A doughnut-shaped hole.
This historic bake deserves a better rep. Also, a menu reveal and a new restaurant in Oost worth your time.
Doughnuts. I can’t think of a food more maligned through no fault of its own.
Don’t get me wrong: I totally understand the disdain for the doughnut. It’s become the neon poster child of uber-capitalist, hyper-Americanised, mass-produced food. I’m not even sure the doughnuts at Dunkin’ are food – made from fake things and bad fats and high-fructose corn syrup, they’re formulated to maximise margins or corporate growth rates, or both. Krispy Kreme don’t have a Chief Food Officer, but they do have a Chief Growth Officer.
It’s a huge shame because the doughnut has a soul. Somehow, it’s been lost.
People have been frying dough for millennia, world over: in Ancient Greece, they were called ‘honey tokens;’ in Tang Dynasty China, ‘oil-fried devil.’ In Poland, since the Middle Ages, we’ve had the pączek, a flattened ball of dough with a bright strip around the middle, often filled with rose petal jam. In Spain, churros, which some say actually came from China via the Portuguese. How cool! I think the practice of frying dough exists in so many cultures because historically it was an inexpensive way of consuming a high amount of calories when sustenance was often insecure.
And it irks me, big time, that doughnuts have been wrestled from tradition and supercharged into grossness (I’ve exhausted my academic-ness). Obviously, eaten in excess they’re bad for you. I’m not here to argue otherwise. But made correctly, meaning with slow-fermented dough that’s fried in fresh oil, the doughnut can be a thing of beauty. The soft, yeasty bite of its enriched dough, the sugar that crackles between the teeth, the lingering slick of fattiness that hugs the tongue. Yes, I like doughnuts and I will defend them.
I’m surprised the doughnut scene in Amsterdam is so dire. Huge disclaimer, oliebollen season is around the corner, and I’m sure the city goes into fried-overdrive. But for your general offering, Amsterdam is weak. This is especially surprising because – history lesson briefly resuming – the doughnut’s first foothold in America is said to be via the Dutch, who brought oliekoeken or ‘oily cakes.’
So team: where are the oily cakes? I thought I’d find out.
I started at Kombuis, the shop of Pension Homeland, a bizarre but charming hotel by Marineterrein that might have been fever-dreamed into existence. The internet told me the doughnuts here were good, but when I ordered one, I was met with confused looks. They haven’t made them since the pandemic. I asked their chef where I could get one. ‘Albert Heijn’ was his answer.
Next, I chased a rumour that there was somewhere on Singel that does Dutch oil-fried buns. But I couldn’t find it. Google pointed me to Lanksroom at 385, but when I asked if they did doughnuts, they told me they never had and never will. So there’s that.
My first fruitful stop was Corner Bakery. It was, quite frankly, insane. This was a doughnut planted on a milkshake and topped with a mound of whipped cream, which was sprinkled with sweets and cereal. I don’t know who they were trying to kill. Probably the diabetic. The milkshake was thin and chemical. It was fun to eat the remainder, but I was physically shaking by the end.
Onto Cafe Nobuya in De Jordaan, which desperately didn’t want me to find it. Through the doorway, hidden by profuse climbers, was a surprisingly spacious cafe with a dimly lit bar. Nobuya does mochi doughnuts, which are usually an enjoyable eating experience thanks to their self-serving chunks. I ordered a matcha mochi on a giant touch screen emitting a McDonald’s–style menu. How odd. The mochi wasn’t good. The dough was bland, the matcha flat. Nothing about this place said ‘come back.’
Would anywhere give me a good doughnut? I’d heard a rumour that Dunkin’ squeezed out two doughnutterias in town, which if true, is deeply upsetting. But at this point, I was desperate, and I thought it’d be a good idea to know thy enemy. It wasn’t. My Dunkin’ strawberry frosted doughnut tasted like a mental health disorder. The dough was more cakey than bready, and seemed reconstituted, not made. There was nothing strawberry about the icing. Also, the doughnut stank. Like, outright stank – of oil and sickliness and powders from sachets. Never again.
I was beginning to feel dejected. Cue Salvo, the Italian bakery on Tweede Hugo de Grootstraat, who do bombolini. Predictably, theirs was chic. They offered it to me unfilled: I often find Salvo’s bakes to be overly rich and too sweet. I know not everyone agrees with me.
I knew Amsterdam would be hiding good doughnuts somewhere. My nude bombolone was light as a cloud, perfectly dusted and (perhaps?) scented with something citric. It tasted neat, clean, if not a little inconsequential, but that’s me being nitpicky. The softness was unbeatable: this was the merino wool of doughnuts. I’d go back in a heartbeat.
Over the road from Salvo is Amsterdonut, which I must have cycled past a million times without knowing it was there. That might be down to its burgundy awning and part-twee, part-classical, part–Insta/viral branding. If that wasn’t confusing enough, it felt a little Soviet-era inside. Never mind, I thought my Boston Cream doughnut was excellent. Unlike Salvo’s, this was a weighty beast. I had to bicep curl it to my mouth. The vanilla crème pât was lusciously light and the perfect offset to the chocolate icing, which tasted expensive. My only gripe was that the doughnut was expensive. At nearly €6, I needed it to be good.
Things got even better at Anook Bakehouse, down in De Pijp. Anook is a riddle to me: it’s an outstandingly beautiful bakery that does exceptionally good products, yet somehow never gets a mention and is always empty. I have no idea how they stay alive.
The doughnuts were the best of this search, hands down. I tried a maple glaze and an almond. Both took me to heaven. The dough was light but substantial. It had presence in my mouth. The glazes were just the right thickness, offering sweetness without cloy. I was struck by how flavourful they were, too. I got myself a doughnut loyalty card, and I shall be getting my little stamps.
But still, these three were the best of a very, very small bunch. And in my journey, I couldn’t find any kind of Dutchness to my doughnuts.
I’m waiting patiently for oliebollen season.
Gluten menu reveal
This week, we finalised the menu for Gluten, my supper club at Bakkerij Wolf on 8th, 9th and 10th October.
Holy sh*t, I could not be more excited about this. The main course is my beating heart on a plate (not literally, that would be a mess). Just look at this pithivier. It’s SO BEAUTIFUL.
This will be filled with tangy cheese and sweet onion, and served with a gorgey autumnal salad. For the rest of the meal, we have the following:
This menu is everything I love about bakeries. And autumn. And life in general. And I’m so happy to be working with chef Ciaran Patrick, formerly of 4850, on this event. He took the theme of ‘gluten’, swung hard and knocked it out of the park. I’m so, so excited for you to try it.
Running a supper club is obviously terrifying. Especially in a new city. I arrived here without a job, unsure what to do with my life. That’s why I started making content. But content for its own sake was never my goal. Ultimately, I want people to eat delicious things. I want to bring them together when doing so. This supper club is the first toe in the water in terms of doing something bigger. I really hope you’ll join me.
We already have a sell-out night. I’d love for as many of you as possible to come on the other nights. It’ll be a great way to connect with like-minded people in a beautiful bakery space. There is some availability on the Wednesday 9th and good availability on Tuesday 9th. You can buy tickets HERE.
Massalia
You should eat at Massalia.
Massalia is the new offering from the crew behind Gitane, a restaurant I’ve spoken about a few times. I say restaurant, but Gitane has always felt to me more like a wine bar that happens to serve picky bits. The small plates are very small, even the mains. Delicious, though. Everything from the crudo to the lamb rump induces moans at the table.
Massalia seemed more interested in feeding its customers than Gitane, which is good, as it felt like everyone here was a starting a big night out (a group of lads next to us ordered strong coffees while midnight loomed, imagine). We sat outside under the last of the summer sun surrounded by a buzz. There were bikes zipping by and wine bottles being passed around and a sense that here, now, was something good and special.
The food was Greek-inspired, but not overbearingly. I think it’d be entirely possible to eat here and overlook the fact. We had oysters the French way, a heap of salty tarama with wild dill (a huge success) and langoustines from the barbecue. I love a langoustine, they’re the friendliest seafood, not frightening but still adventurous, like an aunt who’s always up for a good time. For mains, a côte de boeuf the Greek way, which meant laced with oregano and topped with muscly onions. We need to normalise coating everything in oregano. It’s a herb that’s distinct but never takes away. I thought all the food was exquisitely seasoned and laced with fat.
The dishes came out when they wanted to, although at times we waited a bit too long. That said, the service was lovely – we had conversations, not interactions. I thought the drink choices were impeccable too: a sparkling tea had me feeling loved.
I was charmed by this place. You will be too.
OK BYE!
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