Missoula Notebook

Yes, We Have No Bagels

By Sutton Stokes, 10-12-08

Sadly, it was not to be. Photo by Flickr user kasia/flickr. Some rights reserved.

First, and let’s just get this out in front of the public where it will do some good, Broadway Bagels is closed. The sign Amy and I found taped to the eatery’s front door at about 10:45 a.m. this (Sunday) morning stated “We regret that we are closed today, until we can get our oven fixed.”

The phrasing struck me as imprecise and perhaps even a little sinister, kind of like the announcements we keep hearing from the federal government about the financial crisis. Either you are closed today, or you are closed until you can get your oven fixed, but ovens are complex devices and it could conceivably take more than a day to fix one. Likewise, either we need to spend $700 billion buying distressed mortgage securities, or we need to nationalize the banks, but maybe next time you could make up your mind before giving the first panicky press conferences?

Normally I wouldn’t parse for meaning this way in a simple notice taped to a business’s door, much less compare an innocent bagel-shop owner to U.S. Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson, but this morning I was not feeling charitable toward anyone standing between me and a toasted sesame bagel full of eggs, swiss cheese, and bacon.

This was because Amy and I — upon spying the snow that was falling this morning — decided to sharpen our appetites and increase our eventual pleasure at sinking into plastic chairs inside a warm and cozy eatery by leaving the car at home and walking to the bagel shop from our house on the Westside, and the 15-minute journey had the desired effect. Having already slept in after a late night at the Union Club, our bellies felt empty indeed as we trudged through the wailing blizzard or flurry or whatever you call it, and our hunger and anticipation was so heightened by the time we arrived that at first we just couldn’t comprehend the bad news as we stood in front of the darkened establishment, staring at the morning paper still stuffed into the door handle.

But if Broadway Bagels hadn’t been closed, we wouldn’t have decided to walk on down to the Uptown Diner, and we wouldn’t have encountered the lone Japanese tourist, underdressed for the weather in a light windbreaker, who asked us in very broken English to take his picture standing with his back to the courthouse, so at least things worked out well for him and Amy and I were able to contribute in our small way to a deepening and strengthening of international good will.

Meanwhile, the downside of the Uptown Diner’s breakfast sandwich — that it comes on one of those hockey-puck-shaped bagels you buy by the plastic sackful at the supermarket — was more than made up for by the fact that it was possible to enjoy it with a side of golden-blonde french fries, which I’d been craving ever since seeing the first plateful of steak-style dished up from the Union Club food counter last night.

I missed my chance then, not realizing how late it was getting as I kept putting off placing my order until after the next round, and then the round after that, and so on, until suddenly I looked over and saw that the lights were off and the curtain had been pulled across the pass through.

Amy said I looked like I was going to cry, but no doubt that was just some smoke getting in my eye, or maybe it was some masterful emoting on a slow song by Bob Wire, who can apparently still tear it up on stage despite his torn up shoulder. (In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out not only that Bob is a fellow New West writer, but also that he paid me $72 to say I enjoyed his show.)

The weekend’s other big disappointment was the discovery that today’s edition of the comic strip Luann is a Sunday one-off, meaning that it doesn’t continue the action of the weekday strips so as not to mystify people who only get the Sunday paper. What this means is that I will now have to wait until Monday to see what happens next in the storyline that has been building to a, um, climax all week.

For those of you aren’t regular comics readers, the firefighters in young Brad’s station house decided to put out a “hot firefighter” calendar as a charity fundraiser (guess the 9-11 grants are drying up), and his colleague and love interest Toni Daytona is snapping the pictures.

Monday, we saw Brad, shirtless and buff under his turnout gear (guess those pushups he did two weeks ago paid off), grousing that “fighting a fire is way easier than this” as Toni fiddled with her light stands. On Tuesday, Brad was still feeling crotchety. “Aw, not having fun?” Toni asked. “I am.”

“That’s cuz you’re on the fun side of the camera, not standing here half naked,” snorted Brad.

“OK, let’s trade,” said Toni, causing Brad’s eyebrows (strangely bushy for a man with no chest hair) to climb nearly up to his hairline.

On Thursday, Toni — stripped down to her Nike sports bra and firefighting pants — was saying to Brad “you need to tell me what to do”; on Friday, Brad accidentally shot off 600 frames, so entranced was he by the vision of loveliness before him; and, by Saturday, both were shirtless (Toni still in her sports bra, natch) and posing together, with Toni looking at the camera and Brad looking somewhere else.

I think you can see why I was looking forward to finding out what happened next, and — especially — why I was hoping that things might come to a head in a nice full-color six- or eight-paneler. But I wouldn’t be the first to point out that we don’t always get what we want.

And at least now I have a good reason for getting out of bed tomorrow, even if I’m not holding out hope for a bagel.

Update: If you want to call Broadway Bagels before going down there yourself, the number is (406) 728-8900.

Update to the update: As of 8:19 a.m. Monday morning, Broadway Bagels was open. However, the oven was still broken, and only a limited variety of bagels were available.

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