Thank You, Mr. Entenmann, for the Nicest Cake of My Life

With additional reporting contributed by Naomi Tomky.

Like many food stories, this one is essentially about my mother. And icing.

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In my childhood kitchen, you were certain to find a few things: my mother, coffee, cigarettes, and a box of Entenmann’s cake on top of the toaster oven. No greater joy (or disappointment) could come than seeing a new box and walking up to it to discover what my mother had bought today: Would it be a good day, and I’d be peeling the thick layer of fudge off the golden yellow cake? Or would it be utter disappointment to find that she had bought a raspberry twist for herself and I’d have to cut around the center to eat the soft, doughy, undercooked goodness covered in white glaze that only Long Island can do so well?

This might explain why I immediately felt like a member of my family died when Charles Entenmann, the patriarch of the Entenmann’s family, passed away recently at age 92. In truth, before writing this piece, I knew nothing about the man (and please don’t tell me any more than I’ve shared here, because I am not likely to survive another disappointment). But he was the center of our daily lives. And a fixture of my Long Island, New York childhood.

Entenmann and his brothers joined his mother in taking over their grandfather’s bakery in 1951 and ran it until 1978, when they sold it after eight decades of family ownership. But in between, they revolutionized the baked goods business, switching from home delivery to supermarket shelves, and inventing that clear window in bakery boxes to tempt customers, tripling the size of the bakery’s Long Island campus to keep up with the demand.

Yes, Entenmann’s was a Long Island thing. It was a reminder of Brooklyn, where my family originally had the crumb cake (OK, I know a little about the Entenmann’s story), out to the more prosperous Long Island where you had to have a car and you didn’t walk to the corner bakery for a single cake; instead, you drove to the Entenmann’s outlet or the supermarket to buy more than one, because you could afford it and you had the counter space.

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My mother, just like your mother, lived in a world where neighbors did just stop by unannounced (ours, an Italian woman named Maria from Brooklyn, who used to open our front door without knocking and scream “SUSIE!” up the stairs. No one called my mother Susie, but she fed Maria cake and coffee anyway). She also lived in a world where feelings were better left distracted, and a nice piece of cake (or plate of pasta or bowl of soup or crispy piece of toast) solved it all. In fairness, she also really liked to have something sweet with her afternoon coffee and cigarette—she’d never eat lunch and she needed some push to get the energy to make us all dinner.

Nobody in the family had any concerns about serving these boxed masterpieces. Everyone loved an Entenmann’s. Nor was there ever a concern about leaving a knife in the box—someone was coming soon to cut a little sliver anyway—just don’t forget it and throw it out! We easily held onto only half the butter knives from the silverware in our house of six, because someone had left them in the box at various points.

I was never far from an Entenmann’s. Even at my first reporting job, where I was sent to cover an event happening at their North Fork Long Island horse farm, aptly called The Big E Farm. After selling the business—for today’s equivalent of nearly a billion dollars—Entenmann continued to invent, turning his brilliant mind from selling coffee cake to cold fusion (limitless energy) and medical advances (wound-sealing technology). This also kept Charles and his family close. It never occurred to me that this treat was originally hyper-regional, until I went to college and my Midwestern roommates discovered it.

See, if you come from Long Island, that peek-a-boo window is part of you. You cut school to get an iced tea (not that kind—a real one, made with powder, duh) and a box of Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies, and hang out in the parking lot eating and drinking them while you were supposed to be at gym class. In your college dorm room, you quickly learn the art of leaving the “breakfast strip”—where each roommate picks a side and eats straight from the box until they feel ill, leaving a solid slice down the center that’s cut in half and shared over coffee the next day. And during peak COVID, when everyone is making banana bread, you try very hard to replicate the no-longer made Entenmann’s banana crunch cake (well, if you’re me, anyway, probably because you’re missing your mother and trying hard to not to feel the feelings).

In the end, I found that the thing that came the closest was Ina Garten’s Old-Fashioned Banana Cake—but then again, she is also just a girl who lives on Long Island, and knows a nice piece of cake when she sees one.