“I want the full report!” Dusty texted me after I told him that I was heading to Brooklyn Water Bagel in Beverly Hills. For one reason or another I was never able to enter the hallowed bagel eatery. It had been my white whale. But ‘Call me Ishmael’ I was finally going in. Countless friends had been imploring me to try these bagels which were reputed to be the finest rounds in the LA area. The irony is that Dusty had stopped eating bagels – ‘no carbs Scotty!’ I miss the days when we would share photos of our baker’s dozen – so proud of our haul and the envy between us that would ensue. Dusty’s a big guy; tall and broad-shouldered, and when he comes in for a hug, I feel like he can drop-kick me like a rugby ball. I once tried on his trucker hat after he set it on the chaise before plunging into the pool. The cap dropped down past my eyes, past my ears, all the way to down to my chin. I briefly felt like the baby dressed only in a diaper who puts a bucket over his head and starts walking into walls and furniture. Dusty likes black – draped head to toe – shirt, pants, shoes, jacket, socks, watch, phone, key chain, bandana, sunglasses, hat, and wallet. His entire car is black – including rims, grill, emblem, and windows. One time I was so excited to show him my very alpha male truck in black – and Dusty recommended that I tint the windows in black. “I’ve got a guy Scotty if you want it done.” Dusty always has a guy. He’s also a prodigious tipper. He tips everyone – no one is excluded from getting some “paper” from Dusty. One time we were on a business trip and after the driver dropped us off at the hotel, he tipped him generously. “Dusty, you know that gratuity is included with the service?” He didn’t care and gave me his paternal stare-down – “I know. But it’s cold, it’s late, and he works hard buddy.” End of conversation. I’m fairly certain that when I pay the check at our local diner, he deliberately stays a few steps behind me so he can furtively leave a cash tip on the table. The tough-guy exterior is more of a visage to mask Dusty’s sensitive core because he is one of the most tender-hearted people I know. Artistic, creative, well-read, culturally astute, generous both in spirit and materially, empathetic, funny, and a lifelong learner. And he’s a world class listener. The type of guy you want not only in your corner in dark alleys but in all corners of the world. So, I hope it doesn’t break his heart when I report that Brooklyn Water Bagel (BWB) produces very pedestrian bagels. Everything about the joint feels unoriginal and ersatz. The “Brooklyn” neon signs, the booths, the lighting, even the counter tops feel too polished and staged. I ordered a cinnamon raisin bagel toasted with strawberry jam on the side. I took a bite before schmearing – which gives me a more accurate read on a bagel’s bona fides. Meh. Mental notes included “trying too hard to replicate NY-style but falls short.” The cinnamon is not properly swirled in the mix, the dough tastes too smooth and dense, and the raisins are not melted evenly after toasting. The bagel density was solid – and the Perfect Bagel Bite (PBB) quotient was adequate, so was the boil/bake ratio. But something was missing – it was devoid of taste. I needed to do more research. So, I ordered a few “primary colors” to go – the main varietals of sesame, plain, everything, poppy, and onion and then headed back to my car and the home-office. My wife happened to be working from home that day as well. Naturally by the time I returned from my breakfast meeting she had colonized the home office and raised her flag. I ignored the ambush and flashed her the bag of Brooklyn Water Bagels while she was on a conference call pacing the room. After a few hours of emails and calls I was ready for lunch and a make-up date with BWB. My wife joined me in the kitchen. I cut her an everything while I selected a poppy. I “pressure-tested” the bagel before placing the rounds into the toaster. In other words, I took a bite of my poppy bagel before toasting. There was decent chew, but not enough tension was built when pulling my teeth away from the bagel. The bagel’s interior was again too smooth and viscous for my liking. When cutting a ‘real’ New York bagel, the dough should look and feel fluffy, delicate, and it should pill. Granted the pilling of your wool sweater is not a desirable outcome, but it is the ultimate compliment when describing the interior of your bagel after cutting it in half. After the toaster bell sounded, we schmeared our bagels with our favorite lunch delicacies. I spread spicy brown mustard, topped with Boar’s Head Oven Gold Turkey thinly sliced and thick cuts of Roma tomatoes layered on top with a few sprinkles of black pepper. My wife elected to schmear her everything bagel with a thick layer of tuna salad. We carried our lunch items back to the home office. And then we pounced. A few bites in we looked at each other with a similar expression of ambivalence. It read ‘good not great.’ I opened the floor by commenting “it has decent crunch, but the bagels don’t have much taste.” She looked at me, paused for a moment, wiped away some of the tuna salad that was caked on both sides of her face, and rested her half-eaten bagel back on the plate before finally speaking. And then she dropped what she thought was earth-shattering wisdom by positing, “do you think bagels are meant to be vessels?” She smiled broadly exposing tuna salad that blanketed every crevice between her teeth followed by an affirmative nod of her head – acting as if that display of Socratic knowledge was the ultimate mic drop as though she was Eminem’s character Rabbit in 8 Mile. I was aghast, and stretched my right arm as if I was warding off would-be tacklers, “I don’t know who you are anymore?” She recoiled, “what do you mean? It’s a good question, right?” I was piqued. “No! It’s a terrible question. Between you and Dusty, not everything is a lettuce wrap. A bagel is not a vessel, it’s your dance partner. A bagel is designed to complement and enhance the eating experience. It’s your Ginger Rogers to my Fred Astaire. Sure, individually they’re exceptional dancers, but together they’re legendary and magical.” My wife looked at me as though I was an alien. Eyebrows arched, and laughing maddingly, “did you just compare a bagel to Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire? You’ve really lost your mind Scotty.” I may have been guilty of hyperbole for that analogy, so I tried another approach. “Would you use the term ‘vessel’ to describe a bagel from Goldberg’s, Zabar’s, Utopia, or the Bagel Broker in such a manner?” My wife quickly and assuredly answered, “of course not. Those bagels are delicious!” I concluded my argument with the following moment of clarity, “so what you’re really saying is that Brooklyn Water Bagels suck.” She nodded in agreement. “I’m not sure I’d go so far as to say they suck, but they’re just very average since they have no taste.” Case closed. Sorry Dusty, there’s your full report.