18/50 NYC Adventures: THE CRONUT

THE CRONUT.
I've been waiting a while to share about this dynamite treat. Never was there such a curious, outrageous, truly spectacular sugary specimen as the cronut. The CRONUT. Masterminded by the pastry architects at the Dominique Ansel Bakery in Soho, the cronut is one of the few great hybrids of our time, the delicate marriage of a fluffy, flaky croissant and a decadent, rich donut. Let that sink in for a moment. A CROISSANT DONUT. And the wonder doesn't stop. Not only is the texture soft like butter, coated in rich molasses granules, but the flavors... they are just over-the-top outrageous. This particular one? Passionfruit with Maple glaze. Dear Lord, I just became a believer all over again.

The cronut is so famous in Manhattan that people line up every morning, beginning at 6:30 AM, to attempt a purchase. You see, there is a 2 per person limit. You aren't allowed to purchase any more than that. I mean, you can purchase OTHER pastries. But the cronut? They only make 350 each day and they sell out within an hour. So when you finally score a cronut, you've definitely earned your day's quota of bragging rights. There is no shame in sauntering into work (perhaps even a few minutes late, just for the statement), all smug like, "Yeah... got cronuts this morning." Wait for the jaws to drop. Wait for the pain-stricken howls of envy and regret from your coworkers. You know what you won't experience? Attitude for the asinine choice you made to wait in a forever-long line, in strange (sometimes evil) wintery weather, and pay far too much, all for a pastry. Nope. No one will question your race for the cronut. They just won't.

// The sexiest pastry of our time. //

// Celebrating its 1-year birthday! //

The Truth.
Of course, I can't tell you any of this from experience. I never waited in that god-forsaken line. Because an angel of the Lord delivered my cronut TO MY DOOR (cue epic Celine Dion ballad NOW.)

I've mentioned our delightful foodie friends Anthony and Jessica before (here and here), and I'm sure to shout their names from the rooftops again, but on this particular day? Well, they made me want to live in Manhattan, on the same block as them, FOR-EV-ER. Anthony, out of the dear kindness of his heart (and after previously hearing that Stevie and I had never indulged in this cronut mischief), decided to surprise us with cronuts. He got up early. He went ALL THE WAY DOWNTOWN (ugh, such a chore), in rush hour, no less. He waited in that looooooooong line. He purchased two (overpriced) cronuts. And he brought them home after work, delivering them to us in that stylish, infamous cronut-y packaging that can make you a target to get hoodlum-jumped on the subway. He did all of that. For us. I'm seriously tearing up just writing about it.

Guys. It was SO DEEEEEEEEEEELICIOUSSSSSSS. It was the ambrosia of the gods. The sweet honeyed nectar from a mythical, mystical, magical, emotional alternative universe of taste-sensory glory.

And of course, after indulging in the most decadent treat of my life, we immediately made plans to GO TO THERE.

Here we are, there, eating other delightful Dominique Ansel treats. The DKA, the Frozen S'more (and Stevie snagged a cheesecake-y thing for later!) We were undone.

And then we were done.

// Yes, that precious soul is blow-torching our S'more. Amen. //

// Other fine delicacies. //

Getyusome.
Nothing can compare. Nothing can come close. This was the pastry to take the cake (literally) and we are forever changed. Thank you, dearest Anthony & Jessica, for being the kindest, most giving creatures in Manhattan-land, and for GIVING US THE GIFT OF CRONUT.