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.

October 26, 2017--Audiological Tale: Previous Life (Conclusion)

"Now all we need," I said, "is to run into a woman who speaks Czech. You remember how Gary programmed my hearing aids to have a Czech woman talk to me? How I thought she was asking me to help her? As if she was in danger or had been kidnapped or something."

"I do remember that," John said, "But most important, don't forget Gary himself. None of this makes any sense if he's not here. He's at the center of this, whatever the this is. And thus far we haven't caught sight of him."

"I suspect since he's the mild-mannered type if he gambles at all we will find him at the quarter slots. He probably has a limit to how much he's willing to lose. I doubt he's into roulette or craps or blackjack. Unlike your Dunkin Donut guy who we spotted at a $25 blackjack table."

"So," John suggested, "why don't we inconspicuously slide over in that direction. To where the slot machines are. To see if maybe Gary's there."

This is the proletarian area of all gambling casinos. Where retired people, mainly women, are to be found perched with blank faces on high stools feeding quarter after quarter into the maw of the machines. 

Invariably, the players have jumbo soda cups in which they dispassionately scoop what cascades out when they on occasion hit three cherries. And then how they from these cups retrieve coins to use to satisfy the lure of the machine. Until they over time inevitably get cleaned out.

It is also the most depressing underbelly of casinos since one senses here that the money being slowly confiscated by the slots is money from Social Security checks that might otherwise be directed to paying rent or to buy healthy food.

"I doubt if we'll spot Gary here," John said, "He too would find this an unhappy place to chase Lady Luck. Much of his clientele, of course, is older--including the two of us!--but I am sure most of them would not want anything to do with this sorry scene."

"I agree. Why don't we take a break from this sleuthing and get a bite to eat. We've been at it since five this morning. I could use a cup of coffee and maybe a sandwich. In fact, I could use a nap."

"We're not here for that," John said, "We're on a mission. I'm OK with a bite to eat but don't need any rest. I'd like to press on."

"Me as well," I said, "I was just thinking out loud. Do you want something to go with your coffee?"

"Yes. I think maybe chicken salad on a roll."

We spotted a modest cafeteria and while I got on line to place our orders, John headed for the men's room. 

I picked up and paid for our food and drinks and took them to an table just off the casino floor where I waited for John. I began to feel concerned as ten minutes had passed and there was no sign of him. I was about to leave our food on the table and set out to find him. But before I could do that, John, almost running and out of breath, plopped down on one of the chairs. 

"What's happening? Are you OK?" I asked concerned about him.

Ignoring that, he said, "You're not going to believe this."

"This would not be the first time," I said. "I mean, not believing all the crazy things that have been happening. Tell me the latest."

"We were making a joke about the Czech woman whose voice your were hearing."

"Right. After Gary had reprogrammed my devices."

"I think I just met her."

"No way. Impossible."

"Apparently not," John raced on, "There's a lounge by the bathrooms with sofas and chairs where I guess gamblers can take a break. Only this one woman was sitting there since I assume when people come here to gamble they're not interested in taking breaks. She spotted me and waved me over to where she was sitting. A tiny blue-haired woman who was so small she was swallowed up by the armchair. She was smiling weakly at me. She felt lonely and sad. 

"I went right over to her. She had that effect on me. To draw me to her. She said something I couldn't make out. She was speaking that softly. The lounge is off the betting floor but still quite noisy. So I kneeled down to get closer to her to make it easier to hear and understand her. She had quite a think accent. European. She grabbed hold of my arm. And . . ."

My heart was pounding as I interrupted John, "I think I know where this is headed. She's . . ."

"I think so. Impossible as it may be, I think she's your Czech lady. Her accent was so pronounced I couldn't make out what she was saying. She was speaking in an Eastern European language. I of course couldn't understand a word of it. I asked her if she spoke English. She nodded and asked me to help her. Exactly what she was asking you through your reprogrammed hearing aids."

"That's it? Just her asking you to help her?"

"Isn't that enough? First, there's this Eastern European woman who speaks Russian or Czech. Then, and this is most important, she asks me to help her. Just what she asked of you. This can't be another coincidence. Including, why me? You're the one with the Czech person talking to you. I'm just your friend. I agreed to go along with you on this adventure and . . ."

"I feel badly that I somehow enticed you into it. I only thought that . . ."

"No need to apologize. I'm here because I want to be. But this was so upsetting. You should have seen her. She looked so lost and helpless. I guess that's why she keeps asking to be helped."

"From what I don't know. Did she say anything else? And, of course, what happened? Did you just leave her there? That's not you. You wouldn't do that. You're too . . ."

"I didn't just leave her. A huge man in his 40s, stuffed into a suit, came and took her away."

"Took her away?"

"Not literally. But when he came out of the men's room and saw her with me, he raced over and almost lifted her bodily out of the chair and whisked her off. I got up and tried to follow them but they disappeared into a crowd of conventioneers who were hooting and hollering. I thought it best to come find you. Did I do wrong?"

"About all of this I have no idea what's wrong or, for that matter, what's right. Let's try to calm down and have our lunch. After that, we can figure out what to do next."

*   *   *

After we finished--we gulped down our sandwiches--I said, "Maybe in the first place it was a crazy idea to come here. To drive all that distance. A wild goose chase. I am thinking we should back off. Just resume being normal audiological patients. Leave all this spy stuff alone. I am feeling we're getting drawn in too deep. I didn't mean to speak for you, about being drawn in, but that's how I feel."

John said, "I don't disagree. This is beginning to be very funky."

"Beginning! I'd say it's been funky for months. In the meantime, what should we do? Leave? Stay? Play the slots?"

"I hate gambling," John said, "So that's not an option for me. You're probably right. We should leave and try to forget about all this funny business. But, having said that, we came all this way, we're here, we have a long drive back, and so I'm thinking let's maybe take one more pass around the casino to see if Gary's here. I say that because, again, there's no story, this is all an incredible bunch of coincidences, unless Gary's here to tie all the pieces together. I suggest let's give it another half hour and if he doesn't turn up, get back in the car and head to Maine where things are not so crazy. What do you think?"

I agreed and so this is what we did. Even though we didn't think Gary was a slot machine player that's where we started. We worked our way from the nickel slots to the ones that ingested silver dollars. 

No sign of Gary.

"Let's try the roulette tables next," I suggested, "Though roulette is for suckers since the odds are so in favor of the house, it is a classic game. Europeans love it--think James Bond--and who knows, it might appeal to Gary's romantic inclinations."

There was no sign of him at the roulette tables.

"How about blackjack? Remember that's where we saw the Dunkin Donut guy." So we threaded our way from the five dollar to the hundred dollar tables.

Gary was nowhere to be seen. 

"We're running out of places to look," I had already taken off my cap and dark glasses as a sign of capitulation. And we were no longer talking in whispers.

"How about the craps tables? That could appeal to him. Like me, he was born and raised in New Jersey and could easily be a craps player. It's similar to the dice games we used to play in the streets."

"In Brooklyn too," I added. But though we checked out the half-dozen dice tables, again there was no sign of Gary.

"We're about out of luck," I said, which is never a good thing in a casino--to be out of luck.

"There's just one more area," John said, pointing to an elevated part of the casino, off in a dark corner, with a velvet rope and security guard to keep out casual players. "It's for high rollers."

"Gary a high roller? That would stretch credulity much too far. I'm OK with the donut guy and even the Czech woman--though both being here is totally inexplicable--but Gary playing baccarat or some other exotic high-stakes game for big bucks is more than I'm willing to entertain."

"Well, maybe you'll have to rethink that," John said, whispering again. With a shrug he directed my attention to someone standing just inside the rope. "It's the . . ."

"I can see who it is," I said with a hint of exasperation  How much more of this can I take. 

"Your donut guy. And if you really want to make yourself crazy, check our who's in the chair next to the baccarat table."

I looked first at the man and then at the person almost invisibly curled up in the chair.

"The little old . . . ?"

"None other," John said.

"And if you look at the one player at the table, the man facing the dealer, the one wearing what looks like a white dinner jacket with a black bowtie, I think it's . . ."

Not needing me to complete the sentence, John, sounding shaky, said, "Let's get out of here." 

I was feeling more than shaky. And so, trotting, I followed him to where our car was parked, making sure not to look back

January 7, 2016--On the Road: Ava Gardner Museum

One year, driving west-to-east on a back road across northern Missouri, there was a road sign that pointed toward Marceline. "The Boyhood Home of Walt Disney," it said.

"He grew up here?" Rona mused. "All I see are corn fields." Shaking her head, she said, "He grew up in a corn field?"

"Let's go and see. It's only nine miles. We're in no hurry."

As we drove, peering out the window, as if to herself, Rona said, "Nine miles of corn fields."

True, there was pretty much nothing but corn and some fields of grain. And an occasional farmhouse. Most of them battered from the weather and lack of upkeep.

"Looks pretty poor," I said. "Not much going on."

And then, down a rutted road, we were in Marceline. A proverbial one-horse town. With a single exception--downtown, if one can call a three-block main street downtown, there was a well-preserved movie theater. The Uptown Theater. Ambitiously named for such an otherwise woe-begotten place.

"Look at this," Rona said, "I wonder what's the story."

"Look. Next to the entrance there's a bronze plaque."

We pulled over and got out to take a closer look.

"No surprise," Rona said, "Walt Disney appears to have paid for its renovation and maintenance."

"And it says he came back to the Uptown in 1956 for the premier of The Great Locomotive Chase. Amazing."

"Let's see what else there is to see."

A few streets behind Main was another well-kept place also with a sign. It was in fact the boyhood home of Walt Disney. The place where at an early age he first manifested his talents. These were noted, it said, by a family friend, a retired doctor, Doc Sherwood, who gave young Walt his first commission--a crayon drawing of Doc's old horse Rupert.

The rest is history.

As we headed out, Rona said, "You know I'm not a believer, but it's as if the hand of God reached down to this place and touched Walt Disney. You don't have to grow up in Chicago or New York to be talented and successful. That can come out of anywhere. Even a seemingly forgotten place like this."

She added, "And with all this corn."

This year, earlier this week, on route to Florida, not taking many back roads this time as we wanted to get there as quickly as possible, on I 95, as we approached the Smithfield, NC exit, the road sign listed the one attraction to be seen in Smithfield--the Ava Gardner Museum, which it indicated, could be found in its downtown.

"Ava Gardner has a museum?" Rona said. "All that and Frank Sinatra too?"

"She was a great beauty. And not that bad an actress. You're too young to remember Mogambo, The Barefoot Contessa, and Bhowani Junction."

"You're right about that, but you seem to be up on your Ava Gardner."

"You had to be there. I mean back in the 1950s. And it helped if you were a lustful teenager."

"She was big enough to deserve a museum of her own? I don't know. But I suppose these days everything's showbiz. Next thing we'll know there'll be a Donald TRUMP museum in Brooklyn."

"Not a bad idea. Want to check it our?"

"Which museum are we checking out?" She was joking.

"It's only a few miles. What do we have to lose?"

And there it was again in a version of a downtown in yet another long-forgotten place.

The museum itself is sort of worth a detour. Not by Michelin standards; but considering that I 95 is a driving desert, endlessly boring with the only excitement an occasional pro-life billboard, it's worth a half hour to see Ava's movie costumes and to relive the gossip surrounding her affair and marriage to Old Blue Eyes.

And there's a Dunkin Donuts by the I 95 exit that is now serving a delicious new donut--a crunchy sour cream confection.

Now that's worth a detour! Which we did three or four time along the way.

In our hotel Tuesday night, in beautiful, historic Beaufort, SC, seven-hours north of Delray, scanning the Internet for other out-of-the-way places, I did a little googling about Smithfield and other towns where we had stayed the night or pulled off to take a brief look or get a donut or some BBQ--to check out their histories and, especially, with Ava and Walt in mind, to see who else might have been born and raised in unexpected places.

In Beaufort, for example, in addition to being the place where Harriet Tubman (soon to replace Alexander Hamilton on the 20 dollar bill?) led a Union raiding party to victory over an unsuspecting Rebel encampment at Combahee Ferry, freeing 700 slaves in the process, also born and active there were heavyweight champion Joe Frazier, actor Tom Berenger, novelist Pat Conroy (Stop Time), and Candice Glover, the American Idol season 12 winner.

In Lumberton, NC, in addition to our all time favorite breakfast place--Betty Carol's--born and active there were James Jordan, father of Michael, Dr. Johnny Hunt, president of the Southern Baptist Convention, and wouldn't you know it--at the opposite end of life experience--Carmen Hart, the pornographic actress.

And where Ava was born and grew up, also from Smithfield, were the successful Christian self-help author, John Townsend, a host of big league baseball and football players, and two professional wrestlers--one male, Gregory Helms, and one female, Amber O'Neal.

What a country.

The hand of God indeed.