Despite the slightly confusing camel wrapper (do they have camels in Russia? An office debate ensued), the golden Russian script gave away this sweetie’s source. As we peeled off the wrapper, we were confronted with a lovely two-inch long milk chocolate truffle. The interior had a perfectly crumbly consistency, laced with naughty traces of biscuit and nougat. Just the right size to perch on the saucer alongside an early morning cup of Russian coffee.
A quick flip through our Russian-English dictionary shows that zefir means marshmallow. It must be a loose definition, because the interior of this crumbly chocolate mess is grainer and more tangy than what we’re used to. The chocolate itself is also a little waxy tasting. The overall experience of consuming this bad boy left us feeling, well, a little marsh-hollow.
When you bite into a fat piece of chocolate such as this, the last thing you expect to find under the meltingly sweet layers of cocoa is a prune. And this crafty purveyor of confectionary must have realised there was a gap in the market for just such a treat. When you’re not expecting it, the taste is a tad strange, but it does grow on you. In fact, if the quality of the chocolate itself was better, we reckon it could be a winning combo.
Reclining on a lounger a flouncy 19th century waif pulls at a curl of hair while her attentive suitor motions her other hand towards his quivering lips. If the picture label on this Russian chocolate doesn’t make you puke then the confectionery inside almost certainly will. The dark chocolate exterior gives way to a praline so bland and cloying it attaches itself to the roof of your mouth faster than you can say Kamchatka. After that, your only wish is to be free from the foul-tasting mush as quickly as possible. So much sugar, so little point.