Quebec, Part I: The Book of Bagels and Revelations

In the spring of 2001, thickly entrenched in the murmur and buzz of a New York City evening, I experienced two revelations.

I sank my teeth into my first real bagel. A chewy, springy, salt bagel completely stuffed with thick oozing olive cream cheese in hand, I stood outside in the fluorescent glow of Columbia Hot Bagels, planted on the east side of Broadway between 110th and 111th Streets. (Sadly, Columbia Hot Bagels has since shuttered its doors.) I delicately, though energetically, peeled away the wax paper which wrapped the bagel, eagerly absorbed its dull warmth with my hands, and took periodic bites, taking care to chew sufficiently, savoring all of the flavor and texture.

The world of bagels had revealed itself to me. Up to this point, living for most of my life in the American Midwest, I had come to believe that bagels were something found in the frozen section of the supermarket, that bagels were something called Lender's, were narrow and gummy, were flat and lifeless, were hockey pucks.

I recall - at one point during that evening of bagels in Manhattan - glancing at my watch, noticing, in disbelief, that it was about four in the morning but thinking that it couldn't have been more than eleven at night. People were out and about. Diners dined. The streets hummed. Cars zoomed past. People laughed and chatted, smoked their end of the evening cigarettes, descended into the subway and hailed cabs.

At the time, I was living in southern Vermont, a bucolic world of rolling greenery. Stunning natural and social world that it is, it is also a world that pretty much goes to sleep by ten in the evening. That New York moment was a revelation, a thrilling glimpse into nocturnal urban activity.

About a week ago, in April of 2006, I experienced another revelation.

Wait. This is beginning to sound a little like a tale of Old World religious visions and all. But it's not. Nothing was begat. No one was smote. None healed the sick and infirm.

Earlier in April, on a week-long vacation in Montreal, my girlfriend Laura and I went, one day, in search of the Montreal bagel, the longtime sparring partner of its New York cousin. We sampled two fresh hot sesame bagels, one at Fairmount Bagel, Montreal's first bagel bakery, and one at La Maison du Bagel, a newer establishment and one which many feel has overshadowed its elders, including Fairmount.


If I had to weigh in on the Montreal-New York bagel debate, which appears to be as tired and exhausting as the Red Sox-Yankees debate, I'd choose the Montreal bagel. Unlike the New York variety, which has seemingly gotten bigger and bigger in size, you don't need to unhinge your jaw in order to eat one. The Fairmount bagel, which both Laura and I preferred to the one at La Maison, was brilliant. It was slightly sweet, small, nicely chewy, and almost soft pretzel like. Of course, some may cringe at the comparison with soft pretzels, but it's the Montreal bagel's sweetness and chewiness that are remiscient of the salty and ubiquitous yellow mustard accompaniment. That awful pretzel-to-tooth-sticking-effect is thankfully avoided in Fairmount's offering. Not so with Le Maison du Bagel's.

And perhaps best of all, because of the Montreal variety's relative small and thin size, one doesn't feel stuffed to the gills after putting one away. What a treat in a world of super size and schmorgasbords.