Saturday, July 14, 2001


had the opportunity today to visit new york's gentrifying lower east side. i go there every 6 weeks to have my hair done. but what's notable about the place from our point of view is an old-time childhood favorite -- the doughnut.

yes, i seized the moment and headed down to the doughnut plant on grand st. between essex and norfolk. getting off at delancy st., i had to walk a block past a dodgy housing project, but then i found it, right next to the kossar's bialy, a long-time outpost for the true classic bialy.

unlike the dreaded krispy kreme doughnut, currently so popular, the doughnut plant treat is made with organic flour, tahitian vanilla, valrhona chocolate, and other high-quality ingredients. i'm not a big doughnut fan: the krispy kreme seems no more than a pouf of over-sweet grease that leaves a funny aftertaste. these doughnuts plant things are completely different.

first, they're large, as big as my hand spread wide, and easily 1-1/2 in. thick. they're half-way between airy and cakey, having a cream-colored interior with medium-sized holes. like most doughnuts, they are slathered in a thick, sticky glaze. no filled or frosted doughnuts here. as i said, i'm no doughnut fan, so they seemed just well . . .like doughnuts should be, no more. but in an age of artificial flavors, commercial extruded oxidized yeast goods that don't actually rise, and krispy kreme evanescence, maybe that's all a doughnut lover yearns for. . . so if you've a passion for doughnuts, recapture your dream at the doughnut plant.

for myself, i tried to eat the doughnut plant object with mindfulness. i wanted to be aware of the quality ingredients, the pure flavors, the texture. but as i chewed it slowly, i couldn't be with it. it didn't arouse my taste curiosity; it bored me. and i put it down halfway through. i couldn't tell that its artisanal qualities had made any difference in the outcome. my husband, however, finished his and i suspect will eat the rest of mine, sneakily, with milk, in the middle of the night. . .

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