A Taste That Travels Through Time
There’s a quiet resilience in certain flavors — the kind passed down through hands and generations, unchanged, unhurried. Les Rigolettes Nantaises belong to this lineage. Created in 1902 by Charles Bohu, a Nantes confectioner, these small fruit jellies began their life at a corner shop not far from the city’s market streets.
Back then, candy wasn’t just sweet — it was an occasion. The soft shine of a sugar shell, the release of fruit purée once bitten. No rush, just attention. The kind of sweet that asked to be savored rather than chewed through.
And the name? “Rigolette” wasn’t invented — it was borrowed. The name came from a small cat Bohu cherished — a quiet affection that somehow found its way into sugar. A private joy that, somehow, became something shared. That’s how a candy became a memory.
Fragments of History in Everyday Life
To walk through Nantes today is to stumble upon echoes of past industries — shipbuilding, printing, and sugar. It’s the latter that still lingers on the tongue. Candy has long had a place in this part of western France, but Les Rigolettes aren’t just among many. They’re local in the truest sense: rooted, recognizable, and still made here.
The shop on Rue de Verdun — once closed, now revived — offers more than sweets. It holds continuity. Glass jars filled with lemon, raspberry, blackcurrant. No artificial colors. Just fruit, sugar, and time.
There’s something to be said for that — a product that doesn’t rush to modernize. In a world of fleeting trends, Les Rigolettes remain defiantly themselves. A small victory for tradition.
When Culture Becomes Craft
These traditional sweets do more than satisfy a craving. They carry
the imprint of place — of Nantes culture — in every sugar-dusted piece. Their method, nearly untouched for over a century, reflects the rhythms of another era.
Inside, the texture is soft, but not runny. Outside, a thin glaze offers a crunch that breaks clean. There’s care in that contrast. Each candy is made in molds and finished by hand. No conveyor belt hum. Just the scent of simmering jam and the quiet focus of confectioners at work.
To eat one is to pause — even briefly — and feel part of a chain that began before supermarkets and long before social media. A kind of edible postcard from a slower time.
The Weight of Small Things
French candy history is full of regional delicacies. Calissons from Aix, berlingots from Carpentras. But the Rigolettes hold their ground, quietly, sweetly.
They don’t ask for attention. They simply endure — wrapped in cellophane, arranged neatly, waiting by a cash register or gifted in a tin. A token. A habit. A local pride that travels well, yet never strays too far from home.
And isn’t that what tradition often looks like? Not grand monuments or televised anniversaries. But the weight of small things — sweets, songs, recipes — kept alive in kitchens and corner stores.