Perched on half sheet trays, old-fashioned cake and raised donuts eyed me from behind the glass, taunting. Butter pecan crunch, chocolate the color of midnight and pineapple habañero. I wanted one of each and whatever the sleepy-eyed fellow seated at the counter was having.
Was I staring? Indeed I was, fixated by the mountain of cinnamon buttered waffles and golden fried chicken. You knew it was crispy because at the other end of the counter, you could hear the batter-dipped chicken as it hit the sizzling oil. The fry cook was also working the griddle, protecting sunny side eggs from wayward hash browns.
As smitten as I was by the food component, it is important to note that the handsome gentlemen working the line and serving the masses were attired in bandanas. And they wore them well. At the bakery, our headwear is more Anatevka, less hip-Lower-Eastside.
We were surrounded by hip; friends in pairs and families with strollers. Loners at the counter finding company in green-rimmed plates of biscuits and gravy, scrambles and grits.
It is impossible to pick a favorite from the meal we fought over, our forks and knives tangled in a friendly duel. I also believe that daily consumption of one pineapple habañero donut coupled with a sensible running regimen may very well extend my life. A donut that features the best of crispy, sweet and sassy is possibly just as critical to a good morning as a cuppa joe.
There was one downside to our visit; having reached food flux capacitor, I had to take a pass on the pies. It was a tough call, especially after watching a neighboring table order a slice of the bourbon pecan and a slice of the smoked s’mores pie. Rumor has it the banana cream tucked into a Nilla wafer crust has a huge following. Ditto the lemon chess and the double crusted apple.
Staggering towards the door, the tower of donuts seemed to nudge each other, winking in my direction their donut voices stage whispering, “It’s just a matter of time… she’ll be back.”
Do not question the power of the donut.