Gr-eatings from Massachusetts
Bites from Boston and beyond
This week, the tea on a coffee complex, when an old haunt does you dirty, and a true oh-my-gourd meal. We also welcome Guest Gulletier, Danny Bradley to the table.
Dunkin’ Disorder
By Kitty
There are currently 1,068 Dunkin’ locations in the state of Massachusetts. Which equates to roughly 1,068 opportunities to be let down. Hear me out.
If you’re not a native New Englander, you’ve likely been captivated in an airport by the promise of a fresh, seasonal latte and a donut hole that’s been affectionately dubbed a “munchkin.” My point is… most of us fall into one of three camps; you know Dunkin', you love Dunkin', or you're a Starbucks devotee. I’m in the “know Dunkin’” camp (and maybe know all too well.)
The franchise formerly known as Dunkin’ Donuts has sort of carried me through life. Early memories include strapping into the back of my mom’s friend’s minivan and picking up provisions for a day at the beach. Come high school, iced coffee became an It Girl accessory. Nothing says I’m cool, I’m going to be late to first period, I’m stunting my growth, like a medium iced toasted almond made “extra, extra,” which I now know to be six creams and six sugars. As a millennial with anxiety and apprehension toward dairy, I’ve adjusted my current order to be a one-to-one ratio. I admit, I miss crunching on the globs of granulated sugar that got sucked up through the straw.
As a college student at Northeastern University, there was a Dunkin’ on campus that was a complete gamble. If you ordered a small iced coffee, the cashier would look you dead in the eye and hand you a steaming hot cuppa joe while reciting the words, “large hot mocha.” There wasn’t a chance in hell I was telling a girl who just spent her hard-earned funds on a fresh set of acrylics that she had given me the wrong order.
As an adult with a fully formed prefrontal cortex, I recognize that my relationship with Dunkin’ is an unhealthy one, and not because of anything that’s listed on their digital Nutrition Guide download. I’ve diagnosed myself with a complex called Dunkin Disorder (DD): the hope of a perfect food encounter that statistically ends in disappointment. I’m drawn to Dunkin’ the way some are drawn to their toxic ex, ignoring a flurry of red flags and constantly going back for more. I’d approximate that on nine out of ten visits to Dunkin’ your coffee will taste absolutely nothing like what you’ve ordered. On most days my iced coffee has the flavor profile of a single bean that's been thrown in a lake and decanted years later. The lack of consistency is both mind-blowing and entertaining. It’s like playing the lottery, except instead of a glove box filled with losing Powerball tickets, I’ve got cup holders filled with curdled coffee remains.
One of the perks of living with DD is the extreme emotional comfort of going through the drive-thru. While I know that pulling my Volkswagen up to the window increases the probability that my order will be wrong, I can guarantee that someone in a black visor will call me "hun." On a rough day, that can be worth more than any perfectly creamed and sugared iced coffee.
I also like to witness the camaraderie of the Dunkin’ staff through the window. I once heard a conversation between two employees who were fighting over use of the bathroom. They were each assuring the other that they were using it for number one, not two. When they saw I was eavesdropping they laughed.
One of the Dunkin’s I frequent employs an aspiring stand-up comedian who tells me vaguely off-color jokes while we wait for my credit card transaction to process. I laugh so that he can feel the same high I’m riding on when I’m drinking out of a real fucking plastic straw. COME FOR ME!
I recently told a friend that when I got my driver’s license, I’d sometimes go through the Dunkin’ drive-thru and ask for a cup of iced water. No cash transaction, totally free. The employees were appalled, and rightfully so. Looking back, I’d like to think that my DD is a karmic result of these audacious requests. One thing about Dunkin’ is that you might not get what you want, but they will never deny you something. And in today’s world something is all we’ve got.
The verdict: You tell me.
Name drops: Dunkin’
Side note: Have never earnestly referred to it as “Dunks”.
A PTown Let Down
By Greg
This past summer, I was looking forward to a grand return to Victor’s, a favorite restaurant, on an annual friend trip to Provincetown. Early on in our tradition, this place was the go-to for the big finale dinner. Their tapas-style menu lent itself to ordering way too much but delighting in every last morsel. A bounty of incredible dishes would slowly fill the table as cocktails flowed and the week’s adventures were recounted. After a beautiful evening of bougie wining and dining we would set off into the night for one last moonlight walk down Commercial Street.
“Victor's was the place to show off the best outfit you'd packed for the week and expand your palate with bites like duck confit or Wellfleet oysters. The noise level was high in a good way, and it felt like everyone in the place was enjoying the company of old friends.” —Kitty
We hadn’t been back since before the pandemic, and something felt off upon sitting down this year. We were seated on the patio (a new experience) where a couple next to us was caught in a loop of detangling their small dog’s leash tied to a chair, only to have it start to strangle itself again a few minutes later. Another couple avoided conversation and stared silently past each other as their child hurled $18 macaroni and cheese to the floor. The warm glow of votive candles had been replaced with stark LED table lamps. The charismatic and charming servers of yesteryear had been recast as a roving troupe of 18-year-olds in polos continually asking if someone had brought over a drink menu. Mere minutes after ordering, we watched, brows raised, as an array of gently reheated dishes appeared on the table. It was the type of food you’d be happy to pick up from a clam shack and eat on the beach, but certainly not for a capstone feast. At what point had my old splurgy standby become a gay Applebees? I called upon my fellow diners to help me remember the day the music died:
“Kid cuisine, but if the parents made it. So slightly better than if you did it as a kid, but still kid cuisine.” —Justin
“To the Victor’s go the microwaved spoils. I actually don’t remember a single thing I ate that night, but I do remember the weird mirror in the bathroom that had an inexplicable system of touch screen buttons with no specific function.” —Lauren
“There was something about the espresso martini; maybe it was just that it was not as good as the other places. Sadly, of all the places we ate that week it came in last place.” —Matt
The whole experience was such a disappointment it had me wondering if it was ever good to begin with. Was that special place feeling actually just the golden wash of our twenties? Only the shadow knows. I do think it’s safe to say we won’t be returning anytime soon, if ever. Maybe it's best to put Victor’s out to sea and not dilute the decade of dinners filled with too-full laughs and toasts to Lady Delish1.
The verdict: Like people, restaurants change and sometimes…go to hell.
Name drops: Victor’s
Things can only go up from here. Let’s relish in Guest Gulletier Danny Bradley’s dish.
Squash Carpacci-OMG
Just as the squash carpaccio arrived at our table, my dad asked the waitress where she was “from.” I’ll leave it up to you, dear reader, to guess if my eye roll was in ecstasy thanks to the stunning plate before me or in embarrassment from my very own family, who had gathered at Contessa in Boston for my aunt’s birthday. Luckily, one bite into the squash carpaccio and all sins were forgiven. This dish centered on thin slices of butternut squash roasted to perfection – tender but still structured – layered oh so delicately on the platter and topped with pumpkin seeds, arugula, crème fraîche, sage brown butter, and agrodolce. Each bite was familiar and autumnal but with that something special that made it sing: the agrodolce, which, thanks to Contessa’s Instagram, I now know is the Italian version of a sweet and sour sauce made by reducing honey, vinegar, and fruits. Rarely does a starter steal the show, but it was the thing my family and I kept coming back to amidst a delicious spread of pastas and entrées. In fact, this not-so-humble squash selection is something of an It Girl in the Boston culinary scene, with food blogs, travel sites, and TikToks touting its praises.
All dinner long, my brain was chugging full speed down the tracks of the Gay Pun Express, but trust me when I say my good New England family would not have appreciated reaching the station. So please allow me to finally speak my truth: that squash carpaccio was serving. Contessa? More like Cunt-essa. Agrodolce? More like fag-rodolce.
The verdict: We were seated, but the squash? She ate.
Name drops: Contessa
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Chalzea Xu3! See her work here.
Let us know what’s going down your gullet! Drop us a note at putitinthegullet@gmail.com
Read about Lady Delish
Danny Bradley (he/him) lives in the Hudson Valley and works in human rights and gender justice advocacy.
Chalzea Xu (she/her/they) is an illustrator from China, who graduated from School of Visual Arts and currently lives in New York. Specializing in cover, editorial and book illustrations, she has been collaborating with publishers, magazines, and new media since 2019.