You know the place. It’s in a strip center between a nail salon and a tax office, the lights are on before 5 a.m., and the glazed doughnuts are still warm when the first contractor pickup pulls in. The coffee is cheap. The kolaches are better than they have any right to be. And there’s a good chance the family behind the counter is Cambodian.
That’s no coincidence. It’s one of the great immigrant stories in American food, and Texas is right in the middle of it.
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