A Disappointment of Cosmic Proportions

Character can certainly help make a donut, but it can't be an excuse for them.*

Last Saturday, I made the 30 mile round trip to Stardust Donuts in Imperial Beach. In tow was my little brother Peter, and also Jared & Emily. The trip brought with it high hopes and expectations, since Stardust Donuts has garnered local notoriety as the top spot for pastries.

Stardust Donuts is owned by two brothers. To hear tell, their quirkiness and approach to donuts rivals the Soup Nazi's approach to soup: they suffer for their donuts. They demand perfection from themselves and from their donuts. Why should they expect any less of their customers? In that vein, they open the shop when they feel like it, make the donuts they feel like making, and close it when all of the donuts and cinammon rolls sell out.

The exterior of the place also looks dilapidated and run down, including the fact that the "Stardust Donuts" sign missing most of its letters. It now reads " r us nu " " rive h". Some have mentioned that this is because the owners are singularly focused on making top quality donuts. Whatever the reason, it's undoubtedly added to the character of the place.

On this particular Saturday morning we got to the shop at 9:20 a.m. There was already a truck waiting in front of the window and a plumping man otherwise waiting in line. The two brothers could be seen making donuts through the windows to the place, though the shop was hopelessly closed. So we waited and made idle chatter with the plumping man. Others began to arrive as well, including one man who claimed notoriety as having made TV and movie appearances as a homeless beach bum (though he hasn't yet had a speaking roll). He certainly looked the part. Apparently this guy lived around the corner, which perhaps explained why he wasn't wearing any shoes.

Somewhere around 9:40 a.m. one of the owners opened the back door and took something outside. The homeless beach bum asked when they might open. As near as I can tell, the owner said, somewhat gruffly "We'll open when we open."

By 9:45 a.m. the kids and Peter were getting restless. I had Peter get the library book out of the car on Manatees. Then, while retaining my place in line, I read the kids the rest of the book on Manatees. This briefly held their attention (as well as some of the others in line) before their resumed their interest in picking up rocks and throwing them. I think I caught one of the owners smiling, though, when he saw me reading to the kids in line. I'd like to think it was a friendly smile.

Somewhere near 9:50 a.m. we could start to smell the donuts. It was a welcome smell, but still no sign of opening.

By 10:05 the kids were starting to lose it and had abandoned the rocks for sidewalk chewing gum. We were getting desperate, and the line was getting longer. That desperation was tempered, though, by the prospect of tasting and reviewing some fantastic donuts.

Stardust Donuts eventually opened at 10:15 a.m., which had seemed like an eternity with two little kids and a 13 year old little brother. The plumping man let us cut in front of him, making us second in line. When our turn came I surveyed their fare and was pleased that nothing quite looked ordinary. Not sure what to do, I simply ordered one of everything, with an extra chocolate yeast donut and a few extra cinammon rolls (which seem to have garnered the most praise). The donuts ranged from $.79 to 1.29 (fairly outrageous pricing), but the owner was more pleasant than I expected during our brief exchange.

We brought the donuts home to Michelle in eager anticipation of what's now become the normal donut routine: sitting around the kitchen table while I slice up the donuts and we each sample them and offer commentary.

Sadly, the donuts not only failed meet expectations, but for the most part failed to even be decent.

(Not pleased. Not pleased at all.)

Almost universally the donuts suffered from the same fatal mistake: they were laden with oil. That is to say they were heavily moist, moist with cooking oil the donuts had managed to soak up. In fact, they were so laden with oil that when I squeezed our last chocolate donut, beads of oil rose up from the cake.

Only the coconut donut came close to being pleasant.

The oil problem, almost certainly due to the temperature of the cooking oil being too low, left us feeling disgusted and lethargic (more than usual anyway). It was a seemingly simple mistake. Perhaps an aberration. But nonetheless unforgiveable, and certainly not the mark of someone who suffers for their donuts and demands perfection of them. Indeed, what I (and others) had initially chalked up to "character" now only seems to be evidence of laziness.

In the end, if you're going to make me drive 30 miles, wait in line hopelessly for the time when you feel like opening, and then pay a fortune for donuts, you'd better bring it. And they didn't.

*By the way, this is my 200th post.