The St John Doughnut.

Custard Doughnut

Any moister and you’d need armbands

I couldn’t keep away from Maltby Street after last time’s successful feasting (best Choc Ice ever, fragrant London Buns, etc, etc), so yesterday the Man and I returned.

Being the first market of the New Year it was fairly sparse in places, but a lot of the top dogs were open for business – the popular St John Bakery being one of them.

We went to their archway on our last visit, and purchased a rather nice Eccles Cake, which was so dense with Currants the insides were almost like Fudge.

Our highlight, however, was the fresh Salt Caramel Doughnut.

Salt Caramel Doughnut

A.K.A. The Sugar Daddy

Now, I’m generally not a huge Doughnut fan: I was never an admirer of Krispy Kreme, and even a just-baked Jersey specimen couldn’t convert me to the cause.

The Salt Caramel St John Doughnut, however, was a rather different story.

Being die-hard Salt Caramel lovers, we bought one for only £2, and attempted to have a small bite of it round the corner.

Within seconds the centre was welling up – a vast, molten core of sweet liquid, which threatened to cover the street – and our ‘taster’ turned into a scoffing spree, as we tried to contain the eruption.

It. Was. Obscene. But in the best way possible.

Finally, I had found the ratio of filling to dough that I’ve always longed for; one that keeps the whole thing moist, and wins out over what it was fried in.

The type of filling was wonderful too: light, luxurious, smooth and silky, with a tang that was almost alcoholic.

The outside, meanwhile, was dotted with crumbs of Honeycomb and Salt. Clearly, this was no healthy option – but it was easy to see why their customers queued out the door.

Anyway, back to yesterday’s trip, and this time the flavour on offer was Custard.

This wasn’t like any Custard Doughnut I’ve ever had, though. Unsurprisingly, it was much better: not claggy and dark like those stodgy cold Dough-bricks you get in a box at the supermarket; more like a geyser of Cream.

With Vanilla Seeds and a hint of Lemon, it too was so full and refined that it threatened to spill down my chin, while drifts of Sugar flecks settled all over my jumper, rucksack and trousers.

As the last mouthful went, I was covered in crumbs, with a scrumptious residue coating my fingers and lips.

I felt like I’d been baptised. No wonder they call it St John.


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