Wandering along the narrow, twisting lanes of centre-ville toward the Place des Prêcheurs market, I spied a small restaurant/bakery on rue Bueno Carriero with an impressive outdoor lineup of hungry college students. Following the curious French tradition of using English names for businesses, the sign read ‘Bagel Story,’ and then in French what I translated as ‘Authentic New York Bagels in Aix-en-Provence’ (and almost translated to English on Bagel Story’s website as ‘The originals New York’s Bagel in Aix-en-Provence’). I didn’t move to France to buy bagels, but I hadn’t had one in a long time. I thought, how bad could it be? The French were exquisite bread makers, the sign suggested that they had some connection to a New York bagel recipe, and the Norwegian smoked salmon ubiquitous to Aix would make a perfect bagel blanket.

Waiting outside in line, the Bagel Story smelled pretty good. Before I knew it, that distinctive aroma ripped the fabric of the space-time continuum and I was sucked into 1969. There I was, 11-year-old me, with my father and uncle, encircled by a raucous crowd of French-speaking sports fans. It wasn’t a match du foot, but my first professional baseball game, at Montréal’s Jarry Park. I will always associate the smell of a toasted bagel with the Expos, as incongruous as that sounds.

We were sitting down the third base line, about halfway between the bag and the outfield wall. We had a perfect view of Willie Mays, San Francisco’s Cooperstown-bound centre fielder. Willie Mays! It was a beautiful day for a baseball game, so the Expos and Giants decided to play two. My dad, who never allowed concession stand purchases at movies or sporting events, shocked me by buying a salt-encrusted pretzel bigger than my head; I devoured the pretzel and the doubleheader in utter bliss. Little did I know that this wasn’t even the best part of my day.

Returning to my aunt and uncle’s Montréal home, well past my bedtime (which was exciting in itself), we sat down to another first, my introduction to bagels and lox. I had never had bagels before, and certainly nothing from the wood-burning oven of local legend Saint-Viateur Bagel. The heady combination of a still-warm bagel, cream cheese, capers, onions and smoked salmon seemed so exotic, so ethnic, leaving an indelible mark on my tastebuds’ psyche. Willie Mays may have impressed me, but the bagel hit a home run.

My brain switched back to Aix mode as I elbowed my way inside the Bagel Story. In the close confines of the tiny restaurant, more like a large closet, I was reminded that deodorant was often optional in France. Unfortunately, that smell didn’t rocket me to somewhere else as I waited in line. Still, I was excited to buy my bagels, and happily anticipated my turn.

My first surprise was the cost. In Aix, where four perfect baguettes could be purchased for about three dollars, six bagels were twelve dollars. I was also taken aback by each bagel’s size, roughly the same as a small salad plate. Undeterred by the price or size (after all, I was living in a new country), I carted my six treasures home. Where five of them ended up in the trash. The sixth was a mealy, cardboard-like, fall-apart-in-your-hands affront to cream cheese. It did share one attribute with a real bagel in that it was round. How could this pseudo-bread have been produced in France? I thought the only bread disappointments in Aix related to purchases made in supermarkets (a vile and disgusting habit not worthy of a Frenchman). This wasn’t a bagel, it was a tasteless, calorie delivery system. I started to think the New York recipe lost something in the translation.

I could wait to have a proper bagel in Canada. The mystery was the lineup of collegians jostling to get inside Bagel Story. To be generous, I could say that they had never experienced a proper bagel, and as such, didn’t know any better. That argument was weak, however, because the overall lack of quality should have been apparent to denizens of a proud bread nation. All I could think of was the ‘McDonald’s Syndrome,’ whereas seemingly rational gourmands would tolerate mass-produced fake food because of a restaurant’s American cachet.