While the unphotogenic nature of this odd candy may seem to have something to do with the waxy translucence of the packaging, I can report that, even unwrapped, it does pretty much look like a turd that’s been hung out to dry in the sun. The same can be said for the churchkhela’s fresher cousin, although I imagine these confections fare better when encased within the traditional layer of thickened fruit juice, instead of one formed from intractable high fructose corn syrup. The processed imitation, despite its “aphrodisiac” claims, seems more silly than anything, encased in a soft plasticine aspic that demands knife-cutting rather than direct biting chomping. The taste is passable, with some hints of grape molasses (technically grape must, according to the ingredients list) and large walnut chunks helping to combat the otherwise-overwhelming artificiality on display. As for real stuff, despite churchkhela’s popularity beyond its native Georgia, into Turkey (the origin point of this snack), Armenia, Russia and beyond, I have not seen it anywhere in NYC. The Turkish on the packaging describes a “grape walnut dried sausage,” (despite what the Engish/German/French translations read); I imagine the fresh version’s range is limited to places where grapes grow in abundance, their byproducts funneled into mass sweet treat diversions. Georgia is wine country, and so blessed with these sort of resources, necessitating similar overflow desserts like pelamushi, a beautiful, pretty delicious grape pudding. Churchkhela can’t compete in the looks department (at its best it seems to resemble a poorly made candle or a fire cracker), but I imagine that, consumed on some remote Georgian vineyard in the fading evening light, it can make for a pretty magical experience in its own right.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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