The Way of the Bagel
Bagel brunch was a common New York tradition. Every Sunday morning in the 1970s and 80s of my Brooklyn youth, Dad tossed my sister and me into his Buick and drove to his favorite pick up spot. “Hot Bagels” was located near the, “Pizzeria” and the, “Newsstand” just underneath the grime smeared entrance to the elevated section of the D train. He liked the place on Avenue J, but it didn’t matter. A replica configuration of unnamed storefronts was located at most stops along the line.
The queue of men and children snaked out the doors and onto the street. No matter how early we showed up, we didn’t hear the bell chime as the door was propped open by the guy in front, all of us a part of a slow moving organism, patiently waiting. Yeasty smells offered a welcome reprieve from the hot air roar and screeching brakes above as trains rolled into and out of the station.
My dad’s oversized glasses and fraying shorts made him seem both vulnerable and beyond reproach. His attention was rarely directed at me, but I loved watching him schmooze, making everyone laugh with his flippant irreverence.
Between the long legs of adults, I peeked into the fingerprint smudged, refrigerated display case. Trays of rolled smoked salmon polka dotted with tiny capers, careless piles of overly mayonnaised tuna and slowly yellowing egg salad were scooped out into plastic containers. Before my eyes, sliced cucumber, tomato and onion garnish wilted as the line inched ever forward. Whole white fish and sable were my favorites. They were more expensive though, meaning someone earth shattering was showing up when they were on order. Which could be good or bad, depending.
Inside a brown paper bag crinkling with promise, we clutched our baker’s dozen including a special pumpernickel for Mom. If the bagel gods smiled on us, they were still warm.
My father would light a cigarette, hand me the bag and pull out of his hard earned parking spot. If we were early enough, they’d still be warm and I’d thrust my face inside and inhale, excited to carry the magic scent home.
In high school, I’d leave the noisy hallways and make my way to my spot, which was by the Avenue M stop. The setup was nearly identical; only there was one guy who worked there that I had a crush on, and another whose brother I’d already slept with.
I ordered the same thing every day. Two sesame bagels. One with cream cheese and one with butter. They added these on for a small fee although they spread a tub of them across the bagel’s surface with a frosting knife. A final Yoo-hoo made it an entire meal for less than $5.
In college near Boston, I felt loyal to my Brooklyn bagel. This wasn’t the same thing. It was either too soft or too hard, not the perfect “Hot Bagel” ratio of a tanned outer layer to yummy white breaded softness. I tried to think of them as some other bread product. A savory, tasteless donut maybe? I stuck to toast.
Mostly, I waited for the Sunday bagels my dad still brought home when I came back for break.
I didn’t understand that bagels had a uniquely Jewish reputation until I hit Los Angeles and met a guy who said he’d never even heard of one, but that he had a Jewish friend who said they ate them all the time. Needless to say, neither the bagels nor most of the men out west impressed me.
If you are thinking of frozen ones please understand, that is the difference between biting into a juicy steak and cutting into a pretty plastic one. The rule of thumb is that if you can fit an entire bagel into a pop-up toaster slot, you’re wasting your time. I’m sorry if this is what you’ve been relegated to, but I do hope you get to rip into the airy center of a New York bagel someday.
I married my husband partly because he fell in love with a bagel as soon as he met a Brooklyn one, even if he was prone to do strange things to them. Like ordering them toasted with chocolate chip cream cheese, or shoving roast beef or something crazy inside those smooth cut halves. He was powerless against the heady magic of running his tongue around melted cream cheese oozing from the center hole of a warm bagel. In turn, he introduced me to the miracle addition of olives which are now a necessary part of my schmear.
He cut himself and then researched it to inform me that bagel slicing is amongst the most common injuries on a Sunday. I take great pride in knowing how to take that large, serrated knife and cleave through the disc’s center, first one way and then over to finish the job. It’s not always pretty, but I have never cut myself, though I admit to reverting to the bagel slicer he bought when no one is looking. I don’t want to push my luck.
On Long Island I went to a temple I loved from the bottom of my heart every Saturday, but common knowledge and experience say the only way to get half the congregants and my family there is to promise a bagel with lox, cream cheese, a slice of onion and tomato. The absolute answer to a prayer.
Some years ago, when I was trying to shed carbs, I knocked down my daily consumption to weekly. Now, it’s a quarter of my husband’s bagel once a year, but those memories and the comfort I take from them, linger in the air like the aroma emanating from a “Hot Bagels” brick oven conveyor belt of freshly baked rounds seven days a week.
