Ruby Chocolate: Innovation or Illusion? Revisiting the Pink Phenomenon

When Barry Callebaut introduced “Ruby chocolate” to the world in 2017, it was wrapped in the alluring language of discovery: a "new type" of chocolate, born not of additives or artificial colorants, but of a unique cacao bean, naturally pink, naturally fruity. A revolution in the making, a fourth category to stand beside dark, milk, and white. Media outlets scrambled to cover it. Instagram influencers snapped pastel-hued photos. Bakers and confectioners followed suit. And consumers — hungry for novelty, especially in the post-Instagram food era — took the bait.

Yet behind the pink marketing and sensory promises lay a strategy that had little to do with cacao and everything to do with optics, perception engineering, and market positioning. Ruby chocolate is not the fourth type of chocolate. It is not the result of genetic discovery, nor a meaningful innovation in cacao or chocolate processing. Rather, it is a calculated manipulation of expectation, labeling, and legislation, one that says more about the food industry’s opportunism than about the future of real chocolate.

The roots of the Ruby project can be traced back to Callebaut's patent filings in 2009 and 2015, which reference the controlled acidification of unfermented or lightly fermented cacao beans to obtain a red-pink color and a fruity, tangy flavor. One key method outlined in the patent — US8460739B2, granted in 2013 — involves the addition of citric acid, a naturally occurring additive also used in soft drinks and candies, to simulate fruitiness and trigger color stabilization. Development of this process reportedly began as early as 2004, and the final product was officially launched in 2017, supported by European patent EP16706120.5.

This was not a spontaneous botanical find but the culmination of laboratory-controlled processing and ingredient manipulation, aimed at transforming something ordinary into something that looked extraordinary. The process depends on beans that are unfermented or minimally fermented, with a high content of polyphenols — specifically anthocyanins — which would normally degrade during fermentation, drying, and roasting. To preserve them, the process maintains a pH between 2.5 and 4 through acid treatment (typically with citric or lactic acid) and applies drying temperatures below 100°C, all to prevent enzymatic browning and oxidation.

Despite marketing claims that Ruby came from a "special bean," internal sources and the patents themselves point to a broad use of bulk-grade Forastero cacao, sourced from the Ivory Coast, Ecuador, and Brazil — all major suppliers of commodity-grade crop. There is no traceable genetic cluster tied to "Ruby cacao beans." No varietal discovery. No external academic verification. No single origin. Just a branded name and a proprietary process held under the intellectual property of a multinational chocolate corporation.

Even the sensory promise of Ruby chocolate — its supposed “natural” fruitiness — dissolves under scrutiny. Blind tastings conducted by chocolate professionals and industry panels revealed Ruby to be overwhelmingly sweet, with a citric tang similar to yogurt or red berry-flavored candies, and a mouthfeel not unlike white chocolate with a touch of acidity. Its cacao solids are minimal, its sugar content is high, and its fat content is dependent on cocoa butter. Its taste complexity is closer to strawberry bubble gum than to any known fine flavor cacao origin.

Much of Ruby’s appeal, however, does not rest on flavor but on its color: the bright pink hue that suggests novelty, fruitiness, and even health. But in cacao, color is not a shortcut to quality. The reddish-purple tones celebrated in Ruby’s marketing come from anthocyanins, water-soluble pigments present mainly in bulk-grade Forastero and Amelonado beans before fermentation. These same compounds are also found in grapes, blueberries, and red cabbage.

Yet in chocolate-making, anthocyanins are not a marker of "excellence" per se: during proper fermentation, they naturally break down as polyphenol oxidases activate and pH levels shift. This biochemical transformation is essential, not optional, because it reduces bitterness, astringency, and unwanted acidity while generating the precursors that later produce incredible (and palatable) aromatic complexity.

Here lies the paradox: beans with the highest anthocyanin load — and thus the most dramatic raw coloration — often deliver harsher sensory profiles, marked by acidity, bitterness, astringency, and, consequently, imbalance when fermentation is suppressed or mishandled. Conversely, the paler cotyledons (rose to white) found in the highest-quality cacao strains, which contain fewer anthocyanins, are those most prized for their lower inherent sharp-edged qualities. Their "lack" of vivid pigment is not a weakness, but a precondition for elegance and finesse.

An unfermented or underfermented bean may retain its purple-pink appearance, but what it actually signals is a deficit in post-harvest transformation. Ruby chocolate, therefore, is not showcasing a hidden treasure of nature; it is working with low-grade cacao for its "fitting" higher anthocyanin content, and it is packaging incomplete fermentation and acidification as if they were virtues.

Analytical studies confirmed this: ruby chocolate contains 54 identified bioactive compounds, including flavan-3-ols, proanthocyanidins, methylxanthines, and amines, but these are present in lower quantities than in dark chocolate. Its antioxidant activity is slightly higher than milk chocolate but falls short of high-polyphenol bars. In sensory panels, it consistently scored lowest for overall preference, with acidity standing out as its most dominant and polarizing trait. The berry-like impression is not the result of origin, fermentation, or genetics, but rather a byproduct of suppressed fermentation and artificial acidification. And yet, the product was not illegal. It met European and American labeling thresholds for "chocolate," thanks to the way cacao mass, butter, and sugar content are calculated.

Callebaut's genius — if one wants to call it that — was to exploit the legal gray zone: by avoiding the use of artificial coloring while relying on processing-induced pigmentation, the product could be labeled "chocolate" and sold as such. This is despite the fact that its cacao content, quality, and origin transparency fell short of virtually every expectation set by the specialty chocolate sector. Compare this to bars by true bean-to-bar makers like Goodnow Farms, Castronovo, Heinde & Verre, Krak, Cacao Zoku, and invest in single-origin sourcing, fermentation protocols, and transparency. Their ingredients are minimal. Their flavor complexity is rooted in terroir, genetics, and process — not additives. When they talk of fruity notes, it’s because the beans contain natural esters and aldehydes, developed through well-executed fermentation and drying, and the bean-to-bar making process. These notes are not imposed or simulated. They're coaxed through craftsmanship and respect for the raw material.

Ruby chocolate, on the other hand, is engineered to taste fruity, not because the cacao is extraordinary, but because under-fermentation, citric acid, and sugar do the heavy lifting. What’s more, Ruby chocolate failed to find a footing among serious professionals in the chocolate world. While some chefs experimented with it for visual effect, many pastry chefs dropped it quickly. Its flavor was inconsistent and polarizing. Its color faded under the heat. Its shelf stability was not always reliable. And for makers focused on flavor, not trend, it was a passing novelty.

Ruby Chocolate

By 2020, the hype was clearly waning. While still available in Callebaut's product lines, Ruby no longer occupied headlines or drove consumer excitement. And yet, it persists — stocked in specialty confectionery stores, used in novelty chocolate bars, sold in mass-market holiday boxes, and referenced by confused consumers as a mysterious, exotic type of chocolate. This is the consequence of marketing without education, and of innovation unmoored from meaning.

Some professionals, though, remain ambivalent. As one U.S.-based chocolatier confided privately:

“I could concede that it’s lower-quality chocolate with lower-quality beans. I understand that its lack of fermentation removes the complexity of flavors that are typically present in most chocolate. I can see how it’s not nearly as healthy as dark chocolate, and the flavor is artificially boosted with citric acid. Still, I consider it a new kind of chocolate because of the unique processing of the cocoa. It is made in a completely new and different way of producing chocolate. I think there is still potential to build off of the way that this chocolate was created and make a refined ruby chocolate. One day, I’ll try to make it.”

There is truth in this "concession." Ruby is undeniably the outcome of a patented process (Barry Callebaut, EP 3058940 A1), one that preserves anthocyanin pigmentation in unfermented beans through acidification and controlled drying. From a purely industrial perspective, this is a novel method of obtaining a cacao-derived product. Commercially, it carved out a “fourth category of chocolate,” a space in the market that did not previously exist. But these undeniable points of novelty cannot be confused with progress in the chocolate industry:

Ruby is not an innovation of genetics or terroir; it is a post-harvest manipulation. It does not elevate quality or raise sensory standards; it bypasses them. Its aim was not to refine the specialty chocolate movement but to capture attention with color and marketing. That is why, for many in the fine chocolate world, Ruby represents not a discovery but a product that celebrates what most professionals would call defects, and that teaches consumers little about what truly makes chocolate valuable.

There was a moment when Ruby chocolate could have been the beginning of a new conversation: about cacao genetics, about the untapped potential of underfermented beans, about color as a sensory signal. But instead, it became an Instagram filter in edible form — a trend disguised as progress, a textbook example of food marketing outpacing food integrity.

More damning is how Ruby’s existence has diluted consumer perception of what constitutes chocolate. For those already unclear about the difference between compound coating and couverture, or between cacao and cocoa, Ruby added yet another layer of confusion. It raised the profile of visual novelty while displacing attention from the actual substance.

In a time when the chocolate industry desperately needs more transparency, more sustainability, and more recognition of cacao-producing countries and farmers, Ruby was a distraction. It was a pink smokescreen.

Ironically, the most enduring legacy of Ruby may be its rapid acceptance by regulatory bodies. The FDA approved it as a “standard of identity” for chocolate despite protests from many professionals, citing technical compliance and the absence of artificial coloring. Yet no one demanded traceability. No one evaluated the impact of acidification on the nutritional profile of the final product. No one raised alarms about how little cacao Ruby chocolate actually contains. And so, the precedent was set: as long as the result fits within the legal minimums, innovation is allowed — no matter how shallow or misleading.

The craft chocolate sector, for its part, reacted with a mix of silence, sarcasm, and scorn. Most serious makers ignored it entirely. A few publicly questioned its claims. But no sustained pushback followed.

Ruby was never a real threat to fine chocolate, only to the perception of what chocolate could be. And that, arguably, is more dangerous. Because when consumers accept it as “the fourth type of chocolate,” they accept the idea that chocolate is about marketing, not about cacao. What makes chocolate complex — what gives it character, depth, and narrative — is the story embedded in the bean: its origin, its genetics, the hands that fermented and dried it, the way it was roasted, ground, conched, and even the choices around sugar and fat content. Chocolate is not just a carrier of sugar or a medium for visual flair. It is the final stage of an agricultural product that has passed through dozens of hands and hundreds of decisions. Ruby skipped most of those decisions. Or rather:

It replaced them with strategic ones rooted in marketing, not flavor development. It used the illusion of origin (“special bean”), the seduction of color, and the promise of naturalness, but never delivered substance. And for all its fanfare, it failed to elevate the conversation around cacao. It did not pique consumers' curiosity about the source. It did not create a demand for transparency. It did not teach anyone to taste better chocolate. If anything, it exposed the void of education, the dominance of visual-first food culture, and the weakness of regulatory frameworks. It exploited confusion and fed the industry’s worst instincts: to create for novelty, not for meaning.

That is why this article exists. Not because Ruby deserves attention, but because the response to its creation reveals the deeper problems in how we define and communicate chocolate. Until we address those problems — with education, with rigorous labeling standards, with respect for cacao — Ruby chocolate will remain the most ironic product of its generation:

A chocolate that never became chocolate.

Isn`t it ironic... don`t you think?