Phantom of the "Opera Fudge"
An almost unknown candy and the mysterious origin of its name
Just like spotted dick, opera fudge is not what it sounds like. This hyper-regional delicacy of central Pennsylvania has a soft, decadent texture and a pronounced dairy sweetness. Peanut butter seems to be the flavor of choice, though a wide variety exists to suit any palate. Kept in the refrigerator, spoken of in the hushed tones of reverence, it is almost a secret. In a landscape where megastores and national grocery chains sell a homogenized vision of the American table, this curious little dessert is a refreshing anachronism.
Technically, opera fudge would be more accurately described as dipped fondant. The gumball-sized confections are coated in a paper-thin shell of unsweetened chocolate, which provides a crunchy snap reminiscent of M&Ms. Opera fudge, sold by a motley crew of retailers in Dauphin, Lancaster, and Lebanon Counties, is considered by most a Christmas-time treat.
The name evokes continental sophistication: a woman in a mink, a man with a monocle. A formal etymology is impossible. In its place a number of conjectures swirl, possibly involving the now defunct Lebanon Opera House. Or perhaps it was opera houses further afield, in Philadelphia or Baltimore, to which the candies were brought? Rumors, unverifiable and unshakeable, calcify into mythologies. Just as there is no definitive explanation linking prostitutes to their namesake Italian pasta sauce, puttanesca, so the connection between this unassuming candy and the opera. Somehow, by circumstances historical, Freudian, or simply absurd, it just makes sense. Consider opera fudge the genteel flip side to puttanesca’s untraceable origin story–the Prima Donna to its whore.
I was initiated by chance: someone brought opera fudge to work. Tracing my way backwards I found only two producers of the stuff: Wertz Candies and Van Winkle’s, both located in Lebanon. My knowledge of Lancaster County’s regional foodstuffs is by no means comprehensive, but I was shocked that something so good, something so regionally specific, had escaped my notice simply by transgressing the county line. A trip to Van Winkle’s confirmed everything I found in LNP’s coverage: the nondescript residential building, the women hard at work in the basement, even the basket of pens and calendars. WGAL’s segment from a few years ago provided a similar story based around Wertz Candies. At some point I received a hot tip that Wertz Candy might close soon—which would be interesting for a Montague/Capulet take on the candy’s chief producers, but didn’t answer my nagging question: Wherefore art thou “opera” fudge?
So began my journey into the dark heart of North American candy history. I landed in Cincinnati, OH where they are famous for a candy called an “opera cream.” Ingredients, images, and recipes indicate a strong family resemblance. Even the name’s genesis seems identical, a legend holding that visitors to the Cincinnati Opera Company were given free candies during intermission. In a fascinating piece on his blog, Dann Woellert sketches the intertwined fates of Putman (opera cream inventor) and Roscoe E. Rodda (inventor of the Easter peep) both Cincinnati candy men and members of a religious group called the Christian Catholic Church of Zion. Just as I was being drawn down another rabbit hole—a 6600 acre utopian community, faith healing, flat-earthers—I found a mention of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Apparently, Rodda moved to Lancaster and purchased the American Caramel Company, which had only recently acquired the Lancaster Caramel Company from one Milton S. Hershey. The R. E. Rodda Candy Company did not, as far as I can tell, sell opera creams in Lancaster. But the connection feels tenable. Recipes and cooking techniques have an uncanny way of migrating.
Both Van Winkle’s and Wertz’s pride themselves on handmade opera fudge. That old-fashioned commitment is both a blessing and a curse, as the product is not scalable. While we may have regained an appreciation for such craftsmanship, the 20th century was a headlong blitz towards mechanization. Hershey did not really invent the chocolate blob we call a “kiss” (that honor goes to Lititz’s own Wilbur Chocolate) so much as a program for producing them in massive quantities. Woellert explains that marshmallow peeps used to be piped by hand, and that the intricate design included a pair of wings on each chick. When Just Born, Inc. acquired Rodda’s company in 1953, they mechanized the process and boosted distribution into every conceivable market. Lebanon is just miles from the headquarters of Hershey’s, the apotheosis of Big Candy. The stalwart men and women who painstakingly create opera fudge there do so with an ethos that is, respectfully, insane.
If I may be permitted to add my own conjecture: employees from Rodda’s company were later engaged by Wertz Candies. What was once called a “cream” took a new but familiar moniker, becoming a “fudge.” The operatic component, of course, was simply carried over. A veil of connotations (e.g. Miller High Life, the “Champagne of Beers”) makes a lasting impression, performing a better service than any mere description ever could. So, what’s in a name? Enough mystery for it to remain on the lips of central Pennsylvanians. The candy remains where it belongs—in our mouths.
