LH#1: Twin Donuts (Allston)
Estimated visits: 1,000+
Abandoned on: 08.18.10
Last order: Medium iced coffee & coconut donut = $2.45 (just realized now that I forgot to tip and I feel awful about it)
Hypothetical interview:
Q: Do you remember a guy who used to come in here? He would order a medium coffee and a plain cruller.
A: Lot of customer like cruller.
Q: Asian guy. Alone. Pays cash—
A: Yes I know! Cream no sugar! Always read New York Time, right?
The goodbye:
Of the thousand or so donuts I’ve ordered at Twin Donuts (I never understood why that hyphen turns up when you google it; can’t they read the sign?), only one of them was consumed over a conversation. I was with a friend from college. I’d just broken up with my girlfriend, and this guy had no clue how to console me. He did try for a while, I’ll give him that, but after a few minutes of uselessness he gave up. There was a pause as he thought about how to transition the conversation to something else, and the best he could do was, “Good donut.”
Several hundreds of (solo) donuts later, I find it hard to abandon this place. The entrance faces the sharp “X” formed by Brighton Ave and Cambridge Street, and if you sit in the green-and-white booth near the beverage coolers, facing east, you’ve got the best view of Allston — a straight shot down Brighton Ave and then Comm Ave, all the way to the Hancock Building. Only now does it occur to me to try looking at that view through the hole of a glazed Twin Donut. Quaint idea, but my time there is done.
If you can make it there early on a Saturday or Sunday morning, you’ll find the Allstonian Old Folks Council presiding at the maroon circular counter (the heart of Twin Donuts) and griping about property taxes, Social Security, electric can openers, and Pearl Harbor (still!). For as long as I’ve been going there, I was absolutely sure that I would be the one to outlast that curmudgeonly crew. No one else in the joint had a shot; the hung-over B.U. kids would have to graduate, and the other donut-eating regulars would eventually get sucked into the suburbs (or low-calorie diets). Even the Cambodians who run the place couldn’t outlast the AOFC since new family members would rotate in behind the register every few years. So it was up to me. I was determined to outlive them despite my cholesterol. But now? The game’s up and I’m gone. Victory for the gripers. And defeat for me — or, as the one of AOFCers prefers to think of me, “That Jap with the New York Times.”
