In America, when most people think liquorice they think Twizzlers. When someone offers me licorice and then hands me a Twizzler I want to strangle them with a piece of Darrell Lea Soft Eating Liquorice, but it's far too pliant and delicious to take a human life.

I've prided myself on not writing a Snacktaku review with an agenda. I didn't write last week's Nutella review with an eye on discrediting Jif's new horrible chocolate hazelnut spread. My Hardee's bunch of disgusting meat on a bun review wasn't a stab at the national institution; I'm the little guy, they're the big guy—I know my place.


Having said that, fuck Twizzlers in their stupid Twizzler face.

I realize my views might be somewhat controversial given the current political climate, but I assure you, one bite into the soft and chew glory that is Darrell Lea's Soft Eating Liquorice, imported from the far-flung fantasy kingdom of Australia, and you will never want one of those vile, pig penis-like corkscrews to pass your lips ever again.

I know what you're thinking—only black candy flavored with the roots of the liquorice plant are liquorice at all—the rest is just chewy candy. That's technically true, but your Coke machine sells Pepsi and your Xerox machine is made by Canon. We accept and move on.

What makes Australian liquorice so glorious? It's the pillowy softness. Your teeth sink into the thick cylinder which bursts with flavor at their intrusion. It's nature's most ineffective defense mechanism, making the victim even more desirable once the attack begins.


It's pliable, like edible clay, only that sounds truly horrible and you should probably forgot I said it.

I've tried several different brands of Australian liquorice over the past few years, some more pliant than others. One particular brand whose name escapes me at the moment was almost more of a liquorice paste. Hershey, the makers of Twizzlers, released their own Australian-style liquorice a few years back, but it was far too firm, as if they had used the same formula as those twirly bastards and just molded it differently. That doesn't work.


Just look at that picture. Which looks more delectable? Which looks like a plastic children's toy? Note the dramatic angle. That's how serious I am about my liquorice—dramatic angle serious.


What's amazing is that these two flavors of Darrell Lea—strawberry and liquorice proper—are imported from across the globe, carried on the wings of majestic hawks to the aisle of my local Target store. I can only imagine what it tastes like fresh from the factory in New South Wales.


I'll admit that this might be less of a review and more of a go-out-and-buy-all-the-Darrell-Lea article, but it's also much more than that. It's a condemnation of what the snacksters in my country have embraced as acceptable eating. It's a demand for higher quality combinations of sugar, wheat flour and molasses.

And it's a desperate plea to Luke Plunkett to gather up all the Darrell Lea he can find and ship it to my house. We only have strawberry and black here, Luke! Where is the mango? The green apple? The chocolate-coated strawberry? I've known you for nearly six years and not once have you sent me a box full of lovely little paper bags. The closest I've come is a package my friend Chantelle from Brisbane put together but then let her children eat instead.


So I beg you, Luke Plunkett of Australia, the land where men are so tough they beat their liquorice into soft eating submission, I beg you have mercy. Tell you what, I'll send you a half-eaten bag of Twizzlers.

Snacktaku is Kotaku's take on the wild and wonderful world of eating things, but not eating meals. Eating meals is for those with too much time on their hands. Past critiques can be found at the Snacktaku review archive.

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