Well! A trip to the city to get my pre-order of Pokemon X (and swanky poster and Pokeball 3DS card holder) could only mean one thing: trying more imported American candy from one of the independent confectionery places.
Shock horror though, in that they were out of Baby Ruths, the one candy bar I intended to try this weekend. So I got a couple of different things, then set about getting a late lunch.
To cut a short story shorter, late lunch was a disaster. It was all going great until the penultimate potato wedge, which was bitter and unappetizing. Disappointed, and having missed my train from the queue in the store I bought them, I considered lifting my spirits with a piece of candy.
Twizzlers! Strawberry Twizzlers! Some sweet, gummy, fruity candy would soothe my soul and purge any possible traces of Solanine from my tongue, right?
What I expected and what I got was diametrically opposed. What I got was something that tasted like partially-set plastic that had, at some point in its pained lifespan, been splashed with a strawberry fruit beverage and not had the spillage washed off. If someone ever asks me what disappointment might taste of (if they were to give flavours to abstract concepts), then my answer would be Strawberry Twizzlers.
Which brings me to the pun in the title. Desperate for something to ease the crushing weight of disappointment from two failed foodstuffs, I whipped out my second purchase. A Pay Day bar.
I like caramel, after all. I adore peanuts. Unwrapping the top to be presented with a brick of those combined ingredients, I took an eager bite.
I quickly folded the wrapper over the top, and put it back in the bag. It was both salted and sweet. These tastes clashed on my tongue and I rolled my eyes with disappointment before gazing at the train station clock, willing it to tick faster.
Until I got curious, and took another bite of the Pay Day bar. And another. And then one more. Soon the bar was gone, and I was left with sweetness in my mouth and the tang of salt on my lips. It was an illicit tryst of flavours, firing off each other in strange ways and mitigating the impact of the other. It was a salacious snack orgy, and I was hooked.
Twizzlers would be left stood in the rain, perhaps holding a wilted flower as they nursed their bruised pride. The Pay Day bar was ushered up to the VIP lounge, to imbibe sherbet and sup IRN-BRU with its sexy friend, Butterfinger.
(I'm willing to guess that I may have missed out on something with Twizzlers. I note that if you bite both ends off it forms a straw-like structure, perhaps it goes better if used to slurp something?)