The machine is the centre of attraction. A fascination of moving parts, it draws your eye as the donuts are squirted, allowed to rise, then fried to a crisp and drizzled with glaze. It doesn't matter that the donuts might as well be bags of icing sugar cunningly disguised as pastry, the machine is enough to make on a traitor in the Kingdom of Tim Hortons and embrace this invader.
I'm not the only one, either. Though this place sees fewer people than your average Tim's, a steady trickle of people belly up to the counter. A man walks in with a beakish nose and pepper-curly hair. He worries over the lid of his coffee. A large couple ambles across the parking lot -- I've seen them here before -- they make a bee-line for their usual table before the manager gives them their samples.
On the donut assembly line, the workers pack the frosty creations into boxes using chopsticks, hands moving deftly, like the hunt and peck of seabirds. Kids arrive, and stare in fascination at the moving parts. They're as entranced by the machine as I am, but only they have the courage to press their noses to the glass.