Let’s make it clear right now. I haven’t cooked this myself and I have never thought of making it. I watched the video on how to make it and reserved it one week in advance but if I am to be found guilty of something my wrong would be curiosity.
Great mistakes come when you sense the danger but still your curiosity pushes you to the other side. Ulysses had to be tied to the mast of his boat not to be captivated by the Sirens’ song and crash the boat on the rocks.
Being not wise and definitely unable to resist temptations, last Sunday I haven’t tied myself to my bed and now I do regret I haven’t done it.
C’mon Daniela, it’s just a Cronut – I can almost hear you say.
No, my dear friend.
It is so much more than this! It is the appealing of the craze of the moment, the bewitching Junk Food’s Siren Song, much hyped desirable object in the shape of a piece of pastry New Yorkers are willing to queue for. It is the trick of the desire of mass, it is the inducing wish of something you do not really wish but you think you do because everybody else around you does.
So, all these things is a Cronut, metaphorically speaking.
If we come to the technical details instead, Cronut is just a cross between a croissant and a Donut. Even more technically, a deep fried Donut-shaped croissant. An intersection as much aberrant as attractive, monstrously caloric, deep fried and stuffed with custard or cream, with a top glazed with frosting flavors. Well, at this point you have already understood that such creature has the same appeal of a Deep-Fried Mars Bar or a Maple Bacon Cupcake.
A delight for strong palates, for stomachs accustomed to street food fried in the oil of 1977. People that never knew how to spell the word “vegetable”.
Despite these premises, I succumbed to the “cronut mania” and looked for a place where to purchase the much-hyped pastry. I found a lovely bakery in Whitechapel, Rinkoff. My first visit came to nothing: cronuts went sold out at 2 pm. I tragically realized I had to make a reservation for a couple of pastries. Last Sunday I headed to Rinkoff and found my Cronuts – or Cro-dough as renamed by this cute old British bakery – waiting for me (they lost my reservation but luckily some leftovers were still on the bar).
3 Cronuts in three different flavors. I had room for one, the other was kindly offered to another guinea pig and the third one ended up in a bin. I am confident I would live a couple of years longer since I had the courage to toss one mighty beast. I’m just not trained enough to insert a fried UFO in my stomach. An unidentified object whose caloric content has not been published as of yet.
Now if you expect a happy end for this post, just like for Greek comedies where things start horribly and finish wonderfully, I am sorry to disappoint you since I am not going to redeem my Cronut from its sins. An ongoing and troubled digestion prevents me from seeing the bright side of it. New Yorkers can be willing to queue for hours outside Dominique Ansel Bakery; I understand that because we are all a bit masochist however, I am determined to deter you from spending time and money on it. It simply isn’t worth your time.
May I direct you to the Cronut burger instead?