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Baked bean truffles? Why not — we’re mad for mad food


The exterior of the Heinz Baked Bean chocolate truffle from Fortnum & Mason is creamy white, enshrined in golden crumbs — the colour of a marshmallow kissed by campfire.

I could go on. I had hours to consider the truffle’s aesthetics as I worked to overcome the potent dread of actually having to ingest it. But, intrepid journalist that I am, I eventually bit down.

The white chocolate shell collapsed to reveal a sweet tomato and haricot ganache tickled with a curious acidity. This was pleasant until I copped the distinctly metallic taste of tin can. Top marks for authenticity. Designed to evoke the flavours of beans on toast, the truffle finishes with sourdough crumbs stuck in your teeth. As a Fortnum’s employee told me: “I could eat one once every 10 days . . . But not every day.” Apt.

The truffle was conceived this autumn to commemorate Heinz’s 150th birthday — Fortnum & Mason, the pantheon of twee Britishness, was the first stockist of Heinz products in London. The store, specialising in fine tea blends and posh biscuits, is famous for whimsical combinations of old-world British products as well as its price tags.

Displayed under a glass bell jar, the truffles are a celebration of English identity. Yet (fun fact) although Heinz beans have an outsized place in the British culinary canon, they were originally an import. From America.

Shelf-stable and nutritious, Heinz baked beans were an essential ration after the second world war in Britain and soon became ubiquitous across the social classes.

Fortnum’s baked bean truffle was born of misplaced nostalgia, given the humble pulse’s prominence in the British diet at a time when the nation was world-renowned for its dreadful cuisine. While I don’t think the truffle was an act of edible nationalism (although I imagine Prime Minister Boris Johnson would have no bad words for them), the paradoxical combination strikes me as the product of a marketing brainstorm gone awry. Let this stand as further evidence of the ineffectiveness of brainstorms.

Fortnum’s had the right idea. Chocolate has a good record, it’s an obliging mate to most flavours. Chocolate and peanut butter, chocolate and mint, chocolate and pretty much everything — except baked beans. Sweet and savoury has also had some hits. No one has eaten unsalted caramel for at least a decade, and we will probably be eating miso-laced sweets for the next. Chinese desserts have made successful use of beans for thousands of years. And wacky flavour combinations are more prolific as social media drive food further towards culinary extremes. Ideas propagate for their wow factor — shareability, rather than craveability.

We’re mad for mad food. We blend, essence and fuse with reckless abandon. The surprising combination of a croissant and a doughnut turned pastry chef Dominique Ansel into an overnight celebrity. Chef’s have become household names because of their maximalist, Willy Wonka-esque inventiveness. Michelin-starred British chef Heston Blumenthal achieved notoriety and praise for his snail porridge. Noma charges a month’s rent to sample taste combinations unknown to the human palate.

Do you know which pairing my palate would have been OK not knowing? White chocolate mixed with tinned beans. Still, the Fortnum & Mason’s counter attendant remarked that the baked bean truffles sell well, despite the dozens of other more appetising options on offer beside them, especially at Christmas.

Playfulness and gimmicks are in keeping with the spirit of the season. Whimsy infects us like a stomach virus. We buy ridiculous gadgets because they sparkle or sing or make us smile. We purchase presents designed to delight that loved ones would never buy themselves. No one buys themself a baked bean truffle.

But the intrepid minds in Fortnum & Mason’s marketing team knew something else about the power of mad confectionery. The Heinz beans truffle got us talking. Curious, or just grossed out, we exclaim about the corruption of a childhood classic, and in so doing, fixate on an innocuous food most of us neglect every other day of the year. As with many British staples, such as Marmite, Fortnum’s says you’ll either love it, or hate it.

madison.darbyshire@ft.com



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