June 15, 2018--Serious Donuts

If you have a serious interest in donuts (in my view they are one of the five basic food groups), you will understand my obsession with tracking down and savoring only the very best.

Rona and I have been known to fly for just the morning from New York City to Kansas City so we can gorge ourselves on LeMars etherial doughnuts. Sadly, they have since been franchised but the originals were made and sold in an old gas station. You'd wait on line to buy a dozen and then woof them down, all of them, scrunched in your car unless you had somewhere close by where you could sit more comfortably. Though I'm fine with the car.

Among other aficionados, Calvin Trillin considers LeMars America's best. Could be but we still have a few places to get to before we agree with that.

When on the road, in desperation--say you are driving east through the middle of Nebraska--you might think about pulling off to get your hands on a couple of Dunkins. But the truly obsessed resist that temptation and press on, believing that in a small town such as, say, Gretna there might be someone who gets up every morning at 3:00 am to turn out a heavenly batch of chocolate coconuts.

In fact there is--Sunrize Donuts (been there)--which, in Michelin terms, is worth a detour.

Up here in Maine we live in one of these between-places places and thus felt relief when we learned that "only" 40 miles from us, in Brunswick, there is Frosty's. It has been there for decades. They open at 4:00 (by then a short line is already formed) and close when there're out of donuts. Usually before noon. So if you want Boston creams and toasted coconuts for lunch, and are motivated to head for Brunswick, be forewarned.

But the bad news is that the family who ran it for many years about two years ago sold it and the new owners have been cutting corners on ingredients and looking to have local supermarkets carry their brand. In other words, Frosty's has gone commercial and is now not much better than a Dunkins.

When we reluctantly came to this conclusion we were distraught. We moaned--how will we be able to get through our six-month Maine season without periodic melt-in-your-mouth artisanal donuts.

We were almost tempted to think about summer rentals in Gretna, NE. 

Then, one night at a wonderful home-prepared dinner with friends we met someone they included who they thought we would like to get to know. 

She's great in all respects--very smart, very funny, as well as being a mover and shaker in Damariscotta. Among other things she knows everything about all the local businesses (she had been president of Rotary and CEO of the Chamber of Commerce), and when she heard us whining about Frosty's she asked if we had been to the Nobleboro Village Store.

We confessed we hadn't though it is close by. When she heard that she got all excited and told us there was a treat in store for us. 

"Their donuts are even better than Frosty's were in their prime. Like Frosty's, get there early," she advised, "They also sell out quickly. They make maybe a total of five dozen and some of the guys who come there every day can easily eat a dozen each. There are some very big guys in the area."

Two mornings later we got up early so we could get there by 7:00. The place is in a residential neighborhood and from its look feels like you can pass it by without regrets. It's more a general store than donut joint but it does have a small L-shaped counter with four or five chairs. Usually, a couple of local guys are there, reading the paper and joshing around while sipping a cup of coffee, eating an egg sandwich, and finishing up with a few donuts. 

Sure enough that first day the donuts were picked quite clean but there were a little more than a dozen left and, as outsiders, though in the interest of research we were tempted to buy and eat all of them, we restrained ourselves and brought only six.

We thought, just looking at them, next time we'll get here no later than 6:30 so we can buy a mixed dozen without feeling guilty.

They specialize in basic cake-style doughnuts, generally our favorites. And by now we've been there enough to have seen and sampled their full repertoire.

Plain-plain, plain sugar-coated, plain chocolate-covered, chocolate coconut (my favorite as they come with a handful of thick, clinging coconut shavings), maple crunch,  . . .  You get the picture.

If we allowed ourselves to do what we really desire we'd go there at least once a week. But since we're trying to eat a lower carb diet, we now show up about every four weeks. This past Wednesday was our once-a-month visit.

We bought and finished ten. I could have handled one or two more but resisted. "We only now come once a month and we haven't been here since last October so . . . "

Rona cut me off. She has better discipline than I and wanted to concentrate on a chat she had begun with one of their regulars. 

He was talking about how in the 1970s, though he had never ventured far from Nobleboro, seeking a little adventure  after high school, he moved for half a year to Florida where he got a job at an exclusive beach club as a bellhop and occasional chauffeur.

The other morning he was full of stories about some of the famous guests he encountered--Jackie Gleason, James Garner, Sammy Davis Junior, Frank Sinatra, Bebe Rebozo, and Richard Nixon. He told us how in his bellhop role he had delivered a message to the president who didn't tip him. And also how he met and spent some time with Henry Kissinger. Then there was . . .

So I'm thinking--I'm sitting on a backless stool at the Nobleboro Village Store, in the middle of a version of nowhere and talking with a guy who spent time in the early 70s with Henry Kissinger. All the while inhaling a half dozen of the very best donuts ever. 

I leave you with this--The place is worth a journey. As much for the likes of our new friend as for the donuts. He's an amazing storyteller. So when you get there (as early as possible) ask him to tell you about Kissinger. The best part is his dead-on version of Kissinger's heavily accented English. That alone is worth the trip.

June 22, 2107--Search Dog

We were in town and, after morning coffee, wandered from store to store tracking down items we had on our shopping list.  The weather was cooler than I had anticipated and since I didn’t have enough warm clothing I wanted to stop in Renys to see if they had any fleece vests on sale or maybe a couple of long sleeve pullovers. 

Then Rona planned to make buttermilk biscuits; but since we didn’t have a baking sheet she thought maybe we’d find one, also at Renys.  And tucked away back of the parking lot on the east side of Main Street there was Yellowbird, a small, very personal shop that among other gourmet items and local fresh herbs carries crusty sourdough bread that we had tried last week and since it went well with the fish dishes we had been preparing, we thought we’d buy another loaf. 

And we needed to pick up the New York Times and the weekly county paper.  They were available in the Maine Coast Book Shop and while Rona was paying I could rummage among books that were remaindered.  Up here one can never have enough to read.

We then crossed back to the parking lot by the harbor where we had parked because I was concerned that we might be in danger of getting a ticket.  We were in a two-hour zone and I had been warned that the police had stepped up their enforcement, chalking tires with abandon because, in the current economic climate, unwilling to raise taxes to pay for dwindling town services they were raising money by pouncing on any car that was parked for even a few minutes beyond the limit.

But Rona said relax, we still have lots of time so why rush when there were a few other things we needed.  She had spotted a gift shop and wanted to look for birthday cards to send to friends and family members who have upcoming birthdays.  Cards appropriate for the occasion but maybe with a Midcoast theme.  She wasn’t thinking about anything with lobsters embossed on them but maybe there were some nice note cards with starfish or sailboats.  “Don’t worry so much about the car.  It’ll still be there when we’re done.  This isn’t Manhattan.  They won’t tow it away.  We’re here to unwind after a rough May and June.”

It had been a difficult time.  We were struggling along with a few people close to us who have serious illnesses.  They were thankfully doing much better now, but it had been harrowing earlier.  In spite of this, clearly Maine was not as yet working its wonders on me.  Nonetheless I said, at least half-meaning it, that I was in fact determined to seek inner peace, “I am getting there.  But, you’re right.  I do need to relax more.”  I caught myself acknowledging that and quickly added, “But I am.  I am becoming calm.  Really.”  Rona looked at me with understandable skepticism.  And to demonstrate how I was more laid back I said, “Why don’t you look at the cards and I’ll hang out here on the street and look through the paper in the sun.  The sun is good.”

“That’s fine,” Rona said, “but I don’t call reading the Times exactly being relaxed.  Even in the sun.  All you’ll find there is bad news about the economy, the Middle East, healthcare, the economy, and everything else.  Of course,  do what you want.”

“But,” I protested, “I’ve got the local paper and it’s full of all sorts of good community news.  Like book talks and farmers’ markets.”  I didn’t tell her that the lead story was about a 72 year-old man who had been killed on U.S. 1 when he crashed his motorcycle into the back of a pickup.

“Whatever,” she said and disappeared into the shop. 

I hung out there, facing the sun, thinking more about what a 72 year-old was doing riding a motorcycle on Route 1 than about tomorrow’s farmer’s market, where there was hope that the first local corn would finally be available.  Should someone that age be out on a Harley?  Then again, I thought, maybe that’s the way to go. 

While lost in these less-than-calming thoughts I noticed, coming down the street toward me, a man with what looked like a seeing-eye dog.  But as he got closer it was clear that the man was not blind—I could tell that by how he was checking out things on the street and in the stores that they were passing.  Perhaps he’s training him, I then thought.  Though that seemed unusual for here.  I had only seen dogs of this kind being trained in big cities.  But that’s in part why we are here—to have some new experiences.  Relaxing ones, I reminded myself.

As they drew closer I could see that the dog was wearing a bright yellow plastic vest; and when they were just a few yards away I could read printed on it, on both sides--Search Dog.  The New Yorker in me was immediately drawn back to 9/11 when police departments from up and down the east coast had sent dogs of this kind to help find survivors buried in the rubble and then later, after things turned even more hopeless, body parts. 

But since I was trying not to allow myself to continue to be mired in thoughts of this kind, to the man who I assumed was his handler, with some awkwardness, avoiding even a hint of anything disturbing or grim, I said as brightly as I could, “Is he looking for me?”

With barely a glance and without a word of response to my silliness, they passed right by me and I was left to watch them work their way up the street.  I noticed that they both had the same deliberate gate, as if practicing stepping over dangerous piles of rubble from a bombing or a . . . 

But quickly, just as was instructed to do by Rona, I cut that thought short and leafed through the paper to see what would be available at this week’s farmer’s market.  The first black currents, I noticed.  Maybe Rona would turn them into a compote that I could then use as a marinade for some nice broiled loin lamb chops with . . .”

When I looked up again, still straining to stay in sunlight, I saw the policeman and the dog working their way back in my direction.  Clearly training was going on, I was relieved to realize, and that they were not searching for a lost or kidnapped child, or anything more tragic.  And this time the trainer allowed the dog to come up to me and give me a good sniffing.  Not in my crotch, which most non-search-dog dogs would do, but more my trouser cuffs, socks, and shoes.

“You asked if he was looking for you.  Right?”  I nodded.  “Well, if it’s all right with you I thought I would have him search for you.”

I was confused, “But he’s found me, no?”  I pointed down at him where he was giving me a good going over.  “How would he search for me since he’s already found me?”

“You see how he’s sniffing at your pants leg?  He’ll now remember that.  From that he’ll remember you.  And, again if you’re willing, we’ll head back that way,” he pointed way up the street, “and then when you’re done with that paper—nothing much good in there to tell you the truth—you can go wherever you want in town, you can even hide if you want to.  Actually, that’d be good.  And then in about 15 minutes or so, I’ll have him search for you.  To see how well he’s doing at that.  We just got him and are training him.  To tell you the truth, he’s not coming along all that well.  So this would be good for him.  How does that sound to you?”

I very much liked the idea and said, “Sure.  Sounds like fun and maybe it will be helpful.  He looks like quite a nice fella.” 

I bent to pat his head but his handler stepped in to stop me.  “One thing—no one who isn’t working him should ever touch him.  It only confuses things.  Understood?”

“Yes.  Sure.  Sorry.  My wife’s in the store and as soon as she comes out we’ll go and hide somewhere.  Is that OK?  I mean hiding?”

“Like I said, whatever you want.  If he gets trained proper I can’t tell you the kinds of things we’ll be having him doing.” 

I very much wanted to know but Rona later will be proud of me for again restraining myself from asking.  I was under orders to stay away from these kinds of disturbing matters. To try to stay calm.

“You know,” I added, half-kidding, “I’ve been trying to find myself for years.  Maybe this will help with that.”

Clearly he either didn’t understand my pseudo-existentialist comment or in fact did and thought it not worthy of consideration.  And thus, for whatever reason, without another word they headed back up the street and I folded up the paper, very eager now for Rona to finish her shopping.  I thought the only things remaining on our list were the cards and that as soon as she came out we could spend the full 15 minutes hiding ourselves. 

My first thought was to find a place down by the dock where they bring in all the fish.  It would be full of conflicting smells and thus would be a good test for the dog.  But as I thought about this I realized maybe Rona wouldn’t like what I had agreed to do, feeling that I, with my pushy big-city ways, had imposed myself on the policeman.  Her style was more to fit in by not making us too obvious, too seemingly eager to meet and befriend people.  Especially local people who were welcoming to outsiders but also were clear about wanting to maintain a separation between themselves and us.  At least on initial encounter.  And if she felt this way about what I had agreed to, she would be more than half right. 

So maybe, I thought, I wouldn’t tell Rona what happened.  That I would say, “You know we never walked along the docks.  Since it’s a nice morning, maybe we should do that.”  And then whatever happened or didn’t happen with the dog I would deal with.  After the fact. 

I felt it was at best fifty-fifty that they would find us, I mean me--that the handler had said the dog wasn’t doing very well--and that if they didn’t, as I expected they wouldn’t—especially if I could find us a good hiding place--I would have nothing to explain to Rona.  If they did, I would hem and haw and then eventually say wasn’t it fun to agree to this.  I felt sure she would come around to that.  After all, she likes dogs, though she would be frustrated that she wouldn’t be allowed to pat him.

And with that Rona bounced out of the shop and rejoined me on the street, excitedly showing me a box of note cards she had bought with tasteful pictures on them of various seascapes.  Very nice.  Not at all tacky.  Since she was in such a good mood, I suggested a walk down by the boats.  She said that sounded nice and off we went.

It was midmorning and there was very little activity.  The fishing and lobster boats had set out much earlier and wouldn’t return for some hours.  As we passed through the parking lot to get to the moorings, I had some fleeting anxiety again about how long our car had been parked but quickly put that aside since I was now on a mission to help with searches and rescues.

After a few minutes, Rona stated the obvious, “There’s not much going on here.  Maybe we should come back one afternoon when the boats come in and we could perhaps even buy some fresh fish or lobsters.”

“That sounds like a good idea to me.  But let’s walk a little further.  There’s a pile of nets I wouldn’t mind checking out.”  I was stalling for time and also thought that behind the smelly nets would be a good place to hide.

“I don’t know what it is with you and fishing nets,” Rona said, reminding me that whenever we are anywhere in a port I seem to have this fascination with nets.

Again, seeking to buy time, I ruminated out loud about this peculiar interest of mine.  “I don’t know why.  I think it may be because when I was a kid my father used to like to take us to the Fulton Fish Market in New York City and Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn, down by the fishing piers, and we would wander around among the boats and stalls.  I remember fantasizing about working on one of those boats.  Hauling nets or something.  For some reason this always . . .”

“You know, it’s getting late.  We have some things in the car that we should be putting into the refrigerator.  We can come back here another time.  And you can visit your nets.”

“You know how most kids like me back then dreamed about being firemen and . . .”

“You mean boys.”

“Yes, boys, and . . .” 

I interrupted myself because, as Rona and I were going back and forth about my fascination with fishing nets, just beginning to turn down toward the docks I spotted a glint of yellow—the sun’s reflection off the search dog’s vest.  He was clearly sniffing his way along, leading his handler right toward us.

I grabbed hold of Rona’s jacket and began to pull her toward the mountain of fishing nets.  “What are you doing?” Rona squealed.  “You’re tugging on my sleeve.”

“I know.  Sorry.  I just want to get a closer look at those nets.  I’ve never seen any like them.”

“I think you’re crazy.  I thought Maine would have a good effect on you, a calming one; but now look at  . . .”

“Please, just this once, let’s take a look at these.  Trust me they’re really special.”  Rolling her eyes up in her head Rona relented and followed me behind the pile.  I pretended to scrutinize them while she stood aloof with her arms folded, impatiently tapping her foot.

Even though I was bent low, out of the tops of my eyes I could see her waiting, aggravated but indulgent, while I pretended to examine the floats on the nets, crouching ever lower and lower.  I was trying to curl up into a ball to better hide myself. 

But huddling as I was against the nets, thinking I had successfully made myself virtually invisible, as they drew even closer, I could also not fail to see the search dog and his handler. 

They came to a stop a few yards from me and the dog promptly sat on his haunches.  I had expected he would leap at me, growl, and then bite at my trouser cuffs.  But he and the policeman remained where they were, totally still, without moving closer. 

What I was really up to was about to be exposed to Rona and thus I began fumbling in my mind to concoct an explanation and also what I was certain would need to be a seemingly-sincere apology.

“Did you find yourself yet?” the dog’s handler asked.

“What was that?” Rona said, more confused than I.  After all I at least knew what they and I had been up to.

“Oh, nothing,” I said with as much matter-of-factness as I could muster.

“Nothing?  Rona exclaimed, “Didn’t you hear what he said?”

“Not really,” I lied. 

She turned to them for conformation about what she had clearly heard, but they had already retraced most of their steps back up toward the street.

“Well, I never,” Rona said, exasperated, but calm.

I didn’t right then try to explain anything or look directly at her, but promised myself that when we were back at the house and all the groceries were safely away, I would tell her the whole story. 

August 2, 2013--Croissants

Just my luck. At a breakfast place called Chrissy's in downtown Damariscotta, Maine of all places, after decades of searching, I finally found the best croissants in America.

They are bulky yet light and airy. Thick, dark caramel bands wrap them with blisters of tan revealing just how delicate each outer layer is. Tear off a piece and an internal view shows that the croissant is composed of seemingly hundreds of paper-thin layers and emanating from them is the sweet scent of toasted butter.

So wouldn't you know it, just as I was getting used to enjoying my good fortune—ordering two a day to consume with Chrissy’s homemade peach and cherry jams—according to the Washington Post, in rebel-held Aleppo, Syria, a sharia committee has just declared them--via a fatwa--symbols of "colonial oppression" and forbade their consumption. 

Nearly 100,000 Syrians have thus far been killed in the civil war between the government of Bashar al-Assad and various rebel groups and they have time to think about banning the baking and eating of croissants?

People are literally scavenging for scraps of food but there are Syrian religious leaders who are worried about the corrupting influence of these crescent-shaped delights?

I don’t mean to make light of this, but really.

But I do get it. It is because of their suspicious crescent shape. Could it be that croissants are made like that, these Syrian wise men ask, to mock the Islamic Ottoman invaders who in the early 1880s, attempted to capture Budapest? 

When they were repelled by the European infidels, what did the Hungarians do to celebrate their victory? According to the Syrian sharia committee, rather than organize a parade or a fireworks display like normal Western imperialists, life-loving Austrio-Hungarians that they were instead asked local bakers to come up with a new and special treat to commemorate their military victory.

The result, it is alleged, the buttery, flaky viennoiseria bread-roll with its signature crescent-shape, supposedly derisively derived from the crescent part of the crescent-and-star flag of the Ottoman’s.

The fact that this version of the croissant’s origins is apocryphal hardly matters—in reality, the croissant originated much earlier in the 19^th century and was concocted for the first time in Vienna, not Budapest, in what is now Austria. 

But what matters are two things—

First, this reveals that the Syrian rebels are becoming more and more doctrinaire and fundamentalist, recently having banned makeup and women’s tight clothing. If they manage to overthrow the Assad regime (seemingly less and less likely as time goes by), it may be that Syria will wind up more resembling Iran than Turkey.

And then there is my croissant problem: breakfasting on something that is the subject of a fatwa doesn’t sound like much fun. especially before I've had my second cup of coffee.
Note--

On the other hand, coffee is likely never to be fatwaed--it appears, thankfully, to have been first cultivated in the 14th century by Arabs.