Hmmmmm. . .Doooough-nuts"
by: Jeddy Goodwill
This is the first in a multipart series about donut shops in New England.
New England: Dunkin’ Donuts Nation
Red Sox Nation. Ha! Though it may be a cute sobriquet for New England, it’s a gross misnomer. For if the six states that comprise New England—Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Vermont—are bound by a common allegiance, it certainly isn't to the star-crossed Sox. As Nomar & Co. start reserving tee-times for late October, it's clear that the Sox can't hold a candle to New England's true obsession—Dunkin' Donuts. Quick: Trot Nixon or a Coffee Coolatta, Tony Clark or a powdered Munchkin? See what I mean? No contest. This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. New England's monstrous pension for "D’n’D" (not to be confused with Dungeons and Dragons, but unless you’re a thirty-five-year-old shut-in who still lives with his parents and has an ever-expanding collection of Japanimation, you probably won’t confuse the two) is rooted in our shared colonial history. In 1814, delegates from the recalcitrant New England states (the current group sans Maine) met in what came to be known as the Hartford Convention to discuss their opposition to the War of 1812 and debate such rash measures as succession. As it turns out, the war was over by the time the Convention promulgated its list of grievances, rendering it a dead letter. At least that's what our history books tell us. The shocking truth is that an obscure codicil of the report points to a pact between the New England states and the British company Allied Domecq PLC, the parent of Dunkin' Donuts. In this agreement, New England sold its sovereignty to Allied Domecq, in consideration for an unending supply of nectar coffee and ambrosia donuts. The ramifications of this ancient bargain are startling: Dunkin' Donuts owns New England. In its suzerainty, Dunkin' Donuts has virtually unchecked eminent domain and police powers, meaning it can have you summarily arrested in your own home for grousing about its horribly ill-conceived line of JellyBelly donuts or can simply raze your house to clear the way for a new franchise. This is chilling stuff, I know, but I thought you should hear it from me first.
All of this makes the marginal existence of quaint donut chains, like Bess Eaton, Heavenly Donuts and Honey Dew Donuts, all the more remarkable. Why haven't they been steamrolled by the great Dunkin' Donuts dreadnought? Is D’n’D preoccupied with repelling potential competitors from the North, like Canada's Tim Horton's, and South, such as Krispy Kreme. Or maybe it's still containing the Starbucks incursion. All of these explanations are dubious, however. Tim Horton's is just gaining a foothold in Buffalo, which for all intents and purposes, really isn't part of the United States, while Krispy Kreme has, after years of saber-rattling, yet to make a foray into the Boston market. As for the Starbucks Theory, it’s only slightly more plausible. While urban centers are rancid with the Seattle import, Starbucks is primarily a refuge for tourists, Europhiles, and office drones who have already had their daily D’n’D fix. No, only Dunkin' Donuts is the true melting pot, where blue collar, white collar and no collar types all rub elbows, brought together by the all-American synergy of caffeine and crapulence. It's quite the egalitarian tableau vivant. Aside from the obvious sartorial differences, the only distinction between the itinerant electrician and well-healed investment banker is that the former may be slightly less conspicuous about ogling the assistant in the front of the line who is playing fast and loose with the parameters of the "business casual."
So in Pax Dunkinana, how do the aforementioned Little Three—Bess, Heavenly and Honey Dew—survive? Well, it probably has something to due with the Sherman Antitrust Act. But that sounds really boring, and there are so many other questions left unanswered, like what the hell is the difference between these rinky-dink chains anyway? Why is Honey Dew’s corporate emblem a poorly sketched bear head? And is Bess Eaton the name of some real life Aunt Bee or is it, as I suspect, just an insipid pun. In upcoming installments, I hope to provide answers and insight to these questions and many others. Right now, though, some uniformed men are at my door; hopefully, it doesn’t have anything to do with that crack about the JellyBelly donuts.
Lori Anne’s Donuts
Lori Anne’s is a donut shop in Charlestown. Or “Chucktown” as it is known to locals. Actually, the locals don’t call it “Chucktown.” Locals never say the things that are attributed to them. I’m sure for every Philadelphian who says, “Cheesesteak wit,” there are five who say “One cheesesteak, with peppers and onions, please.” Ok, they wouldn’t say “please.” Philly was once voted the rudest city in the US, and is populated with football fans who jeered at a player as he was taken off the field, strapped to a stretcher, and showing no movement below his neck. Of course, the jeering might have had something to do with the fact that the athlete in question was Michael “Swervin’” Irvin, a man who slept with hookers, smoked crack, and may have stabbed a fellow teammate in the neck with a pair of scissors, but I doubt it. I think it was due to the fact that he was a Cowboy. It’s inexcusable, and either way I’m guessing no “please” with most cheesestake orders. But I digress. What the hell was I talking about? Oh yes . . .
Lori Anne’s is a donut shop in Charlestown. Everyday at 6 A.M, there’s a line there, starting outside the door. Above the door is an old yellow sign. It’s the one of those signs with regular light bulbs illuminating it from the inside -- the kind that generally say “Pabst” and are found hanging outside local bars. Sometimes, I stop in to get a couple of donuts there. The selection is simple, but sufficient: cake, glazed, powdered, crème, chocolate glazed. They place the donuts on old spider-webbed lime green fiberglass trays and slide the trays in place in the bay window. The trays are usually empty by 11. The donuts are made off site by another local guy. One of the waitresses there tells me that he’s looking to retire. He’s getting old, and is tired of getting up at 3 A.M to make donuts. They might sell the shop too, soon. I eat my donut and listen.
So what’s my point? Well, first, I can write the kind of embarrassingly folksy prose that’ll earn you a B+ from a high school English teacher, an A-, if it’s a woman teacher with a voice like a porcelain doll. My other point is that I’m an insufferable snob. Oh, it might seem that I’m not by my choice of donuteers, but if we examine it more closely the reality becomes apparent.
Every God-damned thing I do in life is a statement. Most people would be perfectly happy to get a donut from wherever, but nooooo, I have to make a statement. I have to have the local donut. I have to make disparaging remarks about Dunkin’ Donuts. I have to say thinks like, “Dunkin’ Donuts coffee? Ugh. You know what the French call coffee like that? ‘Merde du chat’ – Cat Shit.” Quoting the FRENCH?! Sometimes I hate myself. What’s worse is that I make my little point at a lovely local donut shop. At least some snobs, snob it up at the Armini Café, and trendy places like that. I’m the anti-snob snob, which isn’t entirely true either, because I snob it up at Starbucks too, and at European-style café’s where I might pick up a scone to nosh on with my coffee. But then I turn around, and snob it up by slumming it with the locals. To the people there, Lori Anne’s is a place to get a donut. A fine donut. But when I’m there, in my heart, I’m experiencing Lori Anne’s, the patrons included, like I’m at Lori Anne’s, but not of Lori Anne’s. What a pompous prick!
Maybe I should be more like Ron. I should just stop worrying and learn to love Coffee Coolatas*, despite what message that sends . . . Oh who am I kidding. Ron you poor sap. Coffee Coolatas . . . oh dear. Food as ‘food’, huh? What a silly concept, but somehow you’ve accepted it, you poor ignorant bastard
I guess I envy you in a way.