being a local snob

Local snobbery: the art of judging someone for believing that any other locality could produce a regional specialty with equal or greater caliber. Ex.: If a man from outside Philadelphia argues that the cheese steaks in X City are better than the ones in Philly, we reserve the right to judge him based on local snobbery.

As you probably know, I am a tireless proponent of local snobbery. Mostly this is because I've always had LOTS of reasons to be a local snob, what with all the cool things that are known to be regional specialties of Memphis: barbeque, soul music and the roots of rock'n'roll.

But in the past few years I've called a number of different places home, and in each of those places I picked up some different local snobberies. Since living in London, I pretty much won't accept that there are equal or better fish and chips outside of an authentic English chippy. I'll eat them, but you won't convince me that they're better, or even just as good. Just not having it.

And truthfully I'm pretty snobby about all English cuisine, but there are only a few particular dishes -- like the fish and chips -- that tend to get replicated here.

So naturally, since living in New York, I've become quite the local snob on a number of fronts. I don't believe you can find better cheesecake anywhere else but here, and I really believe that the very, very best cheesecake comes from Junior's. Now endorsed by both me and P. Diddy. I think the best New York pizza comes from Grimaldi's in Brooklyn. And I personally believe the best bagels come from The Bagel Man in his cart at the corner of 65th and Broadway across from Lincoln Center.

Now that last one might be a bit of a stretch, but the bagels here are just better. There is something different about them that I can't quite explain. It's like drinking Guiness straight from the source. It just tastes better.

Back when I was working a lot of morning shifts at the Philharmonic -- which I would call my "pays the bills" job, but that is sometimes comically untrue -- I used to frequent The Bagel Man. He knew my name, he knew my order, he knew where I worked. He always remembered. It's one of the only times I can think of in this city I've ever experienced such genuine hospitality and customer service. And the man works in a cart. WITH WHEELS.

But in the past month or two, I've become a little too destitute -- and luckily started working more night shifts -- to be regular clientele at The Bagel Man. On Wednesday, though, I worked a morning, my first one in ages. And I spent the better part of half an hour on Tuesday scouring my room, emptying old purses, backpacks, digging in suitcase pockets, going under furniture and in couch cushions, desperately trying to scrounge up enough change to get my bagel.

And I did it.

I didn't manage enough for the bagel plus O.J., which is a total of $3, but I found enough for my bagel with cream cheese -- $1.25 -- and then some extra change to get apple juice out of the vending machine upstairs at work. It was a glorious breakfast, but the most glorious part was that the sweet, sweet Bagel Man said "Welcome back!" when he saw me, as if I'd been gone on vacation.

Oh, Bagel Man. How I had missed you.


cheers,
elizabeth