For those uninitiated untermenschen among you who remain ignorant of New York-based culinary fads, ‘cronut’ is a portmanteau of ‘croissant’ and ‘donut’. Let’s leave aside the question as to why said comestible could not equally be referred to as a ‘doissant’, as well as the fact that ‘cronut’ sounds like one of the less desirable anatomical parts of a certain bird, and get straight to the point: the gosh-darned food.
Now, you know an item of food is onto something when it causes a mild-mannered, bespectacled, late-twentysomething graduate to utter the phrase ‘Oh My Days’ in a manner that is not, or not entirely, ironic. But this, dear reader, is what happened. As I bit into the cronut that had recently been dispatched, at ‘four fer a paaaaaahnd’ from a Camden market vendor, I said it. I actually said ‘Oh My Days’.
Imagine, if you will, a croissant that has been squashed by one of those machines that crush cars into cubes (assuming such things have an existence outside cartoons; I’ve never actually seen one), except in this case it is squashed into a ring. This dense croissant-mixture is then deep fried so that each bite leaves a slight oily slick in the mouth. My cronut had a topping of custard, which, well, I dunno. It was fucking amazing. Can we leave it there, yeah?
I have to say, however, that I felt less than worthy afterwards. I felt, as the cronut put its feet up, belched, and lit a pipe right there in my stomach, that something was spiritually amiss. I had probably eaten the equivalent of a solid lump of atherosclerotic plaque. So what did I do? I tried to offset it all by chowing down on an entire bag of salad from one of those Sainsbury’s mini-marts. It didn’t taste too hot after my deep-fried hunk of nectar-of-the-gods, and probably made sod all difference, but if one could somehow remain on a nutritional even keel by eating nothing but cronuts and salad, that is a sacrifice I’d gladly make.
Cronuts: 9/10 (point deducted for probably being fatal)