<p>I was smiling. And hungry. And breakfast was 30 minutes away. Like
a mirage, in the distance, I spotted -- or was it? -- a Donut Pub.
Walking onward in the crisp morning, one thing became inevitable.</p>
<p>There was a brief hesitation when I realized I had the responsibility
to choose all twelve types with speed and accuracy; "Just a mix," I
abdicated, "heavy on the chocolate is probably good." I cringed a
little as he used excessive amounts of wax paper -- one sheet for
every two he withdrew from the trays. Around number eleven, I spied my
favourite. "And an apple fritter, please." "Those are a different
price," the man behind the counter replied in that uniquely gruff but
friendly New York style. "But I'll put one in anyway." Apparently
having had his generosity triggered, he proceeded to sprinkle
round-dough balls over the box.</p>
<p>He closed it up, and began quickly and deftly bundling it up with
string. "You've done this before, I see," I smiled. "Too many times"
he said with a weary smile.</p>