bialy (print the legend)

Pulling another 14-hour day, I began a batch of bialys at 2AM out of sheer desperation. Anything that was not on a computer felt so liberating - flour and water, salt and yeast. It was late, and as I copied files, trotting back and forth from the desk to the kitchen, the dough came together, wet and sticky, fragrant and slowly bouncy. Every twenty minutes I folded it over on itself, as it rose in the bowl, tucked under a fabric hat decorated with lemons, a distant relative of some old lady’s shower cap. The dough is measured out, 3 ounces to each ball, rolled tight against the counter, rested on a sheet pan. Normally I make them at night and leave them out in the cold on the balcony, then cook them early the next morning. But tonight, working until the sun rises, I find myself preheating the oven, answering hectic emails and making last-minute fixes to the job that will not end, and here are the bialys-to-be being pressed down in the middle, trying to make that telltale indent, now being placed on the hot steel plate that dangles in the middle of stove, and I watch them grow through the glass. The indents surrender so quickly and they are growing into round buns with just the trace of a belly button, a curious twisted navel where the dent should be. My game needs work.

I cook them ten minutes, and then an extra three. They need to be crisp, almost burnished. As they cool, they grow tender, as everything falls into the right place.

And here they are, staring back at me from the counter as the sky grows bright at the edges, as I sign off from work, and roll into bed with bits of dough stuck to the hair on my arms, smelling that smell of fresh bialy, knowing they will be breakfast whenever I wake up.

When I was a native New Yorker, I often ate three bialys and a coffee at the start of each day, gobbling them down and sipping as I walked to work. No butter on them, nothing. And always in a brown paper bag - it kept them warm, but let them stay crisp. I would wander down to Grand Street and Kossar’s the way animals migrate, the way magnets attract other magnets. There was no other path to take. The store was a great dark space then, with one light bulb hanging in a haze of flour and the smell of slow-cooked onions drifed around your head like a flock of birds. The counter was raw, unpainted wood, and you always paid cash. I remember the brash chime of the register, and that magic little brown bag, a nod, a knowing smile, a few stray words. It was a reachable mecca and like any young person, I took them for granted. The fact that they are still open today is an absolute miracle.

I miss bialys more than bagels. As similar as they may be, they are worlds apart. They both have their place in life, but I will choose a bialy every single time.

They originate from Bialystock, Poland and came to the states as a staple from Polish Jews before and after World War Two. The shape and size changed, the toppings changed, but something significant remained. That telltale indent has many origin stories. My favorite involves a worker dropping one of those dough balls on the kitchen floor, and the boss steps on it without realizing. The baker sees the great dent made by the boss’s heel and fills it with onions, hiding the problem and creating a beloved result. Is it true? Impossible to know, and the convenience of this scenario speaks to a wild and convenient imagination, but as we do so often these days, we print the legend and move on.

Let it be the reason.

The dent is not just filled with onions, but some breadcrumbs as well. I finally learned that these breadcrumbs are simply leftover bialys from the day before, ground up and going to good use. This thriftiness is at the heart of so many great dishes. That Sicilain classic, pasta con le sarde comes to mind. Garlic bialys are scattered with poppy seeds so the people at the sales counter can easily tell them apart from the onion ones. Those signature poppy seeds are there to help you buy the right one, not for taste.

The next day, I wake up around 1 in the afternoon, and the house is empty. I have a vague memory, in the middle of the night telling N that I actually cooked them, and that she should bring some to relatives she and V will be with today. I look at the pile on the counter, and I think she did bring some.

And then, I get a message from her cousin G. He is crazy for them. “I am eating them and I want more and more.” He says. My heart jumps, being part of this equation. There are few things in this world that have the power of a recipe, to create good. With the crudest ingredients you can travel thousands of miles, visiting a museum with your tongue and teeth. It never grows old or ceases to amaze me. It is no wonder I would rather be a chef these days.

I tell him some stories about them. They were once so common, but now they exist like an endangered species, and I am an accidental Darwin today, with bits of dough still stuck to the hair on my arms, as the sun climbs, and the air is cold, as coffee is brewed and sipped in silence, my bare feet slapping across the floor, now chewing on one of them, as simple as it gets, crusty and tender, chewy and yielding, salty enough, a residue of flour painting across my fingers and I am both here and back on Grand Street on the Lower East Side and anything seems possible.