HemingwayInOly ..
Yelp
The air smelled like morning and bread. Not the soft kind. Not the kind that forgets itself. This was bagel bread -- tough, proud, shaped by hand and boiled before the bake. The kind that knew where it came from. You could taste the East Coast in it. Even this far west, it still held.
They didn't talk much behind the counter. They worked. Fast hands, quiet focus. The folks behind the scenes moved dough the way old fishermen mend nets -- not hurried, but certain. There's no shortcut to it. Just flour, water, salt, yeast. That's it. The same simple things anyone has. But what came out of that storefront was not simple. It was something better. Something earned.
The outside cracked when you bit it. Not brittle. Just enough crunch to wake you up. The inside pulled -- warm, dense, honest. It gave your teeth something to work on, like a proper fight.
And the schmeers -- God. They didn't hold back. Scallion sharp and clean. Lox rich as memory. Toppings that hit you just late enough to notice. You don't need ten kinds. You need them done right. They were.
Made me think of mornings in France -- not the showy patisseries, but the quiet ones. The ones where the baker's been up since dark, folding dough while the city still sleeps. Mastery looks the same on both sides of the ocean. It doesn't shout. It just shows up, fresh and hot, and dares you to find fault.
Sixth Borough doesn't pretend to be something it's not. It's a bagel shop. A real one. The kind that remembers where it started. The kind that knows how to do a few things well, and does them every damn day.
That's enough for me.