Last week, Dunkin' Donuts debuted the latest fast-food gut buster: a doughnut-and-egg breakfast sandwich at select locations in Massachusetts. Just getting our hands on the list of places that carry the creation required endurance; for whatever reason (and this reason becomes clear later), the doughnut chain isn't trying to overhype the sandwich just yet. However, Grub Street finally tracked down one of the sole locations carrying the sandwich in the Boston area. There was little advertisement at this anointed shop, just a simple sign. An employee did eye us incredulously when we only ordered a mere one sandwich, as opposed to a dozen. But spoiler alert one was enough.
Our dining companion dropped the wrapped sandwich onto our table as if it were radioactive. This wasn't unwarranted: The thing was wrapped in a coarse ream of paper, absolutely bleeding grease. However, in the interest of research, we peeled back the paper and soldiered on.
The sandwich contains a "pepper-fried" egg and two flaccid strips of bacon, sandwiched between a yeasty glazed doughnut. The doughnut itself is totally unobjectionable and really quite delicious: perfectly bready, plumped with sugar, just this side of sickeningly sweet. With each bite, the doughnut seems to collapse further into itself until it retains the consistency of a very sugary paper towel.
The issue is the fillings; that is, the bacon and "pepper-fried" egg. A word for the fried egg: This egg is unlike any egg we've sampled prior. There is no yolky ooze, no warm fluffy white. No, this fried egg is a geometric marvel. It is a yellow-and-white cylinder with the consistency of a rubber pillow. Also, it is tasteless.
The strips of bacon do little to redeem the egg. There is no whiff of char, no hint of maple. The strips lie limply across the rubber egg like train tracks committing suicide, flaccid and resigned, as if they already grasp their fate. Which is to be peeled off the sandwich and set aside on an absorbent paper towel.
The doughnut itself is tasty in a nostalgic carnival kind of way, and its intense sugariness overpowers any savory flavor. However, sampling the bacon on its own, we realize that it doesn't possess flavor at all. Perhaps the doughnut is just a disguise?
The sandwich could be redeemed by a condiment of some sort, maybe a liberal splash of Texas Pete, to offset the doughnut. The "pepper" (as in "pepper fried egg") does nothing here, except to make us wonder if there are dead mosquitos inside the fried egg.
In the end, we washed it down with an absolutely delicious hazelnut iced coffee. Then we ate about twelve doughnut holes. And this is what Dunkin' Donuts does best: cold, flavored caffeine and sugar-frosted carbs. A perfect meal, as long as they hold the eggs, bacon, pepper, and grease.