Irony poisoning

The elevator hums, a sterile whine, as I step into the penthouse showroom of History Bites Confections, Manhattan’s latest obsession. On a glass table, under surgically precise lighting, sit the Flavors of Hitler—a line of chocolates so exclusive, so perverse, they’re already sold out at Bergdorf’s. The packaging is minimalist: matte black boxes, embossed with a single serifed “H,” like a Warhol print gone rogue. This isn’t candy. This is a statement.

Chocolate Hitler. 72% single-origin Venezuelan cacao, hand-tempered to a mirror sheen. The ganache core is laced with Ethiopian espresso, bitter as regret, with a flake of edible gold leaf on the mustache—because why not? It snaps between your teeth, clean, like a guillotine. I pop one in my mouth at a SoHo gallery opening, and the crowd stares. They want to judge, but they’re already reaching for seconds. Pairs with a ‘98 Château Pétrus, or a Xanax.

Vanilla Hitler. White chocolate, Madagascar vanilla bean, almost pornographically creamy. The filling is a salted caramel reduction, slow-cooked for 12 hours, with a faint crunch of toffee shards. It’s sweet, cloying, the kind of flavor that lingers like a bad decision. I see a hedge fund bro in a Tom Ford suit slip three into his pocket at a Meatpacking District pop-up. He winks. I don’t care. Available at Dean & DeLuca for $85 a box, if you’re on the list.

Spicy Hitler. Milk chocolate, 42% cocoa, spiked with ghost chili and a whisper of Sri Lankan cinnamon. The heat builds slow, sadistic, like a monologue you can’t escape. A Vogue editor in Balenciaga sunglasses calls it “transgressive” while fanning her mouth at a Tribeca tasting. She buys six boxes. The aftertaste is faintly metallic, like blood. Serve with mezcal, neat, or don’t bother.

Mint Hitler. Dark chocolate shell, 60% Peruvian, encasing a peppermint cream so sharp it stings. It’s clinical, refreshing, like Listerine for your soul. The texture is flawless, engineered by a Swiss chocolatier who doesn’t sleep. I saw a TikTok influencer unbox one in a private jet, her 2.3 million followers losing their minds. It’s not about taste—it’s about flexing. Stocked at Erewhon, $120 for a limited-edition tin, a $120 mint war crime in a tin.

Salted Caramel Hitler. The crowd-pleaser. Silky milk chocolate, gooey caramel, fleur de sel from Brittany. It’s basic, but it’s not. The balance is obscene—sweet, saline, addictive. At a Hamptons charity auction, a tech mogul bids $5,000 for a custom 24-piece set. He eats one, smirks, says it’s “meta.” I don’t know what he means. I don’t ask. Available via Net-a-Porter, with a waitlist.

Each box comes with a QR code linking to a curated Spotify playlist—Wagner, Schoenberg, Burial, obviously, but also some Aphex Twin for edge and a dash of Arca for chaos. The fact card inside is printed on recycled vellum, detailing Hitler’s vegetarianism or some trivia nobody needs. It’s ironic, sure, but it’s also commerce. The backlash on X is already trending, which means we’re winning.

Grok