Dunkin' still knows the hole business

2 June 2004

Dear Dunkin',

I admit it. I've strayed. And now I'd like to come back.

I know. You think I'm referring to that little tryst I had with Starbucks a while back. Like most everyone, it seems, I was caught up in the West Coast lure of dark roasted coffee, complicated brews and clerks who called themselves baristas. There was an elegance there that you never seemed to have. Dark interiors, chrome and deep green seemed so sophisticated compared to those cheap pink colors you always wore. Plus, Starbucks hailed from exotic Seattle instead of next door Randolph. You were the one I grew up with and, quite frankly, you seemed a little worn and tattered, conventional and declasse.

The infatuation ended quickly, however. I could never figure out what size coffee I was getting. With you, a large was always a large - boringly predictable, yes, yet reliable as well. With Starbucks I grew confused. Grande was smaller than I wanted; venti was a mystery. And the choices! Most of the time, I just wanted a really big cup of coffee that I could nurse for an hour or so. You were always easy and obliging. But Starbucks was so demanding. Conservation Columbia, Organic Shade Grown Mexico or New Guinea Peaberry? How could I possibly know? And I felt intimidated, ordering a regular while around me flocked sophisticates breezily shouting out, "double espresso caramel latte macchiato with room" - too many words and too many terminal vowels for so early in the morning.

And, in truth Dunkin', you changed, too. You spiffed yourself up. Is it me or is the pink a little deeper now, the graphics slightly crisper? To be sure, I like the new, easy-pull plastic tops on your cups. And your coffee menu is bigger too, more adventurous. No Guatemala Antigua, of course, but you did add espresso. It wasn't necessary, although I appreciated the effort.

Still, you know all this. It's in the past, we agreed. Done with. Forgotten.

But that's not why I write today. A confession. I have strayed again.

Looking back, I find my behavior puzzling. With Starbucks, the attraction was near at hand; both of you were around the corner. In the case of my newest fling, however, I went looking for trouble.

It happened last winter, when Krispy Kreme - ah, yes, you suspected, didn't you? - set up shop in faraway Medford. I had heard the stories of doughnut nirvana, of course, and soon found myself on the road one Sunday morning. When I arrived, the line was out the door and I waited in the cold, slowly shuffling along.

Was it worth it, you wonder? I certainly believed so. Once inside, I watched slack-jawed as KK's "Doughnut Theater" unfolded. Trays holding rounds of rising dough inched along. Once full size, the rounds slid into a fryer, floating along an oil river until, at midpoint, mechanical arms neatly flipped them over. Cooked, they proceeded to the most marvelous moment of all, the glazing waterfall of sugar.

Moments later, one of those doughnuts was in my mouth. Still warm, the thing simply melted, a rush of sweetness and yeast that almost caused me to swoon.

At that moment, Dunkin', I really thought our relationship was through.

Oh, sure, you've tried to tug on my parochialism. I'm from the neighborhood, you said, and deserve some loyalty. In truth, though, you lost those roots long ago. You're worldwide now, with more than 5,500 shops in 32 countries. Compared to you, KK's 360 locations are a pittance. And you're owned by the Brits, part of Allied Domecq, the same large corporation that owns ToGo's and Baskin-Robbins.

True, conglomerate Beatrice Foods once owned KK. In 1981, however, it cast aside those corporate ways when a group of franchisees bought it back. Their motivation? They thought the place had forsaken its doughnut-making traditions. When it comes to heritage, KK wins this battle for my heart.

Given that, you're probably asking, why do I write?

Call it burnout, if you will. Like you, KK makes a variety of doughnuts. Yet only the Glazed Original, hot off the line, is truly delicious. The others, room temperature and stuffed with cloying fillings, pale before it. And even the Original can become tiresome, with the sweetness, like a store-bought birthday cake, sometimes overwhelming.

So, I'd like to come back. I like your coffee. I like the quick service. And sometimes I want a doughnut that tastes good even when it's cool.

To be fair, though, I should tell you this. We were tight once, you and me, and for the most part, that's the way it still will be. Yet the temptation, the craving, the desire is still there. When I see an orange neon sign that says "Hot Now," it may be too much to resist.

Talk back to Tom Keane at tomkeane@tomkeane.com.