Maybe it’s the wood-burning oven. Maybe it’s the giant mass of white dough on the back counter endlessly being cut and hand-rolled. Whatever it is, there’s something romantic about St. Viateur Bagel. Late night visits make it all the more so, especially when you snack on the piping hot bagels all the way home. In Montreal, bagels are not just breakfast: they’re dessert, lunch, dinner, or post-dinner treats. And in Montreal, bagels are not just food–they define this city.

My somewhat educated guess leads me to believe Montreal bagels are closer to the Old Country ‘baygelach’ our ancestors noshed on. They’ve been around in Montreal for at least one hundred years (the equally good Fairmont Bagel claims to be the original), and as far as I know, the recipe has not changed much. The magic emerges out of a heady combination of the wood-burning oven, sweet Montreal tap water, and a bit of honey or sugar (or maybe even rosewater - no one knows for sure) in the hot water in which they are boiled first. As a kid, the bagels seemed almost besides the point (the raw dough the bakers bestowed upon me made for excellent balls with bounce, plus it tasted good). The sesame smothered confections were taken for granted — just normal food to a Montreal youngen — not hallowed material of the gods. But after having lived in other cities with pitiful excuses for bagels (I won’t name any cities such as Toronto or New York), I realized a long time ago Montreal’s is the only bagel worth eating. And now that I’m back here for a bit, oh the joy in not having to buy five dozen at a time, not having to smuggle them over the border, and not having to create architectural wonders out of my freezer. Oh the joy in ordering just half a dozen. I’ll be back for more. Tomorrow.