Behold my sandwich from Bagel Hole in Park Slope. Mmm… mayo.

Since it took seemingly forever to make, I busied myself by reading the obligatory PR wall. Every bagel store in New York seems to have a wall like this, featuring articles in all sorts of NYC papers about why their particular style of bagel is the tastiest or most authentic. What’s hilarious is that even though each store makes a different bagel, there’s always at least one posted article claiming that this store’s specimen is the best. Which consequently means there have been, like, thousands of articles written about bagels. Which is funny. Bagel journalism is certainly one of the more democratic sub-fields. I should go into chips journalism. I’d be a hit.

Anyway, I learned all about how and why Bagel Hole’s bagels were harder, denser, and smaller than other NYC bagels-come-lately. Good to know, I guess, but mostly I just wanted to avoid eye contact with the three bored employees behind the counter staring at me like they’d never seen a giant girl wearing a bandana before. Dudes. It’s called refusing to shower just to go to the bagel store/hole. Get used to it.

So I was intrigued by what I assumed would be a tiny little bagel sandwich. I unwrapped it and thought was plenty big. Right? But the issue here is that lettuce. Would you look at that beautifully shredded lettuce? You could lose yourself in a delighted counting exercise of those shreds. I did.

What a glorious surprise. I love lettuce like this. It makes you supremely aware that you’re eating lettuce. That someone took the time to grate teeeeny strips of lettuce for your sandwich. That you’re a genius for ordering it in the first place. Clean and crisp. LETTUCE!

Or maybe that’s just me.

For fun, try singing “1-800 L-E-T-T-U-C-E” like those women from Jersey (I’m assuming) who sing “1-800 M-A-T-T-R-E-S” in the mattress commercial.

I didn’t really need to specify “in the mattress commercial.” It was just to prove to you that I know how to spell mattress, even if the jingle doesn’t.

(The runner-up title for this post was “DR hits an all-time low.”)

Note to bakers: Any dessert product more than an inch thick and consisting largely of yellow cake… is not a cookie. It can’t be, because it has already committed itself to being cake. No take-backs! You can’t be a cookie once you are a cake. I’m sorry.

I understand that it’s fun for people to write, sell, order, or just say out loud the name “black and white cookie,” because the dessert is a longstanding New York City/Seinfeld fetish object and, in theory, delicious. Like any other hack, I started ordering them in every deli I entered as soon as I moved here three years ago. They never tasted as good as Jerry made them sound, but I thought if I got different ones from better places, the problem would work itself out. I never found a perfect one — in fact, since I started eating them again a few weeks ago, I’ve been mostly shocked and disappointed.

My main problem is the thickness. The B&W C is different at most delis/bakeries, so you never know how thick yours will come out. You usually have to order it having only seen it lying face-up behind glass. That thing could be anything! ANYTHING! Usually it’s a black and white cake. Once I got a black and white cake and a spider. (This did not deter me from returning, because I really liked, and still like, that place’s bagel sandwiches.)

In college, my friend Kate used to lower her voice whenever she ordered the Boston Beef panini sandwich, one of the finer offerings at our esteemed “Hillside Cafe” dining hall. She confided in me (which turned out to be a not-so-hot idea, as I’m in the process of outing her) that she’d always start the order off in her usual boisterous, upbeat voice and then self-consciously taper off when she got to the part about the meat: “I’LL HAVE A boston beef.” This delighted me to no end, and I’d constantly ask her to repeat it for me. Sometimes she’d even type it out like that over IM, which wasn’t as awesome but still pretty funny. What a good friend.

Likewise, in the delis, I’ve taken to saying “I’LL HAVE A BLACK AND WHITE cookie,” not really wanting to say the word “cookie” but knowing that the person will be confused or think I’m a smartass if I call it anything else. I’d love to, but I’d probably not have the energy to request “that thing that everyone calls a cookie but is totally a cake… I mean, do you know what I mean? Don’t you ever just want to scream at customers that it’s actually cake? DON’T YOU?” I never say this — because I’m guessing they really don’t.

I just think if they’re going to sell black and white cake, they should call it that. And they should also make a real black and white cookie that’s half an inch thick or less and chewy instead of crumbly and flaky. Cookies are chewy. I don’t know if you guys got the memo.

Right? If they sold both, everyone would be satisfied, and people like me who are thrilled by the black and white dessert’s general existence would be in heaven. We’d get to choose! Because maybe you’re in the mood for cake. I don’t know, and I don’t judge. You can have your cake, and I can eat my cookie, too.

Just so you don’t think this post is unfounded and completely pointless (too late for that), here is pictorial evidence of a different and deeper B&W C than the one at the top. This one had to be at least three inches thick. Its physical properties were approaching the spherical. I kept thinking that if I wanted a black and white cake shaped like a mini-basketball, I would have asked for that. I was so annoyed by the cake’s depth that I ended up just eating the part I wanted (the icing) and not much else. This wouldn’t have happened if it had truly been a cookie. Think about it!

This dessert should know that I only criticize it because I love it so much and think it has so much potential, but…

I Call Bullshit on the black and white cookie!

P.S. I’ve already read the scads of Web pages about the history of the B&W C. I’m well aware that the cookie-as-cake phenomenon is common knowledge and that its original form is beloved by many just as it is. I’m simply suggesting that history be rewritten and improved upon according to my whimsy. It’s no big deal.

I’m having trouble deciding between the Fat Muffin and Fat Pound Cake. What’s a girl to do? Stop eating all her meals at delis? Surely you jest.

The menu at right is from a deli on 52nd and Broadway. (I don’t know the name of it even though I’ve eaten about 10,000 of their paninis. I ask for a little cup of Russian dressing on the side and dip the entire sandwich into it. It’s revolting. I love it.)

I’m guessing the inclusion of “fat” in the description is short for “fat-free.” Right? There are fat-free muffins everywhere. I can’t turn around without sinking my teeth into one and then spitting it out because it’s so ridiculously nasty. I feel like one of those kids with the eating disorder called pica, which causes one to eat dirt and rocks as if they were food. Apparently kids with pica can’t make the distinction. So basically I’m equating anyone who eats fat-free muffins… to a child afflicted with pica, stuffing twigs and bits of clay down her throat because she thinks it’s what she’s supposed to do. Just stop! It’s not worth it. Moral of the day:No letting pica/fat-free muffins get the better of you!

Fat-free pound cake is significantly less likely, though, largely because it’s called “pound cake.” There’s no way to make it un-fat. People who eat pound cake are either fat already or well on their way… at least in their minds. And they kind of love it.

I’m usually in the latter category. I like to buy pound cake just for the thriling, momentary recognition that I’m being a complete idiot… who’s about to really live it up for like three minutes. Pound cake is the worst and best thing you can do for yourself in a deli. They’re all delicious, but horrible for you, which is tragic, as a specimen such as myself can typically eat two or three in a sitting. (Sometimes I get up and walk around just so I can sit back down and tackle another.) Lemon poppyseed and cranberry walnut fat pound cakes do it for me sometimes, but I especially like the carrot cake variety with the cream-cheesy icing lining the top. (Why can’t it line the whole thing? Life would be so much more fulfilling.)

As a not-yet-fat person, when I buy pound cake, I’m semi-aware that in doing so I’m making a small pledge to become fat in the future. It’s like putting useless change you don’t want clinking in your jacket pockets into the plastic cancer box at McDonald’s. You don’t know it yet, Annie but you’re making a difference! I’m investing money, time, and a generous chunk of my thoughts for the day on pound cake and how the eating of it will likely backfire in the long run. But none of that matters at the time of purchase. Especially if I also just bought coffee and feel zany enough to do some dunking.

It could be that the deli is simply really proud of their muffins and pound cake. Perhaps they think that “plumping them up,” so to speak, will attract people. Maybe the muffin really is fat, round, and plentiful, just like you will be after you eat it. And maybe the pound cake is just that large and robust… and buttery… and delicious. Also just like you.

In that case, it might have helped to substitute the ph version of the letter f, for maximum cool factor. You know, get the kids involved. I bet any urban youth would feel pretty groovy both ordering and carrying around a “phat pound cake.” He could brag to his friends about it. “Aw, man, you just got standard pound cake. That shit’s over.'’

As you all may have noticed, I gave up on taking interesting photos of myself a long time ago. It’s much better to take uninteresting photos of Manhattan, like a bunch of balloons hanging from a lamp post (right). I just felt sorry for them. They weren’t “in bloom” anymore and starting to deflate.

On second thought, I shouldn’t feel sorry for the balloons. They must have known what they were getting into. The 51st Street pedestrians are the ones who have to suffer. The feeling of pity is bad enough; worse yet is having to wonder “Why do I feel sorry for balloons?” and “Why am I still thinking about the balloons?”

That wasn’t all the pictorial inanity to be found during my Super (not Bowl) Sunday on the streets with Larry Laffer (LL). I also found out where the cheapest postcards EVER exist! Eight for a fraction of a cent? That is awesome! And so unlike Manhattan! Maybe I should hang out in this neighborhood more often. Too bad I don’t remember where it was.

Oh, you thought the pictorial inanity couldn’t get any worse. You severely underestimate me. Below is yet another amazing discovery. I found out where all those other countries’ beer originated! Booyah.

It’s from “Deli.” Of course.