Two Faux-reo snacks enter; one Faux-reo snack leaves. And takes the appetite with it.
Description. OD: The Oreo® Donut is one of two donuts available as part of Dunkin and Baskin’s summertime Oreopalooza. An marriage between one of the most popular cookies in history and a ubiquitous fast-food brand is completely sensible, and the donut itself looks good — stylish, even, with bright-white icing and midnight-brown Oreo chunks on the top. PT: The funereal coloration of the Tart itself is disconcerting, and not helped by a crooked and unattractive assembly-line-misfire glomp of icing, itself flecked with Oreoid dots that suggest shower mildew, that does not “match” the color of the filling.
Description. Indulge Dr. Bunting in a careless Hollywood comparison for a moment, won’t you? Taking it as a given that a Hostess snack cake is the Doris Day of nibbles, straitlaced, functional, and attractive yet not sexy; and that the Little Debbie version is more of a Mamie Van Doren (presents as trashy but is merely prone to falling in love too easily, and genuinely regrets the C-minus sex she had with Bo Belinsky); with what troubled mid-century starlet shall we compare the Lady Linda Crème Finger? The fuchsia and coconut cloak brings to mind the pink champagne and maribou of a Gabor, but also the blood and single-minded desperation of a Manson girl.
Alas, yes: the Lady Linda Crème Finger, at least in its “berry” iteration, is Susan Atkins.
Its visual and corporate profiles only contribute to that impression. The Finger is extremely sweaty and sticky within its plastic sleeve, but performing the snack-uivalent of a sex-offender search turns up little on its company parent — no website, no online ordering, just the threateningly named Operative Cake Corp. and a handful of reviews touting the calorie-to-price ratio of various Lady Linda products. Like the spy or dominatrix its DBAs imply, it keeps a suspiciously low profile.
Except, of course, for the searing magenta of the product itself.
Packaging/Branding. Original-flavor Fingers evidently come in pairs, but the pink Finger appeared on its own, with no per-Finger label or nutritional information. The Finger is more or less a Twinkie, but slightly shorter and narrower so as not to arouse the ire of Hostess.
Flavor Profile. Whether it proceeds from the food dye, the lazily applied clumps of coconut, or the too-sweet crème filling, the Finger tastes like spongey baby powder.
Habitat. Delis acting as a front for some other business; the California desert; Queens.
Field Notes. When purchased with a Mexican Coca-Cola, may occasion a frightened “Daaaang” from the cashier.
Revulsion Scale: 10
Description. Also known in certain quarters as “Italian flag cookies,” “tri-color cakes,” and “those pink-and-green thingies,” the seven-layer is recognized in almost all quarters as the last sweetmeat left on the Italian-bakery platter. Our tester’s customary strategy when confronted with a platter of that type is to divest it of every last pignoli cookie, then retire from the field to enjoy three hundred abdominal crunches and a nap, so she had little experience with the seven-layer — except to note that it, and it alone, remains on the plate at the end of a dessert service, a few of its number scarred by a single half-moon of teeth.
Anecdotal evidence suggested a determination of “revolting.” What would formal testing reveal?