My Kingdom for a Bagel

So, my boy Z already chronicled our latest escapade on his monthly newsletter, but for those of you who do not receive the monthly, Verbal Warrior Society Breakdown/Beatdown, I'm gonna double up.
Z is a fellow New Yorker/Jersier, my former roommate of 4 years on 2nd Ave., among other things. He came out here maybe 7 years ago. He and I both have been on an unfulfilled quest to find a good bagel. Back east, we had a Sunday ritual where'd we'd rock the Ess-a-Bagels, at a mere fitty-cent per. I'd kick my everything bagel, dry, while Z would usually get a sesame or poppy, topped with a schmear of cream cheese and a slice of tomahto. Fat, thick, and absurdly topped, the grinchy old Jewish folk at Ess-a-Bagel set the gold standard for bageldom.
So, Z had gotten wind of the deli at Barney's having H&H bagels flown in. Personally, I never loved H&H. These would be the type you would have at your local street vendor back in NYC. Still, if they were home grown, they stood to be better than the local fare, so we were more than game. The Jints were taking on the Cowboys, so we figured we'd rekindle tradition with some sunday bagel/football action.
We hopped in my car, and made our way to Beverly Hills and right side of the tracks. We parked on the street, eschewing the valet, though I couldn't help but notice the collection of Maserati's, Mercedes, and such on the way inside. Sure, it was a public shopping mall, but I felt like I was inside a country club, filled with the stench of elitism as we made our way through cosmetics. We went up the elevator to the deli, and right away I sensed trouble. Where was the line outside the door? Where were the crotchety old Jewish folk? Where was that smell? That bagel smell. We pressed on, and came upon this reMARKably slow putz behind the counter. I say remarkably because I can't believe they get away with this guy catering to their high powered clientele. "I'd like 2 everything bagels please!" No everything. Z said, "I'd like 2 cinnamon raisin please!" No cinnamon raisin. I settle on an onion and a poppy, z, a poppy and a sesame. "That'll be $10 please." "I'm sorry, did you say TEN?" "Yes, ten." Ten dollars for 4 dry bagels. We're not on First Avenue anymore Dorothy.
Already there, we succumbed to the gouging and took our bagel booty home. We stopped at the Whole Foods to buy some toppings, refusing to submit to a further financial bloodletting at the deli. We got to Z's already anticipating that we'd been essentially had. Popped 'em in the toaster, topped 'em, prettied 'em up as best we could. Now for the moment of truth. Chomp. The verdict? Quintisentially sub-mediocre. We choked down round one, disgustedly. Watched the ball game. I said, "Z, you gonna eat you're second one?" "I suppose." "I'm gonna eat mine out of spite," which I did.
New York, New York it's a helluva town. The Bronx is up, and Ess-a-Bagel is down. Can't nobody dooz it like the good folks on First Ave. Belie' dat.