Bagels – Need I Say More
People often ask me about my time in New York. Was it was a “culture shock”? Did you get mugged? Did you meet anyone famous? These are all fine questions, which are usually followed with my concealed eye roll, but seldom do I get a question about my food experiences. This always surprises me because when I think of my life in New York, I think of my introduction to such exotic delicacies as bagels. Yes, you read that right – bagels. You see, finding a bagel in Lincoln, Nebraska while growing up was about as easy as finding a unicorn.
My first experience with a bagel was on my first morning in the Hamptons. I was awoken by the smell of freshly baked bread, the aroma captivating my senses and arousing my hunger. Stuart and Mona had set out an elegant breakfast spread, complete with bagels, cream cheese, sliced tomatoes, smoked salmon, capers, and other unidentifiable delicacies.
“So, which do you prefer with your bagels? Lox or Nova?” Mona asked. “I prefer Nova because it’s a little less salty, so I hope you don’t mind.”
“Uh, sure…whatever is fine with me. I eat everything!” I declared, not having a clue as to what lox or Nova was. And, of course, I did not know which I preferred with my bagels since I had never even had a bagel! Upon examining the multitude of items on the breakfast buffet, by process of elimination, I ascertained based on the salty reference, that the salmon was the Nova that Mona was referring to. I soon regained a slight bit of confidence in my culinary acumen.
I sat down with my hot, freshly toasted, poppy seed bagel, topped with a schmear of cream cheese (another new term I learned that morning!) with slices of Nova and tomato on the side. I felt a swift rush of endorphins flow through my body as I sunk my teeth down into the dense, soft dough. The dual sensations of the cool smoothness of the cream cheese on my upper lip and the warmth of the crunchy outer layer on my bottom lip were unlike anything I had experienced before. With each bite, my hunger became more satiated as my elation grew over this new found treasure. Since that glorious morning, bagels have been woven into the fabric of my life.
Before I departed for my first visit home after three months in New York, my parents asked me what I would like from the grocery store. I told them that I would love, no, NEED, bagels. After an exhaustive search of virtually every bakery in town, my mother called to tell me that they did indeed find a bakery that claimed to stock bagels. With a boastful sense of accomplishment, they served up the results of their efforts, complete with cream cheese and sliced tomatoes, just as I had requested (finding Nova was just too much to ask). I took a long, sharp, serrated breadknife across the poppy seed bagel and immediately felt that something just didn’t feel right. Alas, I carried on with my bagel ritual anyway. I placed the two halves in the toaster oven, face up, and watched as they turned the perfect golden brown. With a healthy schmear of cream cheese and topped with thinly sliced tomato, they were about to satisfy my greatly anticipated elation. Taking in a deep, cleansing breath, I bit down. No, this was not a bagel! My poor parents had been duped. What I was holding in my hand was an imposter! A fraud! I turned to my parents who were watching my reaction with great anticipation and pride, feigned a smile, held back my tears, and got through it.
I am no stranger to the sources and methods of freshly baked goods as my mother was a fabulous baker. Her Czech kolache, rohlicky, and other yeast breads were nothing short of divine. But bagels are in a league of their own. During my years in New York, I spoke with several authorities on bagel making – namely Jewish grandmothers – about what sets bagels apart from other baked goods. Although they all had their own opinions, the common thread that binds all bagels together is the placement of the risen dough into boiling salt water prior to baking. Miss this step and you will end up with a dinner roll in the shape of a donut. If you do, please, for the love of Moses, do not call it a bagel!
I intended to stay in New York just for the summer, but I was offered an opportunity to live and work in the City. I don’t know what really tempted me to accept the offer as I had a lot of reasons to return to Lincoln. The availability of authentic bagels was definitely in the “Pros” column.
I have since become a certifiable, card carrying, judgmental bagel snob. I literally cringe when I see vapid creations labeled as bagels, packaged in plastic sleeves and staged next to the Wonder Bread. Now that bagels are ubiquitous, they can now be found in a plethora of flavors such as (gulp) jalapeno! If I want jalapenos, I’ll go to a Taco Bell. Chocolate chip and strawberry bagels? Bagels should not taste like Count Chocula or Fruity Pebbles! Can we talk about this? I try not to judge, I really do, but all of those extra flavors just seem dangerously close to blasphemy to me. I prefer my bagel to be the star of the show, not some overpowering, unnecessary flavoring.
As you may have figured out by now, bagels are my comfort food of which I am quite protective. If I were faced with the dilemma of having to throw one of my boys overboard or a hot, fresh bag of bagels, I may need a moment to think about it. (Don’t worry, kids – I love you and my bagels all equally!). Comfort foods ostensibly fulfill both physical and emotional needs, prompt memories of home and/or a happy time. Folks often look at me like I have five heads when I tell them my comfort food is bagels. They understand mac and cheese, meatloaf, and chicken soup. But bagels? At the risk of over psychoanalyzing myself, I believe that it was the warmth and feeling of fullness in both my belly and my soul that I experienced with my first bite of bagel; it brought me the solace that I was so desperately seeking during those lonely and homesick first few hours in New York. Perhaps it’s the water, the method, or some enigmatic magic, but regardless, nothing says “comfort” to me more than a New York bagel.