Mind your own queue

First, the facts: I have never had cronuts before, or seen one outside of a browser window. I’m not even a donut person, although I was there when J.CO opened its Ayala Cebu branch — across the terrace, thinking: What fool falls in a ridiculously long line for donuts?

I will not say that Americans are foolish. Some undoubtedly are, but for the most part they’re just… weird. Camping outside a theater to be first for a Lord of the Rings prequel? Waiting in a kilometer-long line for the latest iPhone? Okay, maybe some people find it hard to contain their excitement. But for donuts? Even a limited-edition hybrid thereof? I don’t care how good it is — that’s a little too kooky (pun fully intended). Or maybe it’s only true with New Yorkers. The only time I stand in line at a bakery is the day before a typhoon hits.

On the other hand, I’m not exactly in tune with the zeitgeist. My mother is hipper. She’s waiting for her iPhone 6 Plus while I cling to my beloved (and battered) Nokia C1. At least I’ve tried Krispy Kreme. And heard of Chef Dominique Ansel and his creation. I’ve heard of kwek-kwek, too. And Mongolian barbecue. That does not mean my mouth has made their acquaintance (or would want to).

My friend Aimee has a bright idea. She wants me to make cronuts. This is funny on so many levels, the first two of which I have outlined above. Thirdly, she has a misplaced confidence in my pastry-making chops. A donut and croissant in one? Has she gone mad? Or should I be glad she’s not suggesting baklava? Or baked Alaska? What’s more (and this is the infuriating part), her ass is in New York! Last time I checked, they had not moved April Fool’s.

Oh, wait: she knows me too well. I’m suggestible. I also tend to stew on the most trivial matters. I used to text friends at the oddest hours to ask about some obscure song, or who it was with Vilma Santos in that old sex video scandal. “Tym 2 get a smartfon,” one texted back. “Samsung on sale ds wk. Romeo Vasquez.” Then my sister pressed an iPad on me. Google is ruthlessly efficient, but I miss the sweet torture of having the answer sit pretty on the tip of my tongue, elusively out of reach as I wait to be back in my room in front of my clunky PC. I need another pastime, preferably one that involves pestering my friends while they slumber.

But you’re here for the cronuts, no? On the heels of Aimee’s suggestion, I browse through Chef John’s website (for a different recipe) and come across his version. I later learn that Chef Ansel’s official cronut recipe takes three days to make. If you want to dissuade people from taking a stab at your trademark without coming across as a curmudgeon, by all means make it look like a lot of work. Make the recipe as long as Gen. Palparan’s rap sheet (or a speech by Fidel Castro). We’ll always have Chef John.

As usual, Chef John makes the process sound like a walk in the park. I don’t want to add more fluff to the cronut mystique, so I’ll just say it more or less is. It takes several hours to make, but most of it is spent waiting for the laminated dough to chill in the refrigerator. Once out of the fryer, I taste one to see what the hoopla is all about. It certainly is different, more croissant than donut if you ask me. Ma likes it enough to go for seconds.

These fauxnuts (as some people have taken to calling them) are light, airy, and not at all sweet. The taller/thicker you make them, the less crunchy they turn out. In this humidity, it does not take long for them to become chewy, and then they’re just like siakoy (sugar twist), which is as pedestrian as they come. You wouldn’t line up for that, would you?

I sound underwhelmed. I’m not. I’m just contemplating my blood sugar count. Foolish me, I ate four of those darned cronuts, they’re that good. Nowhere near as good as Chef Ansel’s, I bet, but that’s only 14,000 odd kilometers from here. Cool your heels away, New York friends, and never mind grumpy old me. I just hate to be reminded that there’s one place I regularly line up at, after all. It’s called Hi-Precision Diagnostics.