The Last Memorable Doughnut

I posted awhile back on the horror I felt to discover they’re replacing one of my local pizza places with a friggin’ Dunkin’ Donuts.

I’ve always had an aversion to chain restaurants, what with their tacky décor, middling-to-awful mountainous piles of cheap food, and cheesy drinks. Even in college when I didn’t know any better (and had yet to discover the wonders of foie gras and oysters), I groaned every time my roommates suggested a trip to T.G.I. Friday’s, where the lettuce always tasted suspiciously of bleach. Dunkin’ Donuts is an especially ugly, fast-multiplying chain with, as I recall, especially lousy baked goods.

However, I was out the other night with some PR types who swore that Dunkin’ had attained some kind of cult status on the West Coast, where they don’t have access to any, much like East Coast dwellers have a fascination with In n Out Burger (for much better reason, judging by my last trip to Vegas and our drunken drive-through to In n Out). Dunkin’ is making inroads onto the West Coast (beware!) via its affiliation with JetBlue. Maybe they’re onto something, I thought; maybe Dunkin’ wasn't so bad after all.

So this morning, hungry on my way into work, I decided to give ol’ Pink Stripes a chance. Dreaming of the raspberry filled, simple glazed and blueberry cakes at my old Krispy Kreme near my job at the Journal, I stepped on line like a good lemming. I ordered a Boston Cream and asked for a raspberry filled, which they didn’t have and, since the service SUCKS, didn’t alert me to the choice of a jelly-filled. So I walked out with the Boston Cream and a plain glazed.

Four hours later, I still feel sick and vaguely ashamed of myself for consuming that many calories for something so uninspiring. I’ll never go back.

My first taste of good doughnuts happened in high school. Our local bakery made raised doughnuts fresh every morning and before band practice (that’s right! Band practice! In small towns you gotta do everything or you don’t have a band, a football team, or a cheerleading squad. So I dutifully picked up my pom-poms and French horn. Deal.) my friends and I would swing by the bakery to pick up twists with the glaze still setting; they were delicious. We’d snarf them down in the car and I suppose we got our instruments all sticky this way.

After moving away for college, I never had a good doughnut again until I discovered Krispey Kreme. My particular branch was located in the ground floor of the World Trade Center, where I’d stop on my way to work across the street at World Financial One.

My favorite memory of this Krispy Kreme was from, oh, probably mid-2001. My boyfriend at the time was in medical school in Philly and he, his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend came up to visit. They wanted to go to the top of the trade center and drink martinis at Windows on the World. After a day of touring around, they stopped by World Fi to pick me up and head over to the WTC and up the 110-plus floors to the top.

I hadn’t had lunch, and we sat and drank martinis at Windows on the World until late afternoon, ruing the fact that it was foggy and our view of Jersey was thus obscured. At some point I realized I wouldn’t be able to negotiate the subway (or the elevator, or standing, or breathing) unless I quickly obtained something to eat. Krispy Kreme called.

We got a dozen between the four of us and attacked them like a bunch of refugees. It is a decadent memory. Martinis and doughnuts for a late lunch. Interesting choice.

A few months later, my Krispey Kreme (along with everything else in a five-block radius) was obliterated.

I haven’t had Krispy Kreme since. Of course, there were far worse losses that day, but I bet no one has yet penned their ode to the lost KK. Consider it done.