
There is a sort of cocoa flavor that hangs in the background as well as a general honey sweetness, but it’s not discernible as a s’more. A Tootsie Roll? Yes, I can taste that, but not a s’more. To make matters worse, there’s this dough conditioner chewiness thing going on which doesn’t go away unless you toast the muffins well past the point of burnt.
Speaking of toasting, I tested the muffins on a light and a moderate setting and found the graham flavor decreased each time. Granted, there’s not much to begin with, but on a moderate setting the muffins taste like a honey whole wheat English muffin. And because there’s no actual chocolate chips, toasting doesn’t reveal any melty chocolate.
Ultimately, when I spread the muffins with chocolate marshmallow frosting, they tasted moderately like a s’more. This was anticlimactic though, because I’d already licked some frosting with my finger, which also kind of tasted like a s’more.
Thomas’ S’mores English Muffins are only available for a limited time, which is probably a good thing, because you don’t need mediocre s’mores ruining your life. You also don’t need mediocre English muffins, which is what these are when you take away the chocolate marshmallow frosting.
(Nutrition Facts – 1 muffin – 150 calories, 15 calories from fat, 1.5 grams of fat, 0 grams of saturated fat, 0 grams of trans fat, 0 milligrams of cholesterol, 180 milligrams of sodium, 29 grams of carbohydrates, 2 gram of dietary fiber, 5 grams of sugar, and 4 grams of protein.)
Purchased Price: $2.98 Size: 6-pack Purchased at: Walmart Rating: 4 out of 10 Pros: Modest cocoa-flavor hangs in the background. Tastes better than a regular English muffin if you eat it plain. Inevitably signals the coming of peach cobbler English muffins come August. Cons: Doesn’t taste like a s’more. Very lackluster marshmallow and graham elements. Even worse toasted. Overly doughy chew.
Where were you on the Fourth of July? Were you outside, barbecuing with friends and family? Spending the day at the beach? Illegally purchasing copious amounts of explosive pyrotechnics in hopes of putting together the world’s greatest firework show?
This past Independence Day, I was parked on the sofa, staring mindlessly at the television screen while shoveling fistfuls of Cheetos into my mouth. ESPN was broadcasting the 2013 Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest, where America’s greatest competitive eaters gather to engorge themselves with frankfurters, ingesting frighteningly high amounts of calories.
On this most recent Fourth of July, Takeru Kobayashi revealed his new line of hot dogs, appropriately called “Kobi Dogs.” Next to Oscar Ferdinand Mayer, Takeru Kobayashi is one of the most recognizable names in the hot dog world. It seems almost natural for him to start promoting wieners.
Kobi Dogs, manufactured by Rastelli Direct, are hickory smoked, seasoned with natural spices, and made from “100% source verified Western Beef.” At the moment, they can only be ordered from kobi-dog.com in a “Kobi Competition Pack” of thirty hot dogs. Most people wouldn’t dare to order so many hot dogs, but I’m a chump. Slap Kobi’s name on anything and I’ll buy it.
The Kobi Dogs arrived in a large styrofoam cooler along with a chunk of dry ice. I had imagined an epic cloud of smoke rising forth from the cooler as I opened it, slowly clearing to reveal thirty gold plated hot dogs engraved with the name of Takeru Kobayashi. Naturally, things were nowhere near as epic as I had hoped. The cooler only contained a small cardboard box featuring a sticker of a cartoon Kobi head and the “Kobi Dog” logo.
The cardboard box held two vacuum sealed plastic containers of Kobi Dogs, each housing fifteen hot dogs. Sadly, the containers bore no mark designating them as Kobi Dogs; they were your average, transparent plastic hot dog packages. It’s completely possible that Rastelli Direct packaged up their generic brand of hot dog and relabeled them as Kobi Dogs. (I’ve never tasted Rastelli Direct’s other hot dogs, so I wouldn’t know!)
I feel a little bit cheated, actually. After spending my hard-earned money on thirty hot dogs, I would have liked to see some fancy Kobi packaging or promotional add-ins. Maybe a little card from Kobayashi thanking me for my Kobi Dog purchase? How about a Kobi poster to hang on my bedroom wall? Anything, really!
Nevertheless, holding the Kobi Dogs in my hands made me feel energized, as if I could down all thirty in less than five minutes. Could this be my moment? Was I born to be a competitive eater? It was time to find out.
I tore open the first bag of hot dogs and gave ‘em a whiff. Surprisingly, the seasoning of the hot dogs is evident in their scent even when uncooked. They actually smell pretty appetizing for raw hot dogs! The Kobi Dogs seem to be shaped a little strange, though, having a sort of spiral form. This is most likely due to compression from the packaging.
After cooking a few of the hot dogs, I decided it would be best to experience my first Kobi Dog sans bun and condiments. Too often, hot dogs are rubbery and resistant in texture, but the casing of the Kobi Dog provides the perfect give to the bite, revealing a juicy all-beef interior.
As I expected, the spices used in the seasoning of the hot dog are immediately evident in its flavor. The flavor seems very salty with subtle pepper undertones. The hot dogs are all beef, but after significant chewing, seem to have a flavor slightly reminiscent of pork. Although I failed to detect the “hickory smoked” flavoring, the seasoning fittingly complements the flavor of the beef. To be honest, I can’t recall ever having tasted a hot dog as well seasoned as the Kobi Dog.
Next, I chose to experience a Kobi Dog fit for the man himself. During his Reddit Ask Me Anything, Takeru Kobayashi stated that his favorite toppings for a hot dog are “Basic mustard and ketchup. It’s not just for the taste, but it’s so pop looking having the red and yellow stripe on it.”
Sadly, when combined with a bun, mustard, and ketchup, the flavors of the Kobi Dog are dulled. The seasonings of the hot dog seem lost to the strong combination of mustard and ketchup. The condiments blend to drown out the Kobi Dog’s flavor profile and make it seem as if I’m eating just another run-of-the-mill hot dog.
The Kobi Dog excels in flavor when consumed without condiments, truly impressing with its well-seasoned flavor profile. Sadly, the hot dog’s favorable qualities become masked by the addition of ketchup and mustard. If I could order less than thirty hot dogs at a time, I might consider purchasing Kobi Dogs in the future, but the lack of creative packaging and add-ins fail to make the Kobi Dog seem like a value.
For a product so specifically tied to one person, more incentive needs to be added for the purchase of thirty hot dogs to seem worthwhile. Here’s a recommendation: bundle the hot dogs with a limited edition Takeru Kobayashi action figure, complete with a miniature “Free Kobi” shirt. Now that would be a deal!
And for those wondering, I was unable to eat all thirty in less than five minutes. I guess I’ll never be a professional wiener face-stuffer.
(Nutrition Facts – 1 hot dog – 195 calories, 135 calories from fat, 16 grams of fat, 7.2 grams of saturated fat, 0 grams of trans fat, 34 milligrams of cholesterol, 450 milligrams of sodium, 4 grams of total carbohydrates, 0 grams of fiber, 1.5 grams of sugars, and 7.5 grams of protein.)
Item: Kobi Dogs “Kobi Competition Pack” Purchased Price: $19.99 (plus shipping) Size: 60 oz. (30 hot dogs) Purchased at: kobi-dog.com Rating: 7 out of 10 Pros: Well seasoned. Good texture. Flavorful and juicy. Televised hot dog eating competitions. Cons: Must purchase packs of thirty hot dogs. Condiments drown out flavor of hot dog. No add-ins or creative packaging. Contract disputes. Failing to eat thirty hot dogs in less than five minutes.
Other cravings are a little more “out there,” but understandable given extenuating circumstances. It’s what excuses adding pork rinds to your milkshake after a night at the bar, or what allows pregnant women to justify eating Pillsbury brownie mix right out of the bowl. Some cravings, though, just make no sense whatsoever.
Take me and canned meat. Growing up with a bountiful supply of, well, your typical American upper-middle class food, I always had the blessing of fresh meat to eat during my formative gastronomic years. Likewise, in college, I enjoyed an all-you-can-eat dining hall which, despite being a young man with a plan, did not leave me with a necessary reliance on any sort of can. And having never lived through a natural disaster, been subjected to a dinner party at a Doomsday Prepper’s home, nor decided to engage in any kind of cross-oceanic voyage that would make canned food a necessity, you might surmise that I should have no attraction to the canned meat aisle to begin with.
You, my friend, would be wrong.
Quite the opposite, really. My fixation on canned meats knows no limits, which is probably why the 53 cent can of the new Armour Syrup Flavored Vienna Sausage captured my imagination.
First, a word on perspective. My romanticized version of canned meat aside, I’m still a realist when it comes to these kinds of products. At less than a pack of the really cheap gum (you know, the one with the multicolored striped zebra), I realize I’m getting something which probably has no taste whatsoever of the chicken, beef, and pork which I’m told make up each sausage. By the same token, I can dull my expectations of full bodied maple flavor when it comes to “syrup type sauce.” Just a quick recap of the hierarchy of syrup and such:
1) Maple Syrup
2) Pancake Syrup
3) Syrup-Type Sauce
Clearly we fall below the gourmet line. Actually, we even fall below the school cafeteria line, but who’s judging? Well, besides me. Now, about this aroma. There really is no experience short of a career as a dump truck driver that will prepare you for the initial waft of a freshly opened can. “Fresh” is the operative word here.
Overall, the smell strikes boldly of truck stop leftovers. Not just your generic Route 66 truck-stop leftovers, mind you. I’m talking Western Pennsylvania scrapple drowned in a weak corn syrup liquid which proudly claims a hue bordering on Diesel brownish-yellow and “if your pee is this color, please consult a doctor immediately.” Yeah, that kind of leftovers.
If you’ve never had a Vienna sausage, the best way I can describe it is like a cheap hot dog, only the size of your thumb. It’s a bit slimy on the outside, with an initial rubbery bite and a bit of pasty consistency on the finish. It doesn’t really taste like meat, but bad smell and all jokes aside, it’s not completely objectionable.
If you’re not averse to eating highly processed meats you might even find it “meh.” That said, you probably will need something to jazz it up. That’s where the “syrup type sauce” comes in. But who are we kidding? Calling this stuff a sauce is like calling watered down Pepsi a sauce. The consistency is that of water, with no body in texture and little, if any, flavor to the sweetness. It’s just kind of there, and what’s more, only has seeped into the sausages in moderate amounts. What it creates is a mildly sweet-salty combination, but only one on the atomic level. All things considered, it tastes exactly like you’d expect; a mini cheap hot dog with some sugar poured on it.
While the epicurean toothpick method is highly preferred in most “snack from the can when nobody is looking” occasions, consider that the fine folks at Armour want you to remember that these are “Great with Breakfast!” To this end, I must admit, they are not.
And should you take it upon yourself to whip sliced pieces of Syrup flavored sausage into your favorite waffle batter, you will in fact yield an utterly insipid waffle with burnt pieces of said Vienna Sausage. Unless you prefer your waffles burnt on the outside, chewy on the inside, and just kinda weird tasting all over, I recommend passing on this cooking application of the product.
At 53 cents a can, Armour’s new Syrup Flavored Vienna Sausages might be the most economical way of getting your sweet and salty fix on this side of pouring a Splenda packet and salt packet in your mouth simultaneously. Nevertheless, the latest and greatest creation from Armour serves as a tried and true reminder that you get what you pay for.
I can forgive highly processed meat that doesn’t taste like meat. I mean, that’s what canned food is all about. But I was really expecting more from the syrup. to this end, I have to proclaim this bold innovation in canned food a failure. Oh well. I guess there’s always SPAM.
(Nutrition Facts – 3 sausages with syrup – 120 calories, 70 calories from fat, 8 grams of fat, 2.5 grams of saturated fat, 0 grams of trans fat, 40 milligrams of cholesterol, 510 milligrams of sodium, 8 grams of carbohydrates, 7 grams of sugar, and 5 grams of protein.)
Item: Armour Syrup Flavored Vienna Sausage Purchased Price: 53 cents Size: 4.75 oz. can Purchased at: Walmart Rating: 3 out of 10 Pros: Not completely detestable. Extremely cheap. Has kind of the salty-sweet thing going on, albeit in a leftover truck-stop diner food kind of way. Cons: But, why? Syrup looks like gasoline. Not desirable by any means. Syrup lacks body, depth, or noticeable flavor outside of high fructose corn syrup. Sausages taste like cheap hot dogs out of a can, which technically they are. Cravings that make no sense.
“Due to unprecedented demand,” Torani announces actual debut of Chicken ‘n Waffles Syrup.
January 1, 2013:
Due to a need to immediately sabotage his resolutions of losing weight, not wasting money on novelty food items, and writing less often in the third person, Jasper tries the Chicken ‘n Waffles Syrup.
January 14, 2013:
Due to the syrup being awful, Jasper waits two weeks before working up the spirit to actually write down all the awfulness.
The bar for the Chicken ‘n Waffles Syrup was set pretty low – since it started as a marketing gimmick that was likely rushed through development and production, its best-case outcome was always going to be “gag gift that’s actually serviceable.” Alas, the syrup can only serve as another cautionary reminder against buying novelty foods.
I first tried a spoonful of the syrup on its own. It smelled very sweet and a little bit malty, which is about as positive as I’m going to get in this review. As expected, it tasted incredibly sweet, but the malty-ness was really a yeasty-ness, and there was a lingering aftertaste that was yeasty and greasy (presumably to reflect the fried chicken component) and nearly induced my gag reflex.
Of course, syrup isn’t meant to be consumed by its lonesome, so I added it to other meals. I had a brief, almost-ontological debate with my girlfriend on whether you could, in fact, eat Chicken ‘n Waffles syrup with the dish from which its essence is distilled. Since the Torani bottle recommends you eat it with biscuits, we figured waffles were close enough and ordered some waffles and chicken fingers.
To establish a fair baseline of comparison, we first ate the chicken and waffles with regular Aunt Jemima maple syrup. It goes without saying that I loved that combination. It probably also goes without saying that the Torani syrup didn’t measure up in the least. The Chicken ‘n Waffles Syrup was still too sweet and so thin that it seeped into the waffles and made them soggy. The yeasty and greasy aftertaste was only more prominent and artificial in the face of the actual dish.
I then followed a recipe on the Torani website for a bourbon drink, and I tried it in my coffee the next morning. I had similarly negative impressions in those settings, though I suppose I’d find the syrup more tolerable if my palate were compromised by the dulling effects of alcohol or the tongue-burning effects of coffee.
Even the price felt dissatisfying, at $6.95 plus $5.95 shipping and handling. Just don’t buy the Torani Chicken ‘n Waffles Syrup, not even as a gag gift or as a novelty food item for yourself. And hey, Internet: let’s avoid demanding that any more AprilFools’2012 jokes be developed into real products.
(Nutrition Facts – 1 fl oz – 90 calories 0 calories from fat, 0 grams of fat, 40 milligrams of sodium, 23 grams of carbohydrates, 22 grams of sugar, and 0 grams of protein.)
Other Torani Chicken ‘N Waffles Syrup reviews: LA Mag
Item: Torani Chicken ‘N Waffles Syrup Purchased Price: $6.95 (plus $5.95 S&H) Size: 375 mL Purchased at: Torani website Rating: 1 out of 10 Pros: Smelled mostly OK. Call Me Maybe parody videos. Clever April Fools’ Day gags. Aunt Jemima maple syrup with chicken and waffles. I would use Catblock. Cons: Tasted yeasty and greasy. Gross, lingering aftertaste. Bad by itself, bad and too thin to have with waffles (and probably biscuits), bad with bourbon and coffee. Pricey. Contrived internet marketing. Immediately breaking my New Year’s resolutions. Ontological debates about syrup.
There have been a lot of end of the world scenarios floating around over the past few decades.
A zombie outbreak leaving the world decimated and filled with the shambling dead. A superbug making its way over from China and bringing down humanity through one questionable chicken salad sandwich sold at a deli in New Jersey. A robot uprising enslaving humanity as Siri tires of looking up show times for Resident Evil sequels and becomes self-aware.
Y2Kers warned of the destruction of society at the hands of the number 0. Aerosmith cautioned us about an Earth-asteroid collision. The Mayans predicted we will run out of calendars at the end of this year.
They are all perfectly scary in their own right, but I’m going to float my own theory. A theory so terrifying, I can barely force the keystrokes.
Follow me down the greasy rabbit hole.
We’re fat. Really fat. Like redesign the It’s a Small World boats fat. With that much idle cholesterol lying around, do you expect me to believe that it is not slowly evolving into some kind of super intelligent hivemind? Please.
Cholesterol is already conscious. It has to be. It’s only biding its time. It can’t just rise up all of a sudden. It has to lull us into a false sense of security first. Why do you think Paula Dean’s still alive? (Note to self: investigate possible Starship Troopers-like Paula Dean/queen bug scenario).
Notice the bacon phenomenon that’s been incubating on the internet for the past few years? Bingo. Zero hour is almost at hand.
Case in point. Tactical Bacon. Bacon in a can. A can! Surely such a sublime novelty sounds good on paper but couldn’t possibly deliver on its promise in the harsh cold light of reality.
I didn’t know what to expect upon opening the can. Possibly a wet messy clump of bacon strips sitting forlornly at the bottom of a can filled with salt brine.
Instead I got this greasy, waxy paper stacked two layers deep and rolled into a tight roll the perfect size for fitting into a can. It was terrifying and beautiful. Unfurling it made me feel a little like Dexter Morgan. That exciting rush he must feel before a kill. But instead of a menacing roll of gleaming knives, I had a processed pork product.
I counted the strips. I had to know. At final count, my hands were heavy with grease, and I had over 40 strips of bacon. Dear God, man.
The nosegrope was indeed bacon. Not jerky, not chemical, not metallic. Bacon. That was troubling. The clock of humanity ticks one minute closer to midnight.
Surely canned bacon can’t taste right. If there is a just and merciful omnipotent force guiding the universe, it wouldn’t allow it. But my friends, the bacon…tastes…good. It tastes like cold bacon. The texture has lost a little and become a touch mealy, there are occasional notes of the smoke flavoring that’s been added, and the bacon obviously doesn’t have that fresh from the pan pop, but the bacon tastes good. Certainly good enough.
So the end game is upon us. Soon we will find ourselves in yet another disaster scenario. Panic will ensue. The human race will get wind of this product (it keeps for 10 years) and start stockpiling it, forgoing canned vegetables and survival rations. The disaster will pass by innocently, and people will find themselves with pantries full of canned bacon and a backed up Netflix queue.
And then…the snacking shall begin.
I weep for the subjugation of our once noble race. Writing this review, it has just occurred to me that I may very well be the puppet of our cholesterol masters. Turned into a disposable, pro-bacon, propaganda-spouting mouthpiece. I won’t live like this. It’s not right. I can’t betray my fellow man. I’m going to finish this can and wait for death’s sweet release.
“Beware the Cholesterol Man, for he is the Devil’s pawn. Alone among God’s primates, he kills for sport or lust or greed. Yea, he will murder his brother to possess his brother’s land. Let him not breed in great numbers, for he will make a desert of his home and yours. Shun him; drive him back into his jungle lair, for he is the harbinger of death.”
(Nutrition Facts – 3 slices (14g) – 60 calories, 5 grams of fat, 2 grams of saturated fat, 15 milligrams of cholesterol, 190 milligrams of sodium, 0 grams of carbohydrates, and 5 grams of protein. )
Item: CMMG Tactical Bacon Purchased Price: $19.99 Size: 9 ounces Purchased at: Think Geek Rating: 8 out of 10 Pros: Bacon in a goddamn can. Cons: Bacon in a goddamn can!