Customer Reviews

Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America

5 star:		(56)
4 star:		(27)
3 star:		(7)
2 star:		(5)
1 star:		(11)

 

 

If Steve Almond is a candyfreak, then I'm a candywhore. I'll take it where I can get it and I'm not half as discriminating about its origins.
That said, you can't help but laugh outright at the sugar-fanaticism of a man who gets faint with joy witnessing the birth of chocolate bunnies and is rendered speechless at the thoughtless waste of even one piece of chocolate, recalling, "I stood there in a cloud of disillusionment...I'm someone who has been known to eat the pieces of candy found underneath my couch."
Goaded by the disappearance of his adored Caravelle bar, Almond (yes, he talks about the name) tours independent candy companies (read: anyone other than Mars, Nestle, or Hershey) to, "chronicle their struggles for survival in this wicked age of homogeneity, and, not incidentally, to load up on free candy."
The best laughs are all in the first five chapters. I giggled, chuckled and guffawed my way through the author's confessions of freak-like candy-hoarding, reveling in the kind of sweet self-effacing wit only a candy junkie could muster.
From there, it's mostly an historical tour of the four candy companies he visited, fascinating and richly detailed, yet interspersed with progressively more disturbing moments of personal crisis. At one point the author himself notes, "I realize that I am oversharing," a phrase that, in a work of humor especially, should be immediately followed by the words, "so I'll quit while I'm ahead." No such luck. From that point on, we are treated to sad reflections on how one may ineffectively attempt to use candy to fill the void created by emotionally unavailable parents, an alarming, overly personal description of penile hypochondria, and finally, how Dubya, terrorists, college hockey players, and Reaganomics are to blame for everything from airport security to the author's inability to give up pot and find love. I found the experience much like seeing a houseguest naked -- you don't know whether to avert your eyes and mumble an apology or pretend it's hilarious and hope he laughs along.
The erratic emotional pitch of the book can be summed up by Almond's description of a candy-orgy during a San Francisco layover; "A brief jolt of good humor...followed by a plunge into hypoglycemic grumpiness." If this book were a candy bar, it would start with a light, crispy, sweetness, get sort of sticky and tasteless in the middle, and end heavily with an artificial, saccharine jolt, leaving the reader with a nasty aftertaste and the vague notion that he should have quit after the first bite.
Perhaps if Almond has just stuck to candy, the last bite...er, page would have been as good as the first.

Review: From Small Spiral Notebook

In Candyfreak, Almond parlays his own obsession with chocolate into a quest to seek out the sources and practices of today's chocolate confection, as well as to learn about the forces that have overwhelmed the artistry and pluck of individual chocalatiers into the mechanized behemoth of American mass culture. Throughout, Almond tempers his political urgencies with his own disarming awe and glee at the industry and its products, and he also deals with unfolding family tragedies. His grandfather is dying, while at the same time Almond realizes his lifelong zeal for chocolate both saved his life and "broke his spirit." If it sounds like too much to cram in, perhaps you've not read Almond's ambitious book of sort stories, My Life in Heavy Metal, a book that will give you faith in Almond's ability to multi-task, regardless of genre.

Almond's prose packs a sensory wallop at all times. It is also candid, direct, and muscular- he wastes no space. Because of his economy, his writing is akin to the best candy: all good stuff, no fill or the useless air that puffs up the wretched Three Musketeers bar. When he rattles off the names of regional candybars now gone to mass marketers, he says their names are "incantatory poetry." When he says he doesn't like coconut, he says it's like "chewing on a sweetened cuticle." The writing says it: candy, chocolate in particular, for Almond is a passion, a "freak." And like all freaks, Almond has his rage, and the loss of a particular candybar, the Caravelle, and his subsequent despondency and rampage after any sign of it led him to consider the book.

Almond meditates on the sources of his "freak," including its lineage. His father's passion for Junior Mints he sees as a thing to awe: "I loved watching him eat these, patiently, with moist clicks of the tongue. I loved his mouth, the full, pillowy lips, the rakishly crooked teeth-the mouth of a closet sensualist." After some consideration of the roots, however, he's off, interviewing confectioners, visiting factories and tasting candy fresh out of the "enrober" (a device to which he devotes many fine lines), squirreling away samples, and trying to see what did happen to chocolate in America. The short answer is, well, the same thing that happened virtually to every worthwhile thing from beer to sports: mass distribution, mass advertising, mass culture, mass dumbing down.

The short answer doesn't do justice to Almond's work because Candyfreak does what the best creative nonfiction does: reports something in unerring detail, educates about a topic we thought we knew a thing or two about, tells a story both about the author and about the subject, and delivers the whole package in style. Almond's fevered style-known to many from his short stories-here finds a subject about which many folks feel feverish, and the result is one of the most entertaining books I've read in a while.

Almond's tries to balance political fantasy and the reality of the urge: "In my own pathologically romantic sense of things, I viewed [little] companies as throwbacks to a bygone era of candy, when each town had its individual brands. And the good peoples of this country would gather together, in public squares with lots of trees and perhaps a fellow picking a banjo, and they would partake of the particular candy bar produced in their town and feel a surge of sucrose-fueled civic identity. What I really wanted to do was visit these companies-if nay still existed-and to chronicle their struggles for survival in this wicked age of homogeneity, and, not incidentally, to load up on free candy."

While he showcases opinions and can seem hostile at times in his discernment, he is not faddish or uncritical: "The new chocolate specialty products are equally pretentious. I ask you, does the world truly need a bar infused with hot masala? The latest rage, as of this writing, is super-concentrated chocolate, with a cocoa content in the 90 percent range, a trend that will, in due time, allow us to eat Baker's Chocolate at ten bucks a square."

Opinionated, deftly and surprisingly written, thoroughly experienced, and surprisingly moving, Steve Almond's Candyfreak will have you wandering into specialty stores hoping they have candy racks. It will have you looking down your nose at M&Ms, for perhaps the first time in your life. It will have you cruising the Internet for the Five Star Bar, hoping the taste lives up to the writing. It will have you thinking about chocolate for weeks afterward, more than you ever have. And it will have you wanting to return to the book, again and again, to find those sentences, those toothsome, goo-on-your-chin, crunchulicious miracles of sentences, and to wish everyone you know the pleasure of experiencing the world, for a little while anyway, mouth first.

With all due respect to other reviews that critize Almond's style and 'voice', I thoroughly enjoyed the playful and often philosophical narrative in this hugely interesting and entertaining book. It's one of the best books that I've read, devored really, in years. Candyfreak isn't a simple book to categorize; it's not just a history of candy, it's also a fascinating, and indeed personal, journey that captures in very funny and vivid ways the people and places where candy is made and revered. Sure, Candyfreak has a lot of interesting information about candy and its history, but for a non-candy lover, it never comes across as boring or dense. This is a book that I enjoyed because of the energy and honesty of the author and his ability to fuse laugh-out-loud humor with real insight and vulnerability -- about his own experiences as well as the changes in American culture and choices as exampled by the candy industry.

I have recommended this book to people of all ages and no one has found its content objectionable. The consistent feedback from those who have read Candyfreak is that it is fresh, funny, and poignant, without being maudlin. These days, when the new non-fiction section is dominating by heavy, monolithic chronicles and political slams, Candyfreak stands out as a jewel of a book that is tasty on many levels and flavors. I think you'll enjoy very much.

Confessions of a candyholic. Steve Almond explores his lifelong love for and obsession with candy as he visits the regional candymakers who are struggling to survive amid the nearly obliterating presence of the big three (Nestle's, Mars, Hershey). Steve brings all of his talents to bear here -- as a reporter, social commentator, and crafter of meticulous sentences that simultaneously deliver humor and brilliant insights. As I read the book, I was sometimes reminded of Tony Horwitz books. Like Horwitz, Steve goes off in search of people who share his obsessions (the Civil War, Capt. Cook in Horwitz's case) and finds a host of interesting characters along the way. As an admirer of Steve's brilliant short-story collection, My Life in Heavy Metal, I was pleasantly surprised to see how well Steve writes about food. He can break down the experience of eating a Charleston Chew, for example, into perfect sensory details without resorting to the pretentious writing of snobbish afficionadoes (a trend he laments with the clever line of "expertise curdling into hauteur"). While reading the book, I went off in search of the Five Star bars which he describes. Unfortunately, the Whole Foods (formerly Bread & Circus) didn't have the Hazelnut he describes in such detail in the book. Now, I'm off to the Web sites Steve offers at the end of the book to get a sample direct from the manufacturer, along with a few others. I can't wait to try to a Twin Bing or Valmomilk. (By the way, jump at any chance you can to have Steve come to your local bookstore for a reading. It's an experience not to be missed.)

Those one-star reviewers put off by Almond's personal asides and political views clearly didn't read the editorial reviews or the jacket flap copy before buying: "Part candy porn [mostly this refers to the sensual descriptions of candy, of course, but it's a pretty good indication that there might be some--gasp!--four letter words and racy humor], part candy polemic [in other words, the author has an opinion about things, and doesn't hide it], part social history [hence the political views, like 'em or not], part confession [personal details, voice, humor -- in other words, the very soul of the book]."

If you're looking for a straight-up, just-the-facts book about candy, clearly this isn't the book for you, nor does Almond intend it to be. If you're looking for vibrant, edgy, witty writing and sharp, sometimes controversial insights, then it is. In other words, if you don't feel like thinking or being challenged a little (ouch! ouch!) don't buy the book!

As a huge fan of Steve Almond's short story collection, My Life In Heavy Metal, I was initially surprised and maybe a little disappointed to learn that he'd written a non-fiction book. Okay, I thought: Candy. It's an original idea. But what can he say about it that will make me care?

Three pages in I was laughing out loud, forcing family and passers by to hear various excerpts, and recollecting my own 1960s candyfreakdom.

Any negative reviews you've read here are from humorless types, or else from someone seeking some intensive academic study, which they won't find here. Truth is, you don't have to give an M&M about confectionary history to enjoy this book. Everyone can relate to at least some of it--it's hilarious, thoughtful, and, true to Almond's style, wonderfully written start to finish. Plus, it's a great small size...the literary version of a Chunky bar! I intend to buy a few more copies and share them with family and friends.

I figured I would be very interested. Like Steve Almond does in the first pages of his book Candyfreak, I must disclose my current candy count: there is roughly a pound of Ghirardelli Dark squares in my desk drawer, a half-dozen Galak white chocolate squares on my desk, two Kit-Kats, some Starbuck's After Coffee Gum someone gave me, and a half pound of local chocolatier Gardener's chocolate covered pretzels in my fridge. I have very little on hand compared to what Almond says he has regularly, but I still know a kindred spirit when I see one. So, by the time I hit page 4 of Candyfreak, I knew I would love it, just reading Almond's ability to synthesize the experience of a candy bar: " . . . the whipped splendor of the Choco-Lite, whose tiny air pockets provided such a piquant crunch (the oral analogue to stomping on bubble wrap)." The book never lets up from there, reveling in candy, particularly chocolate, in Almond's signature sentences which move like referential dervishes.

In Candyfreak, Almond parlays his own obsession with chocolate into a quest to seek out the sources and practices of today's chocolate confection, as well as to learn about the forces that have overwhelmed the artistry and pluck of individual chocalatiers into the mechanized behemoth of American mass culture. Throughout, Almond tempers his political urgencies with his own disarming awe and glee at the industry and its products, and he also deals with unfolding family tragedies. His grandfather is dying, while at the same time Almond realizes his lifelong zeal for chocolate both saved his life and "broke his spirit." If it sounds like too much to cram in, perhaps you've not read Almond's ambitious book of sort stories, My Life in Heavy Metal, a book that will give you faith in Almond's ability to multi-task, regardless of genre.

Almond's prose packs a sensory wallop at all times. It is also candid, direct, and muscular- he wastes no space. Because of his economy, his writing is akin to the best candy: all good stuff, no fill or the useless air that puffs up the wretched Three Musketeers bar. When he rattles off the names of regional candybars now gone to mass marketers, he says their names are "incantatory poetry." When he says he doesn't like coconut, he says it's like "chewing on a sweetened cuticle." The writing says it: candy, chocolate in particular, for Almond is a passion, a "freak." And like all freaks, Almond has his rage, and the loss of a particular candybar, the Caravelle, and his subsequent despondency and rampage after any sign of it led him to consider the book.

Almond meditates on the sources of his "freak," including its lineage. His father's passion for Junior Mints he sees as a thing to awe: "I loved watching him eat these, patiently, with moist clicks of the tongue. I loved his mouth, the full, pillowy lips, the rakishly crooked teeth-the mouth of a closet sensualist." After some consideration of the roots, however, he's off, interviewing confectioners, visiting factories and tasting candy fresh out of the "enrober" (a device to which he devotes many fine lines), squirreling away samples, and trying to see what did happen to chocolate in America. The short answer is, well, the same thing that happened virtually to every worthwhile thing from beer to sports: mass distribution, mass advertising, mass culture, mass dumbing down.

The short answer doesn't do justice to Almond's work because Candyfreak does what the best creative nonfiction does: reports something in unerring detail, educates about a topic we thought we knew a thing or two about, tells a story both about the author and about the subject, and delivers the whole package in style. Almond's fevered style-known to many from his short stories-here finds a subject about which many folks feel feverish, and the result is one of the most entertaining books I've read in a while.

Almond's tries to balance political fantasy and the reality of the urge: "In my own pathologically romantic sense of things, I viewed [little] companies as throwbacks to a bygone era of candy, when each town had its individual brands. And the good peoples of this country would gather together, in public squares with lots of trees and perhaps a fellow picking a banjo, and they would partake of the particular candy bar produced in their town and feel a surge of sucrose-fueled civic identity. What I really wanted to do was visit these companies-if nay still existed-and to chronicle their struggles for survival in this wicked age of homogeneity, and, not incidentally, to load up on free candy."

While he showcases opinions and can seem hostile at times in his discernment, he is not faddish or uncritical: "The new chocolate specialty products are equally pretentious. I ask you, does the world truly need a bar infused with hot masala? The latest rage, as of this writing, is super-concentrated chocolate, with a cocoa content in the 90 percent range, a trend that will, in due time, allow us to eat Baker's Chocolate at ten bucks a square."

Opinionated, deftly and surprisingly written, thoroughly experienced, and surprisingly moving, Steve Almond's Candyfreak will have you wandering into specialty stores hoping they have candy racks. It will have you looking down your nose at M&Ms, for perhaps the first time in your life. It will have you cruising the Internet for the Five Star Bar, hoping the taste lives up to the writing. It will have you thinking about chocolate for weeks afterward, more than you ever have. And it will have you wanting to return to the book, again and again, to find those sentences, those toothsome, goo-on-your-chin, crunchulicious miracles of sentences, and to wish everyone you know the pleasure of experiencing the world, for a little while anyway, mouth first.

I loved this book! I was a candy freak as a child and it brought memories flooding back. It was informative, hilarious, well-written, honest and entertaining. It's kind of a dangerous book though, I've found myself spontaneously daydreaming about the candy of my youth ever since: Smarties, Sweetarts, Like-Um-Sticks, Jolly Ranchers, Zots, Marathon Bars, Hot Tamales. Trust me, you'll have your list, and you will too. You will also love being taken to the small candy companies with Almond as your quirky, hyper-observant, generous guide. I read the book in two shots and have been talking it up to everyone I know since.

(Along with Candy Freak, I'd bought David Sedaris's new book and put it down after several ho-hum stories. I was thankful I had Candy Freak. Should have started it first.)

I laughed, I drooled, I ran to the pantry for a Reese's Peanut Butter Minature, I thought about Mallo Cups for the first time in ages, I remembered the Halloweens of the '70s, I wished I could have eaten a Caravelle when they still made them. I loved this book, but it got bogged down on his road trip to the local candy companies - I'd never heard of Abba Zabbas, or the Idaho Spud and that made me lose interest at that point.

This is, simply, a passionate, freewheeling, often hilarious account of the candy industry. But the reason to read this book--and yes, you should--is Almond's voice. I'm sure this pun is getting old. But the voice is thicker than caremel: it quickly draws you into the world of Almond's obsessions. And that's where the fun is, the dark confectionary obsessions spiraling in his sentences. You should read this book to lose yourself in that funhouse of thought. I could easily compare this to many other books, but the one that first comes to mind is Nick Hornby's Feverpitch, a fabulous memoir about Hornby's fascination with English football (in Yank-speak, soccer). Before reading Hornby's Feverpitch, I had no real interest in soccer, but while reading it, piggybacking on his prose through Brit football clubs, I definitely cared. And Almond's book does the same for candy. It makes you care about candy; moreover, it makes you care about the stories that pull this book together. I've been suckered into the whole Atkins routine, but man, after reading Candyfreak, I've certainly been eying those four-packs of Reeces Peanut Butter Cups every time I hit up the movie concessions stand for another diet Coke.