Dubai Chocolate

2025 FRONTeras Magazine Vol. 1 No. 2 Issue

It always starts with something everybody wants-something other people have. And suddenly, it becomes something everybody has.

Right now, it's Dubai chocolate. You've seen it. That glossy, thick chocolate being poured like hot tar over pancakes, cookies, strawberries, conchas, tres leches cake, brownies, you name it, it's been done. The streets are flooded with it. Every café, home baker, and Instagram hustler is selling it.

Dubai chocolate is supposed to feel luxurious. Imported. Decadent. But in the RGV, it doesn't need to be luxurious-it just needs to look like it might be. People are using fideo (vermicelli pasta) for kataifi (shredded phyllo dough), tossing it in a Ziploc, slapping on a sticker, and calling it gourmet.

It's aesthetic on a budget—and somehow, it still sells, even though you know damn well that chocolate has never been to Dubai.

In the Rio Grande Valley, business isn't always about passion or talent—it's about trends.

Monkey see, monkey sell.

Dubai chocolate is just the latest trend. But nothing-nothing-compares to the dulces enchilados era. Actually, there were two eras.

The original wave hit in the 1980s, back when hard candy dipped in chamoy and dusted with powdered chile was sold in little plastic barrilito containers. You'd get them at the pulga or the corner store, usually sticky, slightly melted, and absolutely perfect.

Then came the reboot in the 2000s. This time, it was all about presentation-vacuum-sealed bags, printed labels, and the sweat of ambition. Every cousin, comadre, and classmate had a side business selling gummy worms soaked in chile and chamoy. Then they upgraded-sour belts, Skittles, Gushers. If it was chewy and coated in red sauce, it went straight into a bag with a catchy name and a sticker slapped on crooked. Bonus points if it had a QR code that no one scanned.

Everyone had a logo. Everyone had a catchy name. And suddenly, everyone knew how to seal bags with a heat gun and slap a label on top. There were good ones. But mostly, there were hundreds of identical products being sold by people who never even liked spicy candy to begin with.

Dulces enchilados walked so that others could run.

Hot chocolate bombs. Fresas con crema frenzy. Chocolate drip cakes. Gourmet candy apples. Churro cheesecake. Marranadas.

Michelada bombs. Chocolate-covered pretzels. Chamoy pickles. Fruit Roll-Up covered pickles. Carne seca. Chamoy rim dips. Crumbl cookie dupes. Seafood boil. Frozen grapes. Candy-glazed grapes. Charcuterie boards.

But if we're talking peak copycat chaos, let's talk birria.

For a solid two years, birria wasn't just a dish-it was a lifestyle. Birria tacos, birria ramen, birria pizza, birria grilled cheese, birria eggrolls, birria lasagna. Some of it was divine. But too much of it was boiled beef and consomé. Still, everyone sold it. Because someone else sold it. And that's all it took.

No shade to the hustle. Seriously. Survival breeds creativity. But at some point, someone has to say it: just because it's trending doesn't mean it's for you.

Some people are meant to cook. Others are designers. Others are event planners, lash techs, DJs, resellers, dog groomers, or digital marketers. Find your lane. Own it. Work it.

The businesses that really succeed in the RGV aren't the ones riding the wave. They're the ones building the boat.

So if Dubai chocolate isn't your thing, don't sell it. If your brisket tastes like wet cardboard, close the parrilla.

Originality, skill, and passion will always outlast the fad.

In this economy, we all need a second income. We get it. Hustle culture is alive and well in the RGV. But the product you're selling has to be worth the money you're asking. If you're charging boutique prices, it better taste like more than just chile, chamoy, and childhood nostalgia. Otherwise, it's just another overpriced snack in a vacuum-sealed bag with a cute font.

And in a region full of talent, we don't need more monkeys chasing bananas—we need more people growing their own trees.

@Santitos

@salinasmariasantos

Copyright © 2025 Maria Santos Salinas for FRONTeras.

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