Roger Rabbits with Jim Bunny

I get the distinct and uncomfortable impression that Jaffa is not the preferred flavour in Tauranga.

I was in a Devonport Rd bank shortly after arriving in town and mentioned to the teller I was from Auckland. A Jafa. That was a bad call. Because a loud threatening voice behind tells me to: “…*#@^ off back to Auckland then. You’re not welcome."

Really? Monday 9.30am in the quiet and calm of a bank, surrounded by the joys of overdrafts, mortgages, credit cards and foreclosures – it’s a bit early for effing and blinding. And regional loathing.

He looked straight out of the Appalachian mountains, straggly, unkempt and whiffy – like one of those inbred, feudin’ McCoy boys. Born angry. Cue Duelling Banjos.

Hillbilly wasn’t finished – he needed to get the last taste of Jafa out of his foul mouth. “And take all your *#@^-ing Auckland friends with you.”

Actually, Hillbilly and I shared some common ground. He despised “Jafas”, and 10 years after he gave me a verbal biffing in the bank, I’m completely indifferent about RJ’s withdrawing the iconic Jaffa from the planet. Hasta la vista Jaffas. Goodbye, good riddance.

‘The Snake Pit’

There was a bit of online pushback – “That sucks!”, “Murder!”, “Something wrong with the world”, “It’s not recession, it’s depression”. But you can’t get all gooily sentimental over the dodo Jaffas if you weren’t out there buying, scoffing and supporting the market.

My excuse is Jaffas left me psychologically scarred from childhood. As a birthday treat, the “bros” went to a Saturday matinee movie – Toby Tyler, the story of a boy who runs off to join a circus.

But the “bros” decided we would instead go to the cheaper State Cinema, aka “The Snake Pit”, a seedy joint just down the road. That would free up cash for add-ons – lollies, sodas, ice-cream and the like. I got a box of Jaffas and a chocolate derby – a double-headed cone dipped in chocolate and hundreds-and-thousands.

The movie was about bloodletting buccaneers on the high seas – “hang-’em from the mainmast”, “run’em through” some poor sod disembowelled with a cutlass, and walking the plank as the sharks circled. Gory as all hell. Mind-altering stuff for a 10-year-old.

Anyhow I didn’t have the constitution for the cruelty and I projectile regurgitated a whole box of Jaffas, and ice-cream, and chocolate, and hundreds-and-thousands, all over the seat in front. It was not pretty. Five minutes later the cinema lights went up and the curtain came down. The show was over. I have never reconnected with Jaffas.

Love barometer

For another chap I know, Jaffas were a barometer of love.

As Clarry tells it, when he and Cheryl met they immediately fell into a steamy, unconstrained, romantic relationship – a high degree of physical intimacy and sexual activity. Before they even married. Tut tut!

For two and a half years, every time they consummated their love for one another, the couple would take a Jaffa from the box and put it in a crystal vase. It was, said Clarry, a measure of their love. It blossomed and grew, to the point when they did marry, the vase was brimming. Damned near full. A lot of Jaffas and a lot of passion in that vase. Then, after they married, Clarry and Cheryl would remove one Jaffa at a time, whenever they made love. Forty years later, Clarry lamented that the vase, sadly, remained three-quarters’ full. The steam went out and the Jaffas stayed in. They just had different priorities – they exercised beyond the bed – walks, Pilates, bowls, mahjong, art classes, volunteering. And they were eating the Jaffas, one little bit of love at a time. But the taste and the memories were sweet.

All this got us thinking of other pet confections that have disappeared off the planet. Snifters – the spearmint-coloured chocolate and mint chews. Carnival Patties, rounds of marshmallow covered in chocolate and sprinkled with nonpareils. The grocer would freeze them so they were chewy enough to rip out your amalgam. Tangy Fruits, Sparkles, Snickers, Clinkers.

Nasty taste? 

Some deserved to go; after we all grew up, and grew aware.

Once-upon-a racially insensitive-time, we kids could wander into a shop and buy threepence worth of “black babies” – black chewy jellybaby-type lollies. Who thought that would be okay? In the day, no one thought anything of it. Until they did. And the lollies suddenly, and rightfully, disappeared into the after-world of disgust and disgrace.

Another of our crimes against culture was the so-called “Eskimo Pie”. I bought, ate, enjoyed them, because I didn’t know better. Is ignorance an excuse? Eskimo – an exonym, or label given to people by outsiders – is associated with a colonial past, has racist overtones, and is offensive to many Inuit and Yupik people. Apparently a visiting Canadian academic suggested a smiling, cartoon “Eskimo” character on the “Eskimo Pie” packaging might offend. There was some rapid rebranding.

But doesn’t it leave a nasty taste… like Jaffas do for me.