Smock Blogs

Made the weekly sugar coma run to one of six donut shops within easy driving distance, all of which are run by Koreans, half of them next to a nail salon, and half of those next to a sushi “restaurant”.

Or it used to be, and it’s in quotes for a reason, because the sushi was more than acceptable, it was the restaurant part that was suspect. Not in a “it’s authentic” kind of way, more in a “we pay more attention to the donut machines” kind of way. Which is less a commentary on the proprietors, and says more about the culinary inclinations of where I live.

Before I am pilloried for snobbery, I’m fine with the Olive Garden, which has no foothold here, having only achieved Chili’s levels of franchising, but now that the Jersey Mike’s is here, it feels like things are moving nicely. Just don’t refer to the Olive Garden as Italian food. It’s the Garden’s interpretation of a national cuisine, as such, it does just fine, but it is not good Italian.

Same for the donut shops. They are beyond pedestrian, which is the point of the donut, despite what places like Voodoo Donut and Hurts Donut have tried to do for the genre. I applaud those efforts, particularly the latter, which has managed to cobble together ingredients in a way that’s made me believe in American pastries again.

But when I pull up to the donut shop here, I’m not looking for surprises, because there’s a comfort in sameness and mediocrity, knowing that what you’re about to put in your mouth will taste and feel just like it did last week, and the week before that, and will continue to do so in the days ahead. And in a world that continues to batter at things I thought I held dear, sometimes all I’ve got left is the donut.