I was on a Cinderella sole seeking journey for a glass slipper of a cruller I had at friends Easter…read moredinner. Afterwards, I asked where the crullers came from. The hosts were not sure but gave me a couple of suggestions to dogbird down.
Not knowing exactly where those yellow brick road crullers came from I started an odyssey of Homeric proportions to lay my palate once again on those waking dream epicurean delights.
Crispy on the outside, soft as an angel's kiss on the inside. Epi-f'ing-Curean.
On this particular Thursday, a couple of weeks ago, at 3 o'clock post meridian eastern daylight savings time I walked into a small bakery with a hand painted tri colored map of Italy on the door. I carefully inspected the display cases and found crust nor crumble of the fabled cruller that had been haunting my taste buds for a fortnight and a half. The woman behind the counter insisting what I was seeking was a zeppole, and they were only available on Sunday mornings. She advised I would need to come early. I explained I knew the difference between a cruller and a zeppole, but she Insisted that was the treasure I sought. They did not make "crullers".
She heard the thud of my spirit hitting the floor. She tried her best to assuage my crumpled morale. This was the edge of the map on this quest for me. Nothing but badlands and the unknown laid beyond the doors of this last stop.
She told me to call early on Sunday and she would save some zeppoli for me.
In an effort to ease the feeling that Oz was nothing more than a feverish dream I had imagined, I lugubriously requested a black and white to help absorb my tears on my journey back to Kansas or exit 117, whichever arrived first. Then, in a moment of divine providence, a single ray of sunshine shone on a lone Boston creme beckoned to my inner child. I took the donut, unwrapped, back to my car.
As I bit into the donut the frozen poppy fields thawed instantly. My technicolor Judy Garland moment was thrust upon me with all the glory if a man rescued for the raging sea. As with any worthy sojourn, the darkest hours of dejection gave way to my inner munchkin starting a helium laced song of joy.
The cruller quest faded into the glory of the erstwhile denoted technicolor moment. This donut was worthy of a chapter in "Como agua para chocolate". The frosting as alive as the ocean itself with its tips soft and gently floating across the top. The pastry as flaky as The love child of Gary Busey and Axl Rose (no disrespect to the pastry). The creme inside still awash in the afterglow of the love that went into mixing the filling to perfection.
Since that moment, I became an apostle of Krystal's. A devoted, driven donut disciple. Making sure all within earshot knew of the joy that laid within travelling distance.
If this were the end of the tale it would still be a fulfilling one. That said, it was only the beginning.
This morning, at 7:30 Ante Meridian Eastern Daylight Savings Time, I convinced my 10 year old sidekick (one Max S...just max, not Maximus nor Maximilian) to come with me to a land he would not soon forget. I promised delights that would change the way the angels pronounced "Hallelujah". That he would be insisting on recounting (for the most inumerable of times) thismorning. Telling his grandchildren tales of this day, even as they begged him to recite 'Twas the NIght Before Christmas' at midnight on December 25th in 2050.
As we entered the bakery, 3 minutes after they opened, the pastry section laid bare before our eyes. In a rare, for me at least, fatalistic moment I feared I arrived too early. The woman behind the counter sensing the tears welling in my eyes assured me more delight was coming out. At that moment, her husband appeared with trays of donuts. Exquisite donuts worthy of compare with the cocoa and pearls Montezuma prepared for the bearded gods he awaited. Not exactly the best metaphor if hindsight is to be considered, but this is a tale of dreams. Of Glory. One that does not end in despair and destruction. One that ends in promise and light. In love. In one simple word, one that ends in carbs. Sometimes carbs, aren't a bad word. OK, I am getting sidetracked. the bottom line is that this place is amazing. Simply A-f'ing-mazing.
The story doesn't end there either though. In the corner of one of trays laid the tenderest of feet (metaphorically, of course). Yes, the fabled 'cruller'. I was surprised, and i recounted to the woman my trip for just a few weeks ago. She gently smiled, like i was a crazed person, and softly said "You need to come in tomorrow. We have Zeppolis. Come early. I will put some to the side for you."
True Story.
Post Script: Not only were there crullers and boston creme (Oh My!) there were also chocolate filled (and like almost chocolate pudding..for realz) and jelly donuts that would make the gods themselves send their minion to Sayreville on a Sunday morning. 9 donuts + 3 Crullers = $11!!
