Ode to Bagels

Today the sun rose with a bagel. Better: a surprise bagel. Save a spilled latte or a death in the family, there’s no way a day can go badly when it begins with a bosom of carbohydrates smothered in fluffy cream cheese.  My love of bagels is borderline religious.  Savoring a bagel puts me in a trance-like state that’s about the closest I get to spiritual.  I like bagels almost as much as I like my family, and I like my family very much.

Although I grew up on the W(B)est Coast, my parents are both the offspring of East Coast Jews.  Where bagels are concerned, they know what’s what. They deign to consume a chocolate-chip bagel or an “everything” bagel. New-age. Made-up. Stick to poppy and sesame. Cinnamon-raisin if you’re feeling sassy.  From a young age, I was acutely aware of Portland’s bagel dearth.  Good bagels are one of the few things the city truly lacks.  Every time we went to New York, we brought home dozens of H&H bagels to improve our quality of life for a few blissful days back in the wasteland. 

This is not to say we did not purchase and consume bagels in Portland. Of course we still ate bagels; we’re Jews. My family’s expression of Judaism is largely culinary, so we made the best of what we had—schmearing the mediocre on Sunday mornings.  For Jewish holidays, we debated where to purchase the best of the worst.  And this is the plight of the West Coast Jew. Haven’t we endured enough? 

Years ago, a family friend was charged with bringing bagels to a brunch held at our house.  Upon biting into his poppy seed bagel, my always-diplomatic father made a disgusted face and asked my mother:

“Where did this puffball excuse for a bagel come from?”

Embarrassed, the true offender piped up, “Um, actually, it was me. I brought those from Marcee Bakery. Sorry.”

Everyone turned red. But, really, Marcee Bakery? Only the worst bagels in town.

It would be an exaggeration to say I moved to New York City for bagels. That’s crazy. But, the prospect of living in the same city as the world’s best bagels made me salivate.  It would also be an exaggeration to say I chose my current apartment because it’s across the street from a bagel store.  But it is. And I like it.  Have I considered installing some sort of pulley system from the bagel store directly to my bedroom for those Sunday mornings when I’m too hungover to make the trek? Absolutely, but the obstacles are insurmountable. For now.

Something I didn’t realize about bagels until recently is that they’re really bad for you. Way more calories than normal bread. Which makes sense: everyone knows the better a food tastes, the worse it is for you. This tidbit is distressing, but it’s had no significant effect on my bagel-eating lifestyle. I have very little self-control when it comes to bagels. Okay, most things.  Only in the city, I’ve witnessed people “scoop” their bagels. They remove the encased carbs from their skin for a low-calorie option. To this behavior I say: WTF? The mutilation is revolting, offensive.  The intentional destruction of a precious bagel for weight loss purposes has no place in my life. The pure joy I get from eating a bagel with good people on a Sunday morning is worth millions of calories.  Kate Moss once said, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” Which of course makes me wonder if Kate has ever had a bagel.