When there are street kids holding signs in front of your establishment, "Will work for a Voodoo Doughnut", or a woman has the gall to approach you in line (inside of your establishment) to say, "If I pay you, can you buy me a dozen bacon maple donuts? I'm out of time." You have created an addiction and criminal activity. Now, that's some good shit.
If everyone else has to wait an hour for a donut, she did as well. Hey lady, some advice? DON'T SHOW UP TO A POPULAR EATERY IF YOU'RE TIGHT ON TIME! Jerkface.
Anxiously shifting your weight while approaching the stone façade, the north wind blowing, sneaking in the crevices of your Dickies zip up hoodie while your boyfriend contently stands in his virtually crevice free high performance rain jacket can start to really poke and prod your patience. When you finally step foot into what seems like the smallest donut shop in the world, everyone lets out a collective sigh of relief. The towering pink boxes stacked in the corner, the trays of shiny iced donuts on baker's racks, and the glass case of rotating donuts on display sparking arousal like electric gadgets in an adult store. You want it. You must have it. And hopefully (if you tell a random woman who wants to buy up the entire inventory of the most popular donut in the shop to go fuck herself) you shall have it. It took a lot of restraint from me to opt for a maple bacon donut and a cake donut with rainbow sprinkles. I desperately wanted to find a way to justify my fatness and get the Old Dirty Bastard -- a hot mess of gooey peanut butter spread flung on top of Oreo cookies, chocolate icing and an airy raised dough. All of it reminiscent of Reese's Puffs cereal. I just couldn't find it in my heart. Luckily, me lad was in tow and he had no shame in his game. He got the O.D.B. and the Triple Chocolate Penetration. He has to outlive his chocolate penetration fantasies somehow, right? We skid-addled round' the corner and copped a squat on a log bench, geeked out while taking the food-blog photos and dug in.
I love the fact that Voodoo leaves their bacon in strips and not cutting them in micro sized bac-o-bit dust. It really gives you that teeth-sinking satisfaction when you bite into that salty top and then the sweet maple and on down to the light and airy raised dough. How do you describe something like this? Is it pancakes? Is it a donut? Is this that faux maple pancake syrup that costs $2 in Slaveway? With a side of bacon and a milk chaser. The chocolate penetration has chocolate icing and cocoa puffs, which is interesting because the puffs lend themselves as a major crunchy texture against the normally monotone raised dough. While me lad sat in a zoned-out bliss, chomping away like a kid with a bowl of cereal in front of Saturday morning cartoons, I was feeling really ashamed of myself. I felt...dirty. Did it help that we were technically sitting in an alley?
Needless to say, I was twacked out of my mind on a sugar high by the time the consumption of these tidbits had came to an end. Wandering down the alleyway in a sort of comatose daze, feeling nauseous, but also extremely elated and ready to repeat the self-destruction the next morning.
22 SW 3rd Ave
Portland, OR 97204
(503) 241-4704
MAX: Yellow line.
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