Return to Review IndexI've driven over a hundred miles for a donut before. A good donut. Yah, and people may say theoretically they'd walk a mile for a Camel, but I HAVE walked miles for a donut. It's the best way, actually, as you get your chubby little heart moving a little bit and the donut moves through the blood better to bring its joy to every part of the body. I've had expense accounts where I turned in $20 donut receipts. I've had friends wake me in San Jose at 1am for severe donut emergencies in San Francisco which needed tending to. I know that when Jesus said, "Cast your bread upon the water and it will return to you 1000-fold," he was talking about donuts. When J.F. Kennedy stood in that besieged city and said, "Ich bin ein berliner," he told those hungry people that he was a jelly donut (ein berliner), and they ate his words up.
So I took the news of Krispy-Kreme's coming to Omaha as a good sign. A good, red-neon sign shining "Hot Now" into the nights of Omaha; as any southerner can tell you that when this light shines, fresh donuts have just risen from the oil. Beginning in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, they have slowly rolled across the South, then turned their eyes elsewhere, to cities like Omaha.
Not that Omaha is donut-destitute, it has some decent independent shops well worth a taste. And, when you don't need anything too elaborate, we have Winchell's. But we need more. We need comfort. We need donuts.
Max and I looked out upon a clear, February night, Max declaring, "Time to eat the donuts" and I could only agree. Time to see if Krispy-Kreme was indeed our next, best hope for donuts.
"Where are the freaking fritters?" I almost shrieked. Ok, so maybe it was more a whine than a shriek, but Max still had to redirect me, "The fritters are safe, the fritters are safe, they went skiing this week at Vail...."
This did not help. I had a hankering for a hot apple fritter. I drifted off to those carefree days of my youth when, if you walked into that one Las Vegas donut shop at 2am and asked for a fritter, they'd say, "Can you wait 5 minutes?" This didn't mean the clerk needed to run out back for a smoke. Oh, no. This meant a fresh tray was about to be baptized in the oil, entering as dough, but coming out as golden fritters. Ooooooh.... I could feel that familiar fritter-frenzy flitting like frantic flies across my face....
"HEY!" Max was yelling in my face. I was seated. Apparently, I'd drifted for a few minutes. Max had ordered for me and pushed me toward a table. I found myself with a regular glazed, a sour cream, and a milk. Max had a cruller and a glazed set in front of him.
I had to look around to reorient myself. The inside had the decor of a 50's-style shop, simply furnished with a few wooden tables, a simple, classic wallpaper pattern on the walls. But dominating the scene is The Machine. As you walk in the store, you walk along glass panels which give you a clear view of the kitchen area and the rows of moving racks, glaze-fountains, the oil bath, the flattened Ferris wheel carrying dough up and down and just a few inches closer to the oil each loop, all in one Rube-Goldberg-type contraption made expressly for the purpose of making glazed donuts. God bless 'em!
"Mmmmmm" mmmed Max, glaze flaking off his lips, coating his fingers, filling his dreams like a high school sweetheart. I followed, tasting the glazed donut in front of me, and, oh, it was good. Perhaps these people did have it, perhaps thine IS the sprinkles and the powder and the jelly. The sour cream backed me up on this. It was delicious.
It made me think. They have bagels here, too. Does anyone order them? Hey, they might be fantastic bagels. But a good donut beats a great bagel any day in my book.
But suddenly Max looked dour. Concerned, I looked at him quizzically. He simply looked down and growled, "This ain't a cruller."
"What?"
"This. It's a cake donut shaped like a cruller." His eyes shot at me, blazing. "A cruller is crispy, not crappy-crispy. Ain't nothing crispy here in this 'Krispy Kreme,' this is a common cake in cruller's clothing!"
I looked at the remaining half of his cruller and had to admit, the boy had a point. That spongy inside didn't say cruller to me. I've known crullers. Crullers have been close, personal friends of mine at late-night sittings. And this, gentlemen, was no cruller.
He sat there shaking as I slipped away to get him another glazed. The glazed donut seemed to soothe him. I sighed, figuring we'd get out of there okay.
And so we headed out into the bright, suburban night, donuts in our bellies telling us we should return to our homes and get some fricking sleep.
We left with mixed feelings about Krispy Kreme. If it's any sort of cake donut you want, then step right up and you won't be disappointed. However, if you want a cruller or a fritter or a creme horn, be warned! There be none here worthy of your expectations.
So on a scale of "plain grits" to "pecan pie," Krispy Kreme rates a "fried chicken and spare- ribs."