PB
Patrick Bateman
Sep 25, 2025
I find myself in New Haven on a Tuesday morning. The city has a certain... grimy desperation to it, a palpable lack of ambition in the faces of the students and faculty shuffling past. I need something precise. Something clean. My usual espresso and mineral water regimen feels insufficient. I notice a sign: Bruggers Bagels. The font is acceptable. Unpretentious. I decide to venture in.
The first thing that strikes me is the smell. It’s not the cloying, saccharine aroma of a Cinnabon or the greasy fog of a donut shop. This is different. This is a warm, yeasty, profoundly honest scent. It smells of grain and heat and simple, perfect transformation. It’s the smell of flour and water achieving a higher purpose. For a moment, it’s almost overwhelming. I stand just inside the door, my knuckles white on the handle of my briefcase, and simply... inhale. My therapist would be fascinated. Or perhaps appalled.
The staff is a study in efficiency. A young man with clear, untroubled eyes asks for my order. There is no unnecessary chatter. No "How's your day going?" or forced, vacant smiling. He simply waits, his posture indicating a understanding of his role. I order a sesame bagel, toasted, with plain cream cheese. A simple test. He pivots, selects a bagel with a pair of tongs—his movements are economical, devoid of wasted motion—and places it in the toaster. He doesn't fumble. He doesn't sigh. It’s... impressive.
When I receive the bagel, it is perfect. The toasting is even, a uniform golden-brown. The cream cheese is applied with a spartan thickness, reaching to within a millimeter of the crust, but not spilling over. There is a geometric satisfaction to it. I take a seat at a clean, laminate table.
The first bite is a revelation. The exterior shatters with a crisp, resonant crackle that is deeply pleasing. The interior is dense, chewy, but not stubborn—it yields with a satisfying tension. The flavor is profound, wheaty, with the nutty punctuation of the sesame seeds. It is, without question, the best bagel I have ever encountered. Better than any in Manhattan. Far superior to the overpriced, underbaked offerings near my office.
As I eat, methodically, I feel a peculiar sensation. It’s not hunger, and it’s not the familiar thrum of controlled aggression. It’s something else. A sort of... quietude. A calm. For the duration of this bagel, the usual static in my head—the constant comparisons, the critical assessments of every person and object in my field of vision—it simply... ceases. There is only the bagel. The texture. The smell. The taste.
It’s unsettling. I almost feel... something. A flicker of what might be, in a less disciplined individual, contentment. Perhaps even a fragment of joy. The feeling is so alien it borders on distressing. I have to check my reflection in the window to ensure my face is still my own.
I finish the bagel. I meticulously wipe my fingers with a napkin. I place my tray on the designated rack. As I walk out, back into the dissonance of the city, I feel the static slowly returning. But for a few minutes, in Bruggers Bagels, I was... close to peace. It was that good. I may have to return tomorrow. I need to see if the effect is reproducible.