On the style, form and substance of donuts.
Two Weeks Ago
We are in Berlin. More precisely, we are in the menswear department on the third floor of the Kaufhaus des Westens department store on Tauentzienstraße. I’m staring at a selection of shirts. I’m unhappy and it probably shows.
“You’re still annoyed, aren’t you?” said Jackie trying to suppress her grin. I ignore her. We are here to celebrate an anniversary. I’m not sure which. It might be bronze or silver. Beryl, I think. It’s beryl.
KaDeWe, as it is better known, has been a popular department store since 1920, and has witnessed its fair share of history. Mainly marches of one kind or another and the occasional putsch. More relevant to our visit, it has the most wonderful food hall and a selection of cafés. It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry.
We start at my favourite, the Austernbar where fresh oysters, shucked to order, can be inhaled all day long. Not something I’d advise unless you have a zinc deficiency and are within spitting distance of a rest room. I order a dozen with the raspberry mignonette complement. A rye bread side and a little black pepper. Accompanied, of course, by a dry Riesling. Heavenly.
“Look” I said pointing at the menu. “The oysters are from Loch Fyne”.
“Really” said Jackie.
“That’s what it says. I wonder how they got here. Maybe they were on the same plane as us”.
“I didn’t see them” said Jackie without looking up.
I love my wife. Always have done from the first moment we met. My heart was stolen in the Horseshoe Bar, Glasgow. So was my wallet but that’s a different story. She’s smart and cute and strong and funny and has great taste in men.
“This is wonderful,” I said. “What a way to start our holiday”. Taking our time, feeling at home in the relaxed cosmopolitan European ambience we sipped our wine, appreciating every layer of honey, lemongrass ginger and white pepper. We savoured the molluscs and thanked them for their sacrifice. We toasted the brave fisherman who had toiled in stormy seas to make this possible. We talked of many things — of shoes, and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings.
Who am I kidding? We gulped down the bivalves like we were in a game of hungry hippos, moaned about the price of everything and complained about how uncomfortable the bar seats were.
I thought I’d try a little fishing myself. “Do you know oysters are an aphrodisiac?”
“No, they’re not, that’s a myth”.
“Try telling Casanova that. It’s the zinc. It does something chemical to your…well, to your nether regions. Here, try another one, they’re too good to waste”. If the oysters don’t work, I’m hoping the power of suggestion does.
“You know what I fancy?”
For a moment I thought I’d hit the jackpot. “What?”
“A donut”.
At first, I’m surprised. And, I admit, a little disappointed. Then the idea of a sweet pastry takes hold. I know the very place. Isn’t the internet great. “To the sixth floor.” I say “Set bearings for Lenôtre, the best French patisserie in Germany”.
“We are on the sixth floor”
“Are we?”
“Well, I am. I’m never sure what floor you are on”. My wife has a cutting wit sometimes.
I’m running my finger down a list, studying the menu: apricot, beignet, brioche, berliner, chocolate, couronne, strawberry, pistachio, hefekranz.
“I can’t find them” I said.
“What?”
“Krispy Kremes. They must be here somewhere. Are you sure we have the right menu honey?”
Jackie ignored me. “I’m having a pistachio brioche” she said, “and a café crème”.
When the waiter comes, we place the order. I ask for a ring donut and an Americano. He mutters something indecipherable and I say ‘yes’. Little did I know that I had just made the biggest mistake of the day.
Where I come from donuts come in two shapes. The classic ring donut and the round filled donut. I like to think this is a universal truth, that no matter where I go, no matter what strange or foreign lands I visit, I can rest easy in the knowledge that there are two types and only two types of donut. I hope this rule is as ubiquitous as gravity. If I ever visit Café Aphelion on the planet Tethys, I hope that strict inter-galactic donut standards are maintained. Please don’t try to book a table.
Here is the thing. You need to approach a round donut carefully. You can’t just rush in. One bite at the wrong angle can be disastrous. Jelly, jam, custard or chocolate filling will escape from its pressurised chamber with enough velocity to take an eye out. So, you must take the time to study a round donut, looking for tell-tale signs of weakness and safe points of entry. Seepage stains and injection marks are warning signs.
Ring donuts are a different kettle of fish. A frontal attack is the best option. The devil take care shock and awe tactic is very effective. It has no secret weapon, nothing to fight back with. You can launch right into them.
But, not in Berlin and certainly not in Lenôtre.
Disaster. Some dummkopf has put jam inside the torus of my ring donut. All the way round, so there is no avoiding it. Of course, I didn’t know this until the damn thing exploded and now, I need a new shirt.
Stunned and embarrassed I try wiping it with my napkin only to smear the red menace even further, behind buttons and deep into buttonholes. I try shaping the splat into an eccentric logo, a fashion statement, but I just manage to make things worse. Feck. It’s ruined. I’m ruined. The whole world is ruined.
The only person trying to contain their laughter more than Jackie is the old lady opposite. At one point I thought her teeth were going to fall out. We quickly finish our coffee and leave. I don’t know what I’m most pissed at — my ruined shirt or that I didn’t get to enjoy my donut.
Back to the start. I’m looking at a range of shirts. From expensive to very expensive. My 12-euro donut is now a 65-euro donut.
Today
We’re back home but I’m still smarting from donut-gate. I may have mentioned it once or twice on the way home and in the subsequent days. Jackie told me to get over it, but I’m determined that justice will be served.
I received a formal reply from the Institute of Donut Standards (Deutsches Institut für Donutnormung).
We are sorry to hear about your unfortunate accident at Café Lenôtre. First, let me assure you that we take all donut standards seriously. Consumer safety is our primary focus.
Unfortunately, we are unable to compensate you for the cost of a new shirt. The donut you chose — the ring brioche with strawberry jam filling — is a Berlin favourite, specifically designed to include a sweet filling in every bite.
We publish and monitor strict standards of production including ingredients and cooking methods. Our research shows that there is no internal pressure when the donut is made, it only comes from the elasticity of the dough when compressed, either from an eager bite or a squeeze of the hand.
An adult male bite can only produce a maximum of 0.02 atmospheres, tiny compared to a champagne cork or water pistol. On this basis, considering the viscosity of the filling, the distance of a spurt is only 5 to 10cm.
Taking everything into account we conclude user error, either from over eager biting, excessive hand pressure or both. We consider this matter closed. I have enclosed a guide on how to eat a donut safely and enjoyably. We hope your next visit to Berlin will be more pleasurable.
Dr Heinrich Vogel, Direktor für Forschung
© 2026 Steve Gillies. All rights reserved.
Steve Gillies 
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