Memoir Assignment [Workshop Draft] - Barry('s) Pizza Bagels and the Wonders of Toaster Ovens

The Westgate Shopping Center in Ann Arbor, just a few minutes' drive from my house, was an integral part of my childhood. There sits Play It Again Sports, which for most of my childhood was the first (and usually only) place to go to find any piece of equipment for soccer, baseball, and rollerblading. Just a few doors down from that is Learning Express, the kind of toy store that's fun to visit even if you don't buy anything (although it's that much more fun if you do). Nestled in the corner is the branch of the Ann Arbor Public Library where I first discovered Tintin and the works of Garth Nix, and where I learned how a copy machine works. Practically next door is Nicola's Books, a nationally recognized independent bookstore from which much of my own collection is drawn.

Finally, next to Nicola's is Barry Bagels (or Barry's Bagels, as I called (and still call) it, because apparently even as a child I was good at pattern recognition and not so good at reality recognition). According to their online menu, Barry Barry's Bagels (it turns out calling it Barry Bagels makes me physically uncomfortable) has nineteen bagel flavors, and I'm sure most, maybe even all of them, are quite tasty. They also have an assortment of muffins and cookies, and the types of bagel-based sandwiches one would expect to see, and I'm sure many of these are also fairly appetizing. The truth is, though, that I've only gotten one thing at Barry's that I remember: the Pizza Bagel.

The Pizza Bagel is much as you would expect it to be: a plain bagel topped with pizza sauce and pepperoni, and covered in mozzarella (and I mean covered; I defy you to find an inch of exposed bagel). It was not the most high-quality creation. I'm sure if I had one now I would be sorely disappointed. But it was pizza...on a bagel. What's not to love?

Besides, the Pizza Bagel was not just food – not at Barry's Bagels, anyway. See, the Pizza Bagel, by its very nature, takes longer to make than other sandwiches. That means a kid ordered a Pizza Bagel at the cost of having to wait that much longer for their food, and kids are not generally fond of waiting. Fortunately, Barry's had a design feature that satisfied both the impatient and the curious, and turned the Pizza Bagel into an experience.

After getting my side (Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips) and a drink (Crush or root beer in a glass bottle), I would set them down at the table and head towards the back of the restaurant. Here, a couple of wide, shallow steps led up to large window. This window didn't look outside, though. It looked into the kitchen. Sure, I had to wait longer to get my bagel – but I got to watch them make it.

The combination of the (at the time) endlessly fascinating bagel-making process and pizza quickly made the Pizza Bagel one of my favorite foods. One day, when I was maybe ten years old and had not yet realized that the Pizza Bagel was largely indistinguishable from the styrofoam container it came in, I requested a trip to Barry's Bagels for lunch. My mom, knowing that Barry's Bagels meant a Pizza Bagel, and apparently not having any errands to covertly add on to the trip to make it worthwhile, let me know that if I wanted a pizza bagel, she could just make one for me. I was somewhat skeptical, but willing to go along with her for the moment.

My mom took a bagel from the freezer (no doubt from the higher-quality Bruegger's Bagels, a legitimately apostrophied chain that started in New York), warmed it up a bit in the microwave, put on pizza sauce and pepperoni, and pieces of string cheese, which I was amazed to find out was made from mozzarella. She stuck it in the toaster oven for fifteen or twenty minutes, and since the little window on the front of it was decidedly less impressive than the one at Barry's, I grabbed a book and settled down on the couch. When the bagel was cooked, cooled, and ready to eat, not knowing what to expect, I took a bite. It was delicious.

The homemade pizza bagel opened up a whole new world for me. It was so easy that I could make it myself, and pretty soon I began to wonder what else I could turn into a pizza. Tortilla got cooked in the grease it soaked up from the pepperoni, making it extra crispy. Sandwich rounds were a little smaller, a good snack option. Challa bread added a sweetness to the pizza, while matzoh was made surprisingly edible, if a little messy; both had the added flavor of irony, as pepperoni and cheese is decidedly not kosher.

In addition to my pizzafication explorations, I discovered that the toaster oven was a much better alternative to the microwave. Hot Pockets, Chinese food leftovers, and of course leftover pizza all tasted at least twice as good coming from the toaster oven than they did from the microwave. This new affinity for the toaster oven also provided me with new avenues to follow in my quest to prove that anything could be turned into a sandwich (which is, perhaps, the subject of another essay). Most importantly, the small toaster oven was not nearly as frightening as the gaping, sweltering maw of the full-sized oven, and I figured out that I could put the food in even before pre-heating, which, while it meant that I didn't have to go near the toaster oven while it was on, had the added benefit of making the food take less time to cook.

I have since expanded my culinary abilities beyond the small realm of the toaster oven. I've cooked (and over cooked) eggs and burgers, pasta and pancakes, sausage and even oatmeal that doesn't come in a package. Having spent seven weeks over the summer in  a cabin without electricity (or running water), I am now proficient at cooking with a gas stove, even if I feel like it's going to explode every time I use it. But I'm still too scared of ovens to go anywhere near them when their on, and whenever I want to make some kind of pizza, I go to the toaster oven, and watch through the little window as one of the most delicious foods imaginable comes into being.