This is big. 

Very, literally, and very literally big.

But it’s also one of a precious small number.

Yes, this rectangular beast is one of only 45 Pop-Tarts “Party Pastries” ever made, and I never expected to actually get one. Like with most hyper-limited-edition breakfast grails, I expected bots and scalpers to scoop up all 45 of ‘em before we everypeople could even type in our zip codes. Not to mention, Kellogg’s said they would only deliver these hulking Party Pastries to addresses in New York City, Los Angeles, and Chicago—three cities I definitely don’t live in.

But yet, just like how love and life always find a way, so too did fate’s strawberry-red thread weave together serendipitous circumstances that allowed my mouth to meet this meaty toaster pastry (as if there’s a toaster in the world—or even an MRI machine—that could fit it). $60 later, and with the help of multiple beloved friends both Chicagoan and generously-willing-to-drive-6-hours-round-trip-while-I-was-in-Alaska, my (our) 3’x2’ munch-strosity landed safely.

And life was never the same.

…Well, it’s actually pretty much the same. Just a bit more bloated.

Let’s make one thing clear: eating this Party Pastry is a weighty undertaking. At the time of this writing, at least 25 people have broken the naturally and artificially flavored bread that is this hallowed Tart, with all parties eating far more than what could comfortably be called “their fill.” 

And there’s still 15–20% left.

You see, Kellogg’s describes the Party Pastry as “73x the size of a normal Pop-Tart.” But I think that’s a gross underestimate, since it only accounts for the X and Y axes. When you consider how this Party Pastry is also as thick as 3 normal Pop-Tarts stacked on top of each other, you get a girthy leviathan that’s actually like 219x the size of your average P-T, which explains why all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could scarcely scarf this thing down and ever wish to lay eyes on a Strawberry Pop-Tart again.

Because even eating a small shard borders on gastrointestinally harrowing. The crust is just so dense, and while a sedimentary cross-section reveals that the proportion of crust-to-filling is no different than that of any other Pop-Tart—and, in fact, with this Party Pastry, the filling actually goes all the way to the edge of the crust, thankfully avoiding a vast, arid all-crust desert—the sheer size of the thing still makes it a crust-heavy endeavor. See, simply by virtue of there being so much crust, by the time your teeth, tongue, and palate reach the filling, you’ve already had to dentally frack through centimeters of crust before the filling provides any sweet relief.

And don’t rely on the icing, either. There may be a lot of it, but its sweetness is a drop in the bucket compared to the counterbalancing dryness of the crust. And sure, the crust does have a shortbreaded appeal in its own right, but there is simply too much. Eating the Pop-Tarts Party Pastry is like bearing witness to an endless civil war between crust and filling—and brother, the venerable forces of filling are vastly outnumbered.

Which is sad, because the filling is darn good. Crazy good, even. The thin stripe of filling afforded to one by a normal Pop-Tart isn’t nearly enough for you to gum it about and really decipher its rich flavor machinations. Which also isn’t to say that this Party Pastry filling is literally the same as Pop-Tart filling, but to my palate it might as well be. And what this closer in-mouth inspection reveals is that the filling doesn’t really taste specifically like strawberries, and honestly kind of tastes a little like Cherry Kool-Aid—further evidencing my theory that Kellogg’s has one big tube of goo that, much like Duff Beer, just pumps into three different vats labeled “Strawberry Pop-Tarts, Cherry Pop-Tarts, and Blueberry Pop-Tarts.”

Like, c’mon, you can’t tell me there’s a statistically significant flavor difference between those!

In my sugar-addled typing spiral, I fear I’m losing the plot a little, as my mind and mouth alike are likewise lost in the vastly porous labyrinth that is this Party Pastry. So let’s skip right to the part where I cram it in my toaster oven.

It’s pretty tough to meaningfully toast a Pop-Tarts Party Pastry, because by the time you’ve managed to impact the biscuity inner mantle, the outer crust has more or less been flambéed, while the crimson core is leaking out the edges. 

I will say it’s worth the effort, though (just in case any of those other 44 Pastry Partiers are reading this and are still toaster-shy). Because toasting the Party Pastry makes it taste a lot less like its hyper-processed lab-created namesake and more like some sort of, y’know, genuine cherry pie (I can’t untaste the cherry now) that was made by a real bakery (which this Party Pastry was). The hot filling tastes a lot like real jelly, and the golden-browned crust is buttery and flaky instead of just dry and sort of crumbly.

(In the interest of journalistic exhaustiveness, I can’t really recommend eating this thing frozen, though, as you’re likely to break an incisor on a crystallized mega-sprinkle.)

I’m so glad this Party Pastry ended up being good, and I’m glad that it, by and (quite) large, tastes not like a Pop-Tart-themed cake but rather an actual, giant Pop-Tart, through and through. Honestly, assorted crusted qualms aside, the worst thing I can realistically say about the Pop-Tarts Party Pastry is that it is both so big and so good that you’re likely to lose all impulse control and eat so much of it that you’ll end up nauseated, incapacitated, and decidedly horizontal for the foreseeable future. 

So as I lay here, pinned to my couch by kilograms of fruited grain, I remain grateful for the chance to be a part of Pop-Tarted history. I loved this thing, it’s just that, sort of like a full-grown Saint Bernard curled-up on your abdomen…sometimes love can hurt.

---

 

The “Bowl”: Pop-Tarts Party Pastry

The Breakdown: It’s a giant Strawberry Pop-Tart, and that’s exactly how it tastes, too. Which, despite so much crust and a couple stomach aches, remains, in my book, a very good thing.

The Bottom Line: 8.5 excessive parenthetical asides out of 10

 

P.S. My sincerest special thanks go to my friends Frank and Kristin, as well as the fine folks at Alliance Bakery Chicago, for making this happen!