Dream Fluff: The Donut Shop that Never Sleeps
In the hours after the sun had fallen on a chilly January night in Berkeley, California, the fluorescent lights of Dream Fluff Donuts softly illuminated the sidewalk of the otherwise dim Elmwood neighborhood. Alone with only muted street lights and closed storefronts, this was well into the hours when only the night owls stepped away from their homes, and Dream Fluff was a single source of vibrancy in the darkness. I knocked on the creaky wooden door and the bells jingled, as they always did, as I stepped inside the donut shop that never sleeps.
The shop hummed with life. Bright signs shone from the ATM in the corner of the store and the lottery machine by the cash register. The refrigerators in the back were stocked full of Nesquik milk and Minute Maid orange juice. Wooden chairs with green vinyl cushions sat on the tiled floor, pushed up against the counter. Empty now, although they are often occupied by customers who would sit and swivel, while sipping their morning coffees, enjoying slow minutes as the jingles and bangs from the doorway signal the arrival and departure of other guests.
The shop offered itself comfortably to every customer. No frills attached, no curtsy greeting you at the door. The menus were printed on pastel pink paper, with pricing changes marked in blue pen. This was one of the few shops that had yet to surrender to the demands of an aesthetic. Instead it embraced the story of the neighborhood and the family that ran it.
Dream Fluff Donuts is just one of thousands of donut shops sprinkled around the United States. It may seem similar to the Krispy Kreme or Dunkin’ Donuts found in most neighborhoods — just another business that churns out batches of deep fried dough, day by day. But behind the sprinkled confections, neon signs, and unassuming store interiors, an independent donut shop like Dream Fluff has a unique story to tell. Behind the sign, we overhear stories of the opportunity that small businesses such as this donut shop created for the families that run them.
If you approached Alex Sieu in 1984, then a recent Oakland High School graduate, and told him that he would soon own his own small donut business, he would not have believed you. He had immigrated to California from Cambodia in 1980, arriving in Berkeley under sponsorship from his cousin. He learned English and how to navigate his new home and high school where people were keen on defining an “us” versus a “them.” For a while, he said, he planned on becoming a mechanic.
Elsewhere down in southern California, however, a well-known Cambodian immigrant, dubbed the “Donut King,” Ted Ngoy, had set a plan in motion. His plan would eventually result in a donut empire. Ngoy’s immigration to California was marked by a successful entry into the donut business. His plan consisted of creating a community of businesses, run by Cambodian families, that would give other recent immigrant families a shot at rebuilding their lives in America after the Khmer Rouge drove them away from their homes in Cambodia. Ngoy bought donut shops throughout California and then leased them out to these families, where they quickly learned how to turn fried dough into profit. Ngoy stepped in and financed families at a time when banks would turn them away because they had no credit, sponsoring visas for many of these families.
As fate would have it, after Alex graduated, he came into contact with the Donut King through his cousin. With Ngoy’s helping hand, Alex and his family soon landed themselves their first donut shop in San Leandro, in a neighborhood 15 miles and 2 freeways from where their current remaining donut shop, in Elmwood, is located.
“He was a smart guy in business,” Sieu said, looking back on Ngoy’s entrepreneurship, recalling an invitation he took in 1987 to visit the Donut King’s mansion in Los Angeles. As Alex described the mansion, a home that radiated with Great Gatsby-esque splendor popped into my head.
“It must have been a four million dollar house. Right near a man-made lake,” Alex said.
Alex was dressed warmly for tonight’s work, a black beanie pulled over his ears and a dark grey jacket tucked beneath his white apron. His eyes were bright with energy, contrasting with the darkness of the night. While many of us are afforded the luxury of groggy mornings, Alex relies on working at a constant speed at all hours. For Alex, a missed turn of the frying dough, an extra hour where the dough over proofs, or a batch without enough time to be baked, would mean different tasting donuts or less profit for his business.
He glanced at me as he hovered over the deep fryer with a pair of chopsticks, just a minute after the rings had touched down in the oil. Running a donut shop meant staying tuned to exactly what and how much of each donut type his customers wanted. With a keen eye and practiced hand, Alex had carefully clocked and mastered the proofing of the dough and the frying process, using chopsticks to deftly flip over a dozen donuts in just a few seconds.
“You learn from your friends and family,” he explained. He had not known anything about making donuts when he first entered the business, but he quickly learned from his mistakes and perfected them with practice.
Alex described how his customers rarely surprised him anymore. The young policeman would come in as the shop opened and order an old fashioned with a side of eggs and bacon. Other regulars came in for a traditional apple fritter with their Sunday morning coffee. Children would skip in, frazzled parents in tow, and refuse to leave until sprinkles covered their cheeks.
Over and over, Alex said, everyone expected to see the freshest donuts, which is why he makes sure to keep fresh batches stocked in the shelves every morning, and he carefully adjusts how many he produces depending on the days of the week, the seasons and the holidays of the year. Anything they could not sell that day would be wasted.
“I had never seen so much waste before I came here,” Alex admitted. “Everyone wants the freshest thing — but other people come to America and they don’t have food at all.”
Alex works every evening shift, coming in long after the rest of the stores on the block have closed and after his wife, Nasin Bun, finishes cleaning up from the day’s work. He prepares the first batch of donuts and delivers to a few of the wholesale customers Dream Fluff Donuts still works with. He finishes before the sun comes back up again and goes home to nap as Nasin returns to open the store back up for the morning. Alex joins her again that day, preparing another fresh batch, and then goes back home to catch a few hours of sleep before his next night shift.
At one point, Alex and Nasin, were running two businesses in the Bay Area. As the family got older and the strain of their work hours kicked in, they sold their San Leandro store and consolidated all of their energy into their Elmwood business. Alex says he works with only one other employee outside of his family, mentioning how it is difficult to find the time and the right person to train as a baker, so the shop relies on just his family to do the baking each day. As a team, Alex and his family move together like clockwork.
Hours pass as I watch and talk to Alex during his shift, but it feels like seconds go by as the night turns into the morning. Alex stops only to take quick sips of tea. He mixes, kneads, tosses and tops dozens of donuts at a time, a timer on the shelf pacing him.
He has two daughters. One is in high school, the other is studying at UC Irvine. He tells me about taking his daughters to visit Cambodia, wanting them to see his old home, perhaps if only to teach them how much they could appreciate their home in California.
“I tell my daughters: don’t forget where your parents come from. But it doesn’t mean you have to do the same thing,” he said.
The donut shop that never sleeps is extreme labor, Alex says. He and Nasin watch over it with pride: they were able to create a new life for themselves and for their family, and their business has become as much of a home for Berkeley as it has become a home for them. But his daughters are interested in other things. His oldest daughter is studying pharmacology at the university.
“I love this country,” Alex said. He stops his flurry of movements, and I am once again struck by the way the shop buzzes with life as the rest of the neighborhood sleeps. “If you’re willing to work, there’s still opportunity. The American dream is still alive to me.”
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