These are British doughnuts, in the window of the bakers at the top of Wimbledon Hill - still, despite all the odds, and despite being next door to a branch of Le Pain Quotidien - yes, Wimbledon High Street is nothing if not post-upwardly-mobile - still somewhere where workers will go and buy their bap (aka a kind of flat roll in which to put limp lettuce and ham, or whatever else constitutes the lunch sandwich), or pasties (oval meat and potato pies, roughly speaking) or, indeed, doughnuts. It's now called, in vaguely optimistic aspiration, "Wimbledon Village Bakery," but it used to be Gravestocks Bakers. I've been walking around (more on this tomorrow) trying to think what's still here, by way of shops, that I remember as a child, and the baker's is one of the very few establishments that's still the same.
I can't remember when I last had a British doughnut - maybe when hungry and desperate at a conference? But I can still remember the fatty puffiness of it - both lighter and greasier than a US standard issue doughnut - no hole visible, but you can bet that when you've bitten into it, and some loose icing sugar has blown up onto your nose, that there will be some sweet red jam in the center, coming from no identifiable fruit.