I was as horrified as I was hooked on Zan when I came down to provence in the summers as a kid. It’s not candy. It’s black bitter, intensly intense, and how could anyone really like this? Really, anyone? But I did. I had to contort my conflicting sentiments as I broke a little piece off the flat sheet of starlessly black mix of heaven and hell. It’s like having a brawl happen in your mouth. It’s a surprisingly enjoyable experience. Says France to me more than cheese, wine, and baguettes do. Zan is the reason why they like pastis when they grow up. Inzane, right?