The joke is best illustrated by Prince Akeem of Zamunda, in Coming to America, who makes the innocent assumption that a city named Queens is the place to find his own true love. But instead, he meets devil worshippers, cross-dressers, freaky twins, gold-diggers, scary sex fiends, and self-obsessed starlets.
Because it's a kind of international, long-running joke that places named the Grotto, the Dive, the Shack, the Hole--will in fact surprise you with a well chosen wine list, a snooty waiter, vaguely themed small plates, and trendy bathroom decor. On the other hand, establishments with variants on all Regal names--the Palace of Blank, the Queen's Garden of Blank, King Blank's--will in fact turn out to be grotty, dives, shacks and holes in the wall, open 24 hours, cash-only, never any TP in the small unisex loo, maybe Chinese, could be Indian, where you get to watch T.V. at the same time as you eat, sort of joints. With absolutely nothing Royal about them.
But every rule has its exceptions. And just because the parking lot is deserted apart from a couple non-threatening hooded hooligans on too small bicycles, isn't to say staff won't be friendly and generous, and their doughnuts delicious.
The Royal Donut Shop is a dodgy/kitchy--depending on how you look at it--24 hour doughnut operation that sits on one side of the Burlingame railway. It was just about midnight when I walked in, and so quiet inside, I could hear the hissing Crullers being flipped by hand, one by one in the fryer. A lady--so small, I've put her up on a stool behind the till in my memory--greeted me with an unexpected smile.
I chose four: the buttermilk bar (Greg's suggestion, as was the place), a maple glazed, a jam-filled, and a chocolate glazed Cruller. But once home, Glyn and I noticed an extra dark chocolate tube in there--the texture of a well-made sponge--and a complimentary cinnamon twist--that tore apart like day-old spiced Challah.
The others were good too, the Cruller had the eggy, soft, bubbles of a Yorkshire pudding, but unfortunately it had ridden home in the middle of the narrow bag where all six doughnuts were crushed. No boxes at the Royal Donut Shop, just bags, can you believe that? The Cruller suffered the worst of it: its original shape of a villain's wheel from Wacky Races, now crushed comically. But the Buttermilk Bar, armoured by a crispy, golden shell, protected by the magic of artificial vanilla flavour--a separate flavour entirely from vanilla, packaged childhood cakes, perfume, new toys--and glazed with a thin, white coat to rival Krispy Kreme's--did the best. I love doughnuts, and with a bag of six for five dollars...
My tummy still aches, my teeth too. I've had coffee, but I can't bring myself to to eat yet today. I appear to be suffering from a rare doughnut hangover--yes, there is such a thing. In the words of King Jaffa Joffer of Zamunda, there is a very fine line between love and nausea.
The Royal Donut Shop
1090 Burlingame Ave (next to the CalTrain station)
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