We as humans are too easily beguiled by a trailer bearing sweets. (A giant, pink, plastic cupcake comes to mind.) But after the initial fuss dies down, or a much better version becomes available nearby, people are left with sticky fingers and a confused look. What just happened? And why am I suddenly feeling all jacked up?

Gourdough’s is certainly fun, a good-natured trailer parked, brilliantly, next to the Odd Duck cart, where you can get one of the city’s best and cheapest dinners. “Dessert? Step that way.” Hushed, excited whispers about novelties made famous elsewhere, like the maple-bacon doughnut, have brought in throngs of the curious and sweet-toothed, who gnaw, smack, and scrape their way through doctor-horrifying items like a “Mother Clucker,” a fried chicken strip iced—and when we say “iced,” we mean glacially thick—with honey butter glaze. Then there’s “Slow Burn,” with good habanero pepper jelly and a cream cheese topping. If the latter celebrated the more savory aspects of cream cheese, rather than flinging a bucket of sugar into the mix, we’d really dig it. As it is, we are kaput after one bite. The absolute worst is a “PB&J,” where gooey grape jelly and saccharine-sweet peanut butter icing and peanut butter morsels collide to form the most cloying, unbalanced, and tummy-ache-making thing we’ve encountered since You’ve Got Mail. Nothing beats a simple glazed donut, hot from the fryer. One of those please?