There comes a time in every candy researcher’s life when she knows she must hit the road, yet again. This is not a bad thing. Candy history seems to lie in sophisticated cities and rural get-aways, so no matter what, the trip’s bound to be good. This time, my destination was Pennsylvania dairy country and the home of the marvelous Wilbur Buds.

Before I go further, let me describe these sumptuous little treats. They’re shaped a bit like non-nonpareils without the speckles and with a delight flourish on top. The name “Wilbur” is embedded on the bottom of the unwrapped, naked, actually, treats.

At long last, I reached the town of Lititz and the home, bless its soul, of Wilbur Chocolate. The town had a railroad track, a pond with a stream running into it, a few restaurants, a few quaint shops, and the Wilbur “factory.” I say “factory” because the real factory is located some ten minutes away in Mount Joy Pennsylvania. This was the original – one of those turn-of-the- century factories with evenly laid red brick and “WILBUR CHOCOLATE CO.” in movie-set large letters stenciled on the side. I must say, after all the years of eating, selling, and talking about the Buds, I felt a chill of delight.

Inside, the shop was stuffed with customers: a group of Mennonite kids on what looked like a school trip, middle-aged tourists clutching bags of Buds, and families with kids. I was greeted by Kathy, who multitasked as a greeter, tour guide, and chocolatier. We stepped through a nondescript door to a nondescript stockroom stacked with cardboard boxes on either side.  I had the feeling I was in a turn-of-the-century manufacturing plant and not a modern chocolate company. As I soon learned, that was a lot like thinking you’re in a run-down shopping mall when you’re really in the bowels of the CIA.

Kathy worked in a partially glass-walled, windowless cubicle that faced the stockroom. We needed to wait for Ann Charles, a 20-something year employee and prime knowledge holder. Seizing the opportunity after a long car ride, I asked to use the bathroom. Kathy walked me to a water closet that really was the size of a closet just a few yards away, then waited outside the door. That’s right, she waited. Why did she wait?  “So you won’t get lost” she told me once I was done. Get lost? I could spit into her office it was so close. How could I get lost?

A few minutes later, Ann arrived and the interview began. I told her about the book, my fondness for Buds, and how eager I was to hear all about Wilburs. “Actually,” said Anne, “there isn’t much to tell.” Isn’t much to tell? I had already done preliminary research on the company which opened in 1865 in Philadelphia, had a competitive relationship with Milton Hershey, moved to Lititz in the early 1900s and continued to grow so they now, 150 years later, had two manufacturing plants.

I guess I looked surprised, because Anne explained that the company always kept their records in the basement. Years ago, the stream I mentioned, the one that flowed so gently into the pond, also flowed, actually flooded, into the basement, destroying the archives. All the archives?  Yes, all of them.

What Anne did know, she found in the five-or-six page typed document held securely in her hands. I asked questions and she searched the pages for answers. When I suggested she give me a copy, making things easier for all of us, she refused. She couldn’t even show it to me let alone give it to me. As it happened, I found what I believe, based on my calculated glances in Ann’s direction, is that very document. I found it on their Web site, actually, and the information corresponds exactly to what Anne told me.

Information from the “Secret” Document

In 1865, Henry Oscar Wilbur operated a hardware and stove business in New Jersey. For reasons unknown, he decided to switch careers and open a

confectionary business with Samuel Croft in Philadelphia. The pair made molasses and hard candies using only a kettle, a coal or coke fire, some buckets, and a marble slab. A little like Daniel Peter and the Orient Express, Wilbur and Croft sold these treats to the railroad companies whose “train boys” sold them to passengers. The pair did pretty well and eventually moved to larger quarters on Market Street where they began manufacturing chocolate.

Apparently, all went well for twenty years. At that point, the partners had what seems like an agreeable break-up: Croft to make hard candies and Wilbur and his sons to make chocolate. Over the years, their chocolate did well, expanding to larger quarters in Philadelphia. Among their many innovations was the renowned Stirring Cupid advertising campaign, featuring a cupid stirring a cup of chocolate (I never heard of it) and, in 1894, the bud shaped chocolate. And – get this – while in Philly, Milton Hershey became their neighbor.

So, let’s pause to consider. Wilbur made a “bud” shaped chocolate that resembles a nonpareil with a swirl on top. Then, in 1905, one of H.O. Wilbur’s grandsons invented a machine to foil wrap, make-that silver foil wrap, the above mentioned candy. And in 1907, Hershey “invented” the silver foil wrapped Hershey Kiss. Coincidence?

At that point, I asked Ann and Kathy the most salient question I could muster: Was there any truth to the rumor that Hershey stole Wilbur’s Bud and turned it into the Kiss?  As it happened, I heard this rumor from their receptionist the first time I called to place an order. Kathy and Ann looked uncomfortable. They exchanged glances. Then Kathy said, “Let’s just say that Wilbur made the first Kiss.” I pressed, eager to get to the root of this, but the most I could get was from Ann, who said: “They were supposed to have a gentleman’s agreement.”

Was this the reason for their secrecy? The much-publicized fact that Hershey stole Wilbur’s chocolate idea? Actually, all was about to be revealed, without Ann ever flipping through the secret document.

More Revelations plus Connectivity of Things in the Chocolate Universe

In 1927, as the Depression was  about to shatter the nation, Wilbur Chocolate began negotiations with Suchard Societe Anonyme of Switzerland and, within a year, won the right to produce and distribute Suchard products. For whatever reason, this spurred a new direction for the company: they started manufacturing chocolate for other companies, and left behind all of their own confections except one of the cocaos and the Wilbur Bud.

Gradually, Wilbur’s grew into this new line of work, moving, in 1928 to Lititz, Pennsylvania, close to the new facility operated by one Milton Hershey. And the reason?  Simply put: dairy farms. The plethora of dairy farms made it possible for them to receive the vast amount of milk necessary for their chocolate. Wilbur’s new line of business was so successful, they have been sticking to it for almost one hundred years. But Wilbur’s business was not a simple matter of whipping up a chocolate bar or powder and throwing someone else’s label on it.

Each customer had their own “formula” as Ann called it, that determined the amount of cacao fat, sugar, oand length of time required to process the blend. Upscale brands spend more money on the chocolate-making process and waxier and inexpensive brands, less. As Kathy and Ann pointed out, each of these formulas was highly secretive, you might say “classified,” containing precisely the look and feel of multi-million dollar brands.

As a result, each requires considerable strategy on behalf of scientists and researchers Here’s why: each batch of a particular candy must look, feel and taste exactly the same as the one before it. But not all the cacao, sugar, or other ingredients they receive is the same. Some chocolate is blonder. Some is sweeter. Some is stronger or coarser. It is the researcher’s job to navigate the very differing set of ingredients so, for the customer, they all look the same. Today, Wilbur manufactures candy for roughly 700 companies. Sixty percent of the cake mixes on supermarket shelves contains chocolate made by Wilburs.

So who are these remarkable researchers? Kathy and Ann never met, in fact, no one in the Lititz plant seems to have met them. Where are these formulas kept? Kathy said they didn’t know. Probably at the Mt. Joy facility. I’m pretty sure they did know, but would never, in a million years, release the multi-million dollar whereabouts. What she did say is that some of the candies are prepared right there and the candy-makers receive little, tiny recipes prepared from the formulas, on little tiny print, far smaller than what the passing eye, returning from the bathroom, separated by walls and stacks of candy-filled cardboard boxes, could ever see.

Next question: since their facilities are so close and all, does Wilbur make Hershey’s chocolate? One of the girls let it slip. Yes, they do. The other one cut in. “We did but I don’t think we do now, do we?” After a nervous moment, I promised I would never tell anyone they made chocolate for the one-time competitor, Hershey. But they did and still do. And why I can tell you now without being a total creep and a liar.

In 1992, Cargill, a mega-corn syrup manufacturer, bought out Wilbur Chocolate. This got me thinking: if the difference between chocolates depends on written formulas, when Cargill bought up Wilbur what exactly did they buy? Basically, they bought a piece of paper with a formula on it for vast sums of money…particulars not revealed. OK, I know. They bought the name, logo, distribution channel, and related legal rights and entities. But all of this means nothing without…the formula.

Kathy, Ann, and I joked that Cargill purchased a pretty expensive piece of paper. We laughed because I knew all along why Kathy waited for me outside the bathroom. Then we all laughed when Kathy told us that her father was in military intelligence when she was growing up and she is really good at keeping secrets.

As for Ann, she grew up just outside of Lititz in a community of Moravians who originally settled there in 1757. Ann herself was Moravian which, she said, was the oldest denomination of Protestantism in the world. They valued hard work, leading by example, and being ethical in all things. She said the locals never used the name “Wilbur’s.” They called it “The Chocolate.” Chocolate fragranced the air and gave them jobs. Lots and lots of jobs. And they loved it.

When it was time to go, I felt that Kathy and Ann and I were great friends. It was a work-meeting kind of friendship: pleasant, revealing, then over.

When I drove away, my GPS sent me in a different direction, along roads boarded by sprawling dairy farms and green hills speckled by roaming diary cows. I stopped at a few farm stands, bought some springtime asparagus and strawberries. I even went to a place called Candyland, crowded with customers on that early spring day. I found some Lucky Charms without the cereal, just pastel bits of marshmallow. I ate some on the way home, they tasted like the toasted marshmallow. And I made a mental note to buy some for the store.  Then I drove, not really caring about very much and feeling pretty good.

Postscript: The Wilbur Chocolate plant closed less than a year after my visit. A short time later, it was turned into condominiums. The company is still owned by Cargill who, in turn, owns more companies than you’d ever want to know.