27/05/2026
Ey up!
I've barked on and on about our drinks and tapas so much recently I feel I've neglected one of my first borns!
So to show I still love the classics that made it through from our Deli days here's an obnoxious, overly wordy love letter to my immovable little hero....
The New Yorker Bagel:
Upon the first heavy lift into the hand, this satisfying, weighty anomaly displays a robust, structural integrity. This isn't some airy, delicate French pastry designed for people who count calories; it’s a weaponized carbohydrate. The vessel—a beautifully pillowy, golden-crusted soft bagel—offers an immediate tactile promise of yeast-forward luxury. It sits heavy, suggesting excellent aging (or at least, excellent proofing).
Immediate, aggressive notes of baseline American mustard strike the olfactory senses first, closely chased by the briny, acidic whisper of dill gherkins. It’s sharp, it's confident, and it refuses to apologize for waking up your sinus cavity. It’s the culinary equivalent of a slap in the face at 6:00 AM on a hot Tuesday, and frankly, you deserve it.
On the attack, one is struck by the opulent, velvety layers of wafer-thin pastrami beef. This is not a subtle meat; it dominates the mid-palate with a rich, peppery spice, artfully balanced by the bright, high-acidity crunch of sliced tomatoes and the refreshing, crisp minerality of lettuce. The lettuce and tomato are really just there to provide a thin veneer of respectability, a polite nod to nutrition before the pastrami completely takes over your soul.
Long, lingering, and unashamedly messy. A structural flaw in the architecture means a high probability of a mustard-drip on your favorite shirt, giving this particular wedge of heaven a delightfully chaotic finish. If you leave the table without yellow stains on your cuffs and a profound sense of existential guilt, you’re doing it wrong.
An audacious, full-bodied masterpiece that completely lacks elegance but makes up for it in pure, unadulterated swagger. Pair with a paper napkin, a cold drink, and a complete lack of shame. It’s beautiful, it’s brutal, and it’s exactly what the doctor ordered—assuming your doctor has given up on you.
Sithee!
