My grandfather Maurice Prager (1902–1992) recalled that flour was hard to come by during and after World War I in his home, the city of Przasnysz, Poland.
After the German troops withdrew, people found elongated bags of brown flour left behind, and these were hurried off to the local bakers so that bread could be made.
But there was something wrong with the flour. The dough was sticky and didn't rise, and the flour itself was bitter. The bakers didn't know what to think.
Eventually someone turned up who had been to Vienna. "That is not flour — it is something called Schokolade. You should try dissolving it with a little sugar in hot milk."
Przasnysz is pronounced roughly "pras-nish" in English phonology ([pʂas-nɨʂ] in my great uncle's Polish). Its pronunciation in my grandfather's Russian-fragranced local Yiddish was "prushnyits"; the city's Yizkor book spells the name "Proshnits". As is common all over Europe, a given place may have quite different traditional names in different languages.