Despite what anyone says, we do not live in abundant times. This is an era of austerity. So when I see a business that entices grown adults to wait in an hour-long line for a $17 dessert in a jar, I need to know why.
The Crazy Mason Milkshake Bar opened a much-anticipated Pittsburgh location in the Waterfront in May. The milkshake bar and ice cream shop bills itself as a place where “calories don’t count,” offering “picture-worthy treats” piled high with candy and toppings. Its signature creation is a “crazy” Mason, a colorful milkshake served in a Mason jar with a treat-covered rim.
But the madness doesn’t stop there: each milkshake is then topped with layers of cookies, brownies, and cake — in one case, a full slice of cheesecake — followed by frosting, whipped cream, and sprinkles to make a dessert the size of someone’s head. The Pittsburgh shop even touts an exclusive “Crazy Burgh” Mason, a salted caramel brownie milkshake with a black-and-yellow sprinkle rim garnished with a chocolate gob, yellow whipped frosting, and yellow “Pittsburgh bridge” chocolate wafers.
Of course, part of the appeal is the maximalism, the idea of extreme cuisine. “Every milkshake is a feast for both the eyes and taste buds,” the Crazy Mason Pittsburgh webpage reads. It’s explicitly stated that eating one of these things is crazy — adjacent to a food challenge.
When I learned the Crazy Mason originated in tourist mecca Myrtle Beach, S.C., things clicked into place. I can picture people combing the boardwalk with huge, treat-heavy milkshakes — virtually guaranteed to collapse on the sand immediately — enjoying a one-time novelty on vacation. But the first Crazy Mason was about two miles inland, originally located in a bowling alley (whom it later sued) between a movie theater and a shopping mall. This means the draw is roughly the same as Pittsburgh’s: not impulse purchases from foot traffic, but customers intentionally making the drive to line up for crazy Masons.
After seeing a line at the Waterfront that I mistook for a sold-out Improv show, I had to make the trip myself. Pittsburgh City Paper photographer Mars Johnson and I took the plunge and survived (and Crazy Mason should be selling T-shirts that say this).
We went to the Waterfront Crazy Mason when it opened on a Wednesday during record-breaking heat. Foolishly I believed this would help our cause, but when you already feel queasy and vaguely dehydrated, the heaviest possible ice cream treat does not hold much appeal.
The Mason’s storefront was apparently a deli, charcuterie, and diner before it Went Crazy, and you can see remnants of all these things. The front, with leather waiting room-style chairs, looks like a plastic surgeon’s office, mashed together with a retro glass block bar at the center, emulating an old soda shop. An open kitchen (I blame The Bear for this trend) reveals five employees meticulously rolling Mason jars in chocolate and Oreos and scooping candy and sprinkles. An area in the back is mysteriously labelled “The Worsh Station” in neon letters (we’ll return to this later). Because we here at City Paper love all things local (and the Pittsburgh location is locally owned), I did appreciate a Pittsburgh Crazy Mason mural featuring the yellow Sister Bridges.
I ordered a Mint To Be Mason, which had the least threatening aura (mint is a plant). “Explore the Andes,” the Pittsburgh menu — which is going for a Cheesecake Factory level of text — suggests coolly, referring to the Mint Mason’s chocolate-swirled jar rolled in crushed Andes mints. Mars got dessert nachos, one of many other “crazy” dessert selections, though these were later swapped for a Crazy Waffle ice cream sundae.
Placing the order, I noticed a sign on a stanchion like you’d see at a theme park stashed nearby notifying visitors that the current wait time is 65-75 minutes and thanking them for their patience awaiting a handcrafted “milkshake experience.” (A recent Facebook post also alludes to the line’s contained chaos.) A cashier assured me it was no exaggeration, and a good thing we got there early.
Crazy Mason is crazy (nice) enough to offer table service. When the Mason was brought to our table, it did look exactly like the picture, a bit of a thrill. But then I had to confront eating it, which requires immediately decanting the topping portion from the actual Mason jar milkshake. We plunked the Andes-topped brownie — garnished by a column of chocolate icing that we’d hoped was whipped cream — onto an unappetizing plastic plate.
For a restaurant that prides itself on the quality of its fresh made-to-order milkshakes, nearly all the ingredients were middling, and mostly pre-made or artificial. Whipped cream is from a spray can, not made in-house. The brownie tastes like the boxed brownies that women in rom coms bake to show the audience they’re single and lonely. The same goes for the frosting. The milkshake’s ice cream is tasty enough, but nothing to write home about, especially with so many premium ice cream options in Pittsburgh. So, indeed what you’re paying for is the milkshake experience, to behold one of these over-the-top borderline unholy creations.
Despite all this, I’m not here to yuck anyone’s yum. Everybody must get stoned. I’m not here to judge or kink-shame if you want to do that by putting yourself in a diabetic coma. I consider myself to be a dessert person (though not an extreme eater), and I’m even on record defending trashy dessert cocktails.
But it’s too much. It’s enough to make someone question what’s going on here on a psychoanalytic level. That this business is a pandemic-era creation, founded in June 2020 during the height of restrictions, heavily suggests it was borne out of repression, and I’m here to tell you that feeling of doubling-down (and going crazy) in the face of societal collapse is still shot through the cheap chocolate syrup.
“I can’t believe I did this to myself,” Mars said after we made it halfway through both desserts. I began to feel like I’d black out, and found myself jealously glancing over at the wise child who’d managed to order a single-scoop waffle cone. But I understand we’re in the minority. After 45 minutes, the shop was nearly full, and I imagine a line formed after we left.
The coup-de-grace: Masons come at two price levels, in a “regular” plastic cup for $13.75 or a glass Mason jar, customized with the Pittsburgh logo, for $17.25. We had no idea what we were supposed to do with the glass Mason jar — still slathered in melted chocolate and candy pieces around the rim — until the terrible revelation of what the “Worsh Station” is hit us. What appears to be a hand-washing sink, with a sign reminding employees to wash their hands, is actually a combination hand-washing/jar-washing station that allows you to wash your hands (spiritually and otherwise) and your Mason jar to take home.
The “Worsh” situation merits a longer discussion. Suffice it to say, there are no sponges or cleaning supplies, just soap and paper towels, and two large troughs to catch piles of scrubbed toppings. Mars compared it to the old trough urinal at Cleveland Municipal Stadium, and I think that sums it up.
I rinsed out my Mason jar, then hand-washed it at home, and though I love Pittsburgh souvenir glasses, it hasn’t left my drying rack yet. It’s just too much.
This article appears in Jun 25 – Jul 1, 2025.
