Tag Archives: food

Bagelicious – just another sandwich shop

Over the summer, I saw ‘coming soon’ signs for a new place to eat on Smithdown Road, near Dafna’s Cheesecake Factory, that I thought might offer something a little different from the usual takeaway sandwich shop. Namely, bagels. Called ‘Bagelicious’, it promised bagels, paninis, the usual variety of coffee drinks, etc.

I should have realised the sign above their door announcing said “bagel’s” was a warning to be heeded.

Now, I’m probably a little luckier than most Americans who didn’t grow up in the New York metropolitan area, because I was familiar with bagels from an early age. Every Saturday after ballet lessons (which I enjoyed despite my total lack of grace or rhythm) we would go to Bageland, the bagel bakery in Murray Hill, one of Pittsburgh’s Jewish neighborhoods. Strictly takeout, there were 6, maybe 8, flavors of bagels. Plain, sesame seed, onion, poppy seed. Cinnamon raisin was the only sweetened variety available (and I’ve debated with another baking friend whether or not it counts as a ‘proper’ bagel flavour; she says no). They were fresh from the oven and exactly what a bagel should be; chewy inside with a perfectly thin, shiny crust on the outside. I don’t even feel right calling it a crust, because that implies a flaky crumbliness that it doesn’t have; it’s more like a skin, because of boiling the bagel dough briefly before baking them, which seals it.

This was long before the chains of Bruegger’s and Einstein Bros came along to introduce bagels to middle America. Before flavors like asiago cheese and blueberry were sat along side the plain and the cinnamon raisin. Though Bageland is sadly long gone, I was lucky enough to live in New York for a few months after graduating and experience some gorgeous (and frankly, enormous) bagels and shmears from Ess-a-Bagel. So I admit, my standards are probably unfairly high.

That said, if you’re going to make bagels a cornerstone of your brand, then for the love of cream cheese, the least you can do is sell actual bagels. Not barms/baps/sandwich buns with a hole poked in the middle. That is what we were served yesterday, with a fairly average choice of catering pack sandwich fillings available. And since they were still packaged in the wrap of the wholesale bakery from whence they came, I now know exactly which company to thank for making a product that was far less authentic and palatable than the Tesco brand bagel I had for my breakfast that morning. Cheers for making decidedly average supermarket bagels look downright appealing.

Still, I can see it doing well among students who can’t be bothered to walk to Oomoo. The exposed brick walls, wooden tables and brown leather seats are attractive enough, and free wi-fi is meant to be available, though we didn’t test it out.

I’m as disappointed in the lowest-common-denominator approach to food and the wasted chance to stand out and provide something not widely available in this city as much as the mis-selling of their key product. If you do bother going to Bagelicious, save yourself the letdown and skip the bagels.

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Paris, September 2008

We arrived on Sunday morning (this would be Sept 27) and it was sunny and reasonably warm. We’d agreed to meet my dad and his wife at the Centre Pompidou, which is the main museum of modern and contemporary art, and it is *massive*. We had a coffee, then put our bags in the cloakroom before heading to the top floor for lunch in the rooftop restaurant. It was a bit hazy, but there were some excellent views of Paris to be had. The food was good, expensive for what it was, but you’re paying more for the view than anything else. Stepmother behaved herself fairly well, and only made a few obnoxious comments (one about modern/contemporary art being ‘weird’).

After lunch we split up and A. and I had a wonder around the permanent collection. There were some familiar friends, such as the Matisses and Picassos. I think they change the displays fairly regularly, as there are 60,000 items in the permanent collection. I can’t imagine how challenging it must be to display a representative sample of them all the time.

A new feature since my last visit (which would have been at least 6 years ago) was Andre Breton’s studio reassembled along a gallery wall. I remembered reading about it going up for auction in 2003, and I’m glad it was kept all together for the public to see. It’s a pretty crazy collection of stuff, but there are so many key pieces of Surrealism, including several Marcel Duchamp items, it was really fascinating to see them all in one place.

After a stroll outside to see the Fontaine Stravinsky, one of my favourite works of contemporary art, we all took the metro back to the hotel, which was a tidy little one in the 7th arrondissement, relatively near Les Invalides and the Eiffel Tower. Dad and stepmother were at odds about organising the luggage and taking it to the restaurant and departing from there for Orly airport. Dad thought they should come back to the hotel to collect it, she thought it should go with them so they’d have enough time to eat. For once she was right, but I had to sort of shut them both out while they were debating this in the most awkward way possible. Eventually the luggage was retrieved and the taxi phoned while A. and I got changed.

Dinner was truly a sublime affair. She had picked the restaurant out of an old Fodor’s guide, and it was one of the best meals I have ever had. Yes, that includes Claridge’s in June. Le Bamboche is small, with maybe a dozen tables in two rooms. The owner, Serge (I later learned his name), looked after us incredibly well, explaining the dishes with just enough detail to convey the care taken with the food, but not in a patronising way at all. I was a bit uncertain as to what to order when there was no chicken main course, forget vegetarian, so I went with the sole. My food scruples are lax enough that I chose the assortment of foie gras, which included a foie gras ice cream. It was delicious, and the fact that we’re getting into Heston Blumenthal levels of experimentation gives you some clue as to the price tag.

The sole arrived wrapped around a dried cranberry and was glazed with a cranberry relish alongside dollops of sweet potato puree topped with caramelised fennel. It was so good, I made A. try some. He who does not eat fish said it was pretty good and not fishy tasting, which is high praise from him.

Dad and stepmother had to leave after their main course. They were supposed to ask for a taxi to be called for 8pm, but neither of them said anything to the owner (her: ‘Blair, why don’t you ask him to phone a taxi?’ my thoughts: ‘If you’re so bothered, do it yourself.’) Finally at 7.40 I said something to Serge, who was understandably a bit peeved, but phoned for it and brought their main courses first. Dad very kindly paid before he left, so we were free to enjoy the rest of our meal at leisure, which we did.

Dessert was a tough decision, but I went for the cheese board, which consisted of 4 different goats cheeses. They’re all made by one family, who actually produce ten varieties, but four seemed like a good number to introduce the range of ages and flavours. The first one was a creamy young cheese, and they got progressively more mature. The second one was perfect in terms of flavour and texture. Simply the best chevre I’ve ever had. I asked afterwards if they were available from any fromageries. Serge’s reply: ‘Non. They only sell to restaurants and certain customers. What you just ate, that is Sarkozy’s goat’s cheese. But if you give me warning next time you are here, I can order it for you.’ I tremble to think how much it costs, but it was amazing.

A. chose the ‘sweet dainties’, looking forward to the surprise of not knowing what he was going to get. It turned out to be three small chocolate gateaux and tortes. I can’t remember the first, the second was an Opera torte of six layers, and the third was like a miniature chocolate sponge with chocolate sauce in the centre. For those in the UK who have seen the M&S advert with that type of cake oozing the chocolate sauce in the money shot, *that’s* what this cake was. He was kind enough to share with me and all three were just divine.

Serge looked after us so well and the food was so good that we would definitely go back. A. had been skeptical of Paris and Parisians, but Serge was genuinely friendly and chatted with us about England and food and wine that I think A. was won over. We’re going to have to save up (we ordered a second bottle of wine that ended up costing 48 euros, by far the most expensive thing we bought in Paris, but it was quality) but it’s worth every penny. We strolled back to the hotel absolutely stuffed, passing Les Invalides and watching the ever changing light display on the Eiffel Tower.

Monday morning we began our walking tour of Paris, not by design, but because we discovered that virtually every museum we would have considered visiting was closed. Except the Centre Pompidou. So we walked towards the Louvre by way of the Tuileries. A. was gobsmacked to see how big it really was. It might have been open, but I didn’t want to see it this time around. You need most of a day to see a fraction of it in reasonable time, so it will wait for another trip. Across a bridge and carrying on along the Seine, we headed for Ile de la Cite as A. had wanted to see Notre Dame. It had probably been twelve years since I was last there, and the scaffolding had come off that I recalled. It was definitely cleaner too. The rose windows are still stunning, but A. ended up not being terribly impressed in the end. We had arrived during Mass as well, so we tried to keep out of the way of the service. I had thought about going to Sainte-Chapelle, as I love the stained glass in that so much, but it was €7.50 and we were trying not to spend too much. Next time hopefully.

Back across the river towards Beauborg, we stopped to pick up lunch at a boulangerie and walked through the Marais. I decided I wanted to see Place des Vosges again and it was a nice enough day to eat outside, though a bit chilly in the shade. A. fed the birds crumbs from his sandwich and was impressed by how close they came to us, cheeky buggers. 😉 We walked all the way back to Centre Pompidou, desperate for a loo, then had a coffee while we figured out our next move. A. had mentioned going to Montmartre, and as I’d had leftover metro tickets from yesterday, this seemed like a good plan. I’d never really spent any time there, and we figured we could go into Sacre Coeur and make a little Amelie tour of sorts.

We made our way up the hill from the metro stop. It was a bit of climb, but not as strenous as climbing the dome at Sacre Coeur. We had very little company once we reached the top, a few people were there but left soon after we arrived. We sat on a narrow bench against the stone wall, looking out over the city. A pair of buskers started playing, familiar guitar chords, and I said ‘that sounds like Oasis.’ And it was…so we sang Wonderwall to each other high above the heads of those watching the performance below.

We made our way down and went through the crypt, which was kind of creepy in places. Descending along the winding paths at a much slower pace than Nino trying to get to his motorbike, we paused at the carousel so I could take a picture, though maybe next time I’ll actually ride it. 😉 Walking through Montmartre, it’s got really lovely bits and really tacky touristy bits. We picked up a baguette for dinner later and then stopped at a restaurant that had crepes for me. The waiter made fun of A’s flustered attempts to speak French but that was our only, very minor, incident of anglophobia. 😛 We got some goat’s cheese to go with the baguette and biscuits to take into work the next day. We’d discovered on the map that there was an Avenue Rachel nearby, so we walked past and saw the Moulin Rouge as well. I think I prefer the film version to what it is now.

Our flight wasn’t until late, so we had plenty of time to get to CDG airport. Which was good, because it felt like it took forever, between an extended metro ride and a long queue to get tickets at Gare du Nord, which is the largest and possibly most confusing train station I’ve ever been through. We got there in the end, very tired, but having enjoyed ourselves.

If you are still reading, I give you a round of applause and a cookie. :^)

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