Here’s what I thought this story was going to be. . . what I had been told: The only place in Providence to buy a decent bagel is the coffee shop in the train station because they are brought in daily from New York City (which is the only place on earth where they know how to make bagels I am told). I had even pictured an elderly Jewish man — let’s call him Izzy Mandelbaum — schlepping boxes of bagels in the early morning darkness to the train so that the people of Providence could get themselves a proper bagel.
Here’s what I found: The bagels are made in New York City, but are brought in once a week by a Massachusetts food distributor, frozen — so, no Izzy.
But (and this is where the story gets good again) behind the counter is of all things a transplanted Kentuckian. Danny (seen here kvelling) moved here five years ago and has this lovely mellifluous drawl that makes everything sound better, and if he says the bagels are excellent I believe him. (Next time don’t send the shiksa on the bagel story — I’m more of a crumpet gal myself.)