Jamba Juice, Cameron Park, CA
Gather round, kids, while Uncle Steve tells you a story the worst pretzel he’s ever eaten.
Many years ago (in 1990, to be exact) a chain of juice bars came onto the scene in central California. It was a worthy concept, the brainchild of a Safeway manager named Kirk Perron. He opened the first one–called Juice Club–in San Luis Obispo, as part of a deliberate effort to combat the low-nutrition, high-fat fast-food offerings in the region. The juice bars specialized in blended drinks with fresh fruits and vegetables (and lots of crushed ice). It was a successful venture that continuously expanded. In 1995 the name was changed to Jamba Juice, and by 2025 there were about 750 locations worldwide…with almost half of them in California.
As is the often the case, Jamba Juice’s popularity led to some mission creep, as they expanded beyond smoothies into wraps, bowls, sandwiches, and baked goods. Acknowledging this diversification, in 2019 they dropped the “Juice” in their name and now go by simply “Jamba.” Interestingly, this is the same year that Dunkin Donuts changed its name to “Dunkin.” (It was also the year Jonathan Cheban officially changed his name to Foodgod. Hey, they can’t all be winners.)
And speaking of not everything being a winner: Starting in 2000, Jamba (Juice) added parmesan pretzels to its menu. I think I had them a couple of times over the years, but yesterday I decided I needed to do a formal review for this blog. And so I got their “Savory Pretzel,” which the menu describes as a “classic sourdough pretzel topped with savory parmesan cheese.”
At first glance, this looks appealing. It’s not huge, but it’s chunky and it’s absolutely coated in parmesan cheese. It looked promising.
But then I tried eating it.
This is a “pretzel” in the same way that a Steak-Umm is a steak. It has roughly the same general appearance, and it technically is made from the same basic stuff. But the quality, processing, and–crucially–taste place it in a separate category.
Jamba’s “pretzel” is the breadiest of bread rolls, an insipid and uninspired hunk of dry dough bearing no culinary relationship at all to a pretzel. It’s dry and bland, and even the generous coating of parmesan is undetectable amid the avalanche of tastelessness. It’s like a black hole sucking out anything resembling a flavenoid.
This “pretzel” does not come with any condiments, but I tried dipping it in some mustard I had at home. This at least imparted some flavor, but it would have tasted better if the “pretzel” had been omitted from the equation.
Zero stars.
PRETZEL TRIVIA
One of my favorite snacks is something called yogurt-covered pretzels. I think their appeal is due to their many contraditions: They are simultaneously sweet and salty; they are crunchy (pretzel) and soft (yogurt); and for a delicious snack food they are seemingly healthy(ish). I mean, the pretzels themselves are just little bits of baked dough, and yogurt is a fermented milk. I can seriously pound a half-pound of these things in one sitting and not feel guilty.
But earlier this year a class-action lawsuit was filed against Target for passing off sugary palm oil as “yogurt” in their yogurt-covered pretzels. Now, I think it’s pretty obvious that the delicious coating on “yogurt”-covered pretzels is quite different from the Greek yogurt you buy at the grocery store. But I admit that I purposely don’t think too hard about this, and tell myself that the stuff on my pretzels is generally in the category of yogurt and thus is healthier than, say, a chocolate coating. Turns out I might be wrong.
If you’re interested in joining the class action, check out Sierra v. Target Corporation (Case No. 2:26-cv-02799, U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of New York).
