It was still dark outside when I woke up. Murky blue light filtered in through the lightwell, dimly illuminating our New York City flat. Jay lay fast sleep beside me. I got up, got dressed, and slipped out of the building. I was a girl on a mission.
Briskly, I walked down Houston Street, crossing from the East Village into Soho and praying I wouldn’t be too late. From a few blocks away, I spotted the line. Already?, I thought to myself. Hurriedly I placed myself in the queue and breathed a sigh of relief.
I was at Dominique Ansel Bakery… and I was about to get me a Cronut.
If, for some reason, you haven’t heard of a Cronut, then why are you reading this blog? Just kidding. Really, though, this hybrid croissant-doughnut has “rocked” the “food world,” infiltrating “mainstream pop culture” and effectively “going viral.” According to the Cronut 101™ page (yes, really), chef Dominique Ansel spent two months developing his proprietary recipe for laminated, fried and filled dough. Since then, it’s enjoyed nearly hyperbolic popularity, with people going to very great lengths to obtain one. People lose their shit for this baking breakthrough; think five-hour waits, black market prices, and three-week advance reservations. It’s also launched legions of knock-offs — and subsequent copyright infringement lawsuits. What, did you think this was some kind of joke?
It was an absolute given, then, that I’d spend one of my mornings in NYC in pursuit of this popular pastry. On a Wednesday morning, at 7:30 am, I was lucky number 13 in line. Already, there were staff on hand to control the unruly mob [of sleepy tourists with nothing better to do on a weekday]. The employees would periodically make announcements: we would enter in small groups and could buy two Cronuts max; this month’s were flavored with morello cherry and toasted almond cream. About an hour before doors opened, a person donning a chef’s toque used shiny silver tongs to hand out tiny, freshly-baked madeleines: a deliciously light treat, with delightfully crisp edges. This amuse-bouche was followed by small plastic cups of juice, which made me feel like I was running a marathon (except I’d been standing around instead of engaging in physical activity and I was drinking fancy lemonade instead of Gatorade). This also made me feel like I was a mentally unstable person, waiting an inordinately long amount of time for a $5 treat and receiving charity/pity in the form of free samples.
At 8:00 am sharp, none other than the man himself opened the doors to the establishment. By that time, the line had grown and stretched around the tennis court by the shop. As part of the first batch of customers entering, I paused to gaze meaningfully upon Dominique Ansel’s noble visage. He smiled noncommittally back at me. I prayed that some of his brilliance and success had rubbed off on me through our shared moment in time. Satisfied with our exchange, I went inside — and after half an hour, I had the goods.