By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
We had our reasons for attending the recent Singles Expo at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Burlingame. Billed as "the Bay Area's largest annual event for romantic eligibles," the expo seemed a fine opportunity to spot the latest trends in matchmaking. We hoped to meet the event's organizer, Rich Gosse, oft-quoted chairman of the nonprofit group American Singles and author of YouCan Hurry Love, A Good Man Is Easy to Find in the Bay Area, and (for those at the tail end of the coupling process) The Divorce Book. Better yet, we wanted to know if any of the singles who showed up would be, well, hot.
At first, we weren't sure if we'd come to the right place. The Crowne Plaza looked abandoned from a distance, and a temporary construction office occupied the parking lot. As we soon discovered, the hotel is being renovated: We strolled down a hallway lined with plywood and exposed piping, then spotted a registration table, where we donned a name tag and set off to work the floor. Scanning the crowd, we were a bit disappointed to note that our fellow singles fell almost exclusively within the 38-to-70-year-old demographic. On a brighter note, we had the foresight to bring a date. The expo included all sorts of interesting groups: Solo Sierrans (eco-friendly singles), Meeting for Good (volunteer-minded singles), Equally Yoked (Christian singles), and the Golden Gate Tip Toppers (tall singles), whose hostess, Jill, stood an unapologetic 6 feet 5 inches in heels. It didn't take long to spot Gosse, a mustachioed, silver-tongued devil who claims to have hosted more than a thousand singles' parties over the past two decades. According to him, speed dating is the hottest thing since online personal ads. That, and Russians.
"A man can get a woman who's a lot younger, a lot slimmer, and a lot prettier if he imports her from Russia than if he tries to meet her here," Gosse said. "There are negatives associated with that as well as positives, but that's true of any way of meeting."
Intrigued, we strolled over to the table sponsored by Lifetime Partners, a company that specializes in women from the city of Tver, north of Moscow. "This particular place has a lot more women than men," explained Tver native Maya Quintarelli, herself a mail-order bride. Behind her, a video depicted women from Tver, where fashions apparently lean toward revealing tops, strappy shoes, and extremely short skirts. Some -- OK, most -- were gorgeous. "And the most important thing is that they're just as beautiful inside as outside," said Quintarelli.
Lifetime Partners was a hit among male eligibles, a handful of whom were ogling the video at any given time. Still, this is not to say international matchmaking has gained across-the-board social acceptance. As Gosse introduced Quintarelli, a wave of frowns swept the faces of female attendees, whose disgruntlement seemed justified. After all, where were the mail-order husbands? Where can they be imported from?
"Australia," suggested our date. --Greg Hugunin
"For a city that thinks so highly of its own culinary sophistication, how is it that you can't get even a slightly edible bagel?" So laments Jacqui, a New York transplant who's seriously unhappy. She's staring at her poppy bagel and cream cheese like the thing just slapped her. It's an unusually warm Sunday morning at Fillmore Street's Noah's Bagels, where the menu's sprinkled with schmaltzy New York/Jewish terminology: "toikey," "plotz," "shmear," "shlepper," and more than one "oy vey."
Jacqui's not buying it. She reminisces about bagels on the Upper East Side. "We'd wander into H&H Bagels on Broadway at like midnight and get everything fresh. Or we'd go to Katz's on Houston Street and get onion bagels with cream cheese, and they'd take burnt onions from the bottom of the bin and mash it into the cream cheese. Uccch! It was so good!"
We've never been much impressed with San Francisco bagels either, we lamely interject.
"They don't know what they're doing here. And what's with the flavors?" Jacqui continues. "Jalapeño, sun-dried tomato, Asiago cheese ... it's just not right!"
Suggesting she try the cracked peppercorn potato doesn't seem like a safe thing to do at the moment, so we leave our semihysterical friend to think this over. Maybe she's on to something. After all, she does say How-ston instead of Hew-ston. What is wrong with the bagels here, exactly? Could this be the unreported story of the year? Following the scent of Pulitzer, we begin to do some research.
Ruthlessly interrogating patrons at Noah's across the city, we come to a somewhat ambiguous conclusion: Nobody is outraged by San Francisco bagels. But no one's particularly impressed, either. Then: a eureka moment. It turns out we've been asking the wrong question. Upon further cross-examination, almost all Noah's patrons admit to never having eaten a New York bagel. Aha! They've got nothing to compare it to!
We call up our New York friend, launch a full-scale investigation, and discover the cardinal bagel secret, the thing that makes bagels different from other types of bread: They're boiled before they're baked. Thrown in a giant kettle of water, where they gurgle and float around like Cheerios in milk (warm milk, that is). Noah's skips this bothersome step by using a newfangled oven that steams the bagels instead. Thus, you don't get that soft-chewy-inside-with-hard-shiny-outside effect. A pleasant-tasting bread product, sure. But not a true bagel. At least, not our kind of bagel.