Bergen Bagel, mi amor...

My obsession with carbs is not a new development. In eighth grade health class* we had a homework assignment that involved reading an account of what a fictional someone had eaten in a day and identifying what was wrong with that person’s diet. The person who ate chocolate cake for breakfast or the person who ate fried food at every meal was a no-brainer, but I recall looking at the one who ate pancakes for breakfast, a potato for lunch and pasta for dinner and thinking, “What’s wrong with that?”

Nothing is more enabling for the carb-obsessed than marathon training. It is the perfect cover while snarfing down great quantities of noodles, which is exactly what I have been doing, probably more than is strictly necessary. What is necessary is a carb-heavy diet the day before the marathon (it helps you finish faster and in less pain—I swear I am not making this up), which has led to my elaborate fantasies of what exactly I am going to eat for each meal this Saturday before I run the New York marathon on Sunday. And as I was constructing this ideal New York carb triptych, I realized that I haven’t written much about two of the three places I had in mind, which seems utterly unjust, an oversight that I should rectify.

I. New Yorkers tend to be very opinionated about their bagels, but for me, there’s really not much of a contest when it comes to where I’ll be eating breakfast on Saturday. Bergen Bagels are everything bagels should be: dense, chewy, flavorful, slathered with cream cheese, and without a chip on their shoulders about being toasted. Not that long ago, Bergen Bagel opened a third location just a couple blocks from my house, and, no joke, I consider this one of the highlights of the past year.

II. For lunch, I think I’ll mosey over to Manhattan where, in the realm of sandwiches, Parisi Bakery in Little Italy reigns supreme. One of the first times I was analyzing Jason’s fiction, one of my comments went something like, “Why is this scene here? Nothing really happens except this guy eating a sandwich…” To which Jason responded, “I know, but I really just wanted to write about Parisi sandwiches.” I can’t really blame him. It’s the kind of old school Italian deli (really old school–it’s been family operated since 1903) where the size of the sandwiches still makes my jaw drop. The towers of meat and cheese are impressive, but the bread is delicious, too—an essential part of the whole rather than an afterthought.

III. Dinner will be at home, but don’t think I’m rolling the pasta myself. Regular readers will already know about Caputo’s, the Italian grocery extraordinaire, where I will be stocking up on fresh pasta and sauce for Saturday’s final hurrah. I suppose I’ll have a salad on the side, but I’ll try not to overdo it on the non-carbs. And then I will drift off to sleep and, buoyed on carb-filled dreams, will think not at all of running.

*A food blog is hardly the proper place for this, but I would feel remiss if I did not mention that I had the best eighth grade health teacher on the face of the planet. If there is anyone out there who knows me personally who has not heard the placenta-in-the-closet story, you should call me right now.