The Saving Grace of Siegel’s Bagels < The Happy Monk Baking Company

Years ago, when I couldn’t sleep, long after midnight, I’d drive into the big city. It was strangely peaceful, alone in the car, a talk radio station playing quietly, the long road stretching out before me. I found it soothing and a welcome break from tossing and turning in bed.

Well, I admit there was also a little loneliness and sadness at the root of it. And being out on the road, heading into the metropolis, was a welcome respite and exciting distraction.

I’d cross the inlet over the Lions Gate Bridge from the North Shore, down the deserted Stanley Park causeway, round a curve and slam into Vancouver, rising like a bright wall in the night.

Big city, bright lights

What a sight! A landscape of buildings, glass and light. Towers of luminescent offices and apartment buildings, traffic lights and street lamps, flashing signs and illuminated billboards. My focus was on the road ahead, but my eyes darted everywhere: at the restaurants and coffee shops along Robson Street, laughing, roaring groups emerging from bars, a man dancing like a monkey through a crosswalk, a couple paused in front of a frame shop.

Sometimes I’d park near a busy intersection and walk a few blocks along the street, allowing myself to be swept along with the tide of people. Grocery stores were busy as ever and much more interesting than in the daylight hours. Loud music pumping out of the Fresgo Inn on Davie, and the nightclubs, I’ve forgotten all the names. Rohan’s Rockpile? Oil Can Harry’s? The Cave? The Luvafair?

In the summertime, a posse of motorcycles might explode through an entire block, their deafening roar amplified by and echoing off the buildings either side of the street. And ambulances, fire trucks and police cars. It was loud, all the sights and sounds, the people, the clatter, taking me far away from that dark room back home.

And quieting.

How bizarre!

These trips wouldn’t last long. Soon enough, I’d look for something to eat, take it back to the car and listen to music while I ate.

“Pele preaches words of comfort,
Zina just hides her eyes.
Policeman taps his shades and says,
‘That a Chevy ‘69?’
How bizarre! How bizarre, how bizarre!” 1

My favourite place was Siegel’s Bagels in a little strip mall off Cornwall Avenue and Cypress Street. South of False Creek, far side of the Burrard St. Bridge.

At 3 a.m., there weren’t too many customers, but the bagel makers were working hard. Pounding out those bagels!

Bagels by the hundreds

If you timed it right, you’d see hundreds of them being pulled from the brick wood-fired oven. They’d come out on longboards (20 feet?), on which they’d been baked. The baker would raise the board from the oven, then skilfully tip them backwards into large stainless-steel trays.

They’d cool there for half an hour, then some were loaded into display cases. And you’d step up and have to choose two or three or four, maybe one of each. Sesame, poppy seed, onion, multigrain, everything. And revel! I’d get a bag of them, all warm, all unadorned with fixings, and a Jones Soda, and head back to the car.

These were authentic Montreal Bagels, the real deal. Compared to the New York-style bagel, they’re smaller, thinner, with a hint of sweetness. The hole’s more prominent, too, and the crumb’s a little chewier. However, St. Viateur aficionados (a famous Montreal bagelry) might have a few quibbles with them.

The real deal

I’ve had New York bagels and have enjoyed the tradition behind them, the braggadocio, but for me, the Montreal style’s the way they oughta be! The real deal.

And Siegel’s Bagels at 3 a.m. was the peak experience for me. (Siegels is still there, and well worth a visit, a Vancouver institution. They used to operate at the Granville Island Market, but I haven’t been there for a few years!)

I’d head back through the city, and by the time I’d hit the Lions Gate Bridge again, my tummy was full, and the bagels were happy memories. All the ghosts and barking dogs were far behind me.

I’d park the car, tiptoe through the house and crawl into bed. And I’d stare into the darkness, a tune running through my head.

“How bizarre! How bizarre!”

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Big city, bright lights

How bizarre!

Bagels by the hundreds

The real deal

happymonkbaking

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