Grandma used to meet me here before getting her hair done. Pat her hairdresser, who, you may be impressed to know, also does Connie Francis's hair ("Who's Connie Francis?" "Exactly") used to work at the other end of the shopping center. He's since relocated and the storefronts have changed--the high-end grocery store now sells flowers; the glasses store is now a real estate office--but Bagelworks is still there. The line is often out the door and you have to muscle your way in, those old Jewish women can be vicious: dare not push ahead or you will be chastised. Dare not chastise those who push ahead or you will be dressed down. Either way, you won't feel safe until you get a table. And if you're with my mother or grandmother you can't just wait for any table, you have to ask for a booth.

The decor can only be described as "Florida Jewish." By that I mean, it's like a New York deli by way of the Golden Girls. Notice the glass block in the above picture; observe the turquoise trim. The light shining in, the aqua blue countertops: this is Boca's version of Katz's deli only you don't come here for the corned beef, you come here for the bagels.

And the orange juice. I miss Florida orange juice and I especially miss the orange juice you get at Bagelworks. In college I took a class on trauma and we learned that those who experience a trauma endlessly relive the trauma for the rest of their lives. The first time--away from Florida, away from Bagelworks--that I drank Tropicana orange juice with a bagel, my body shuttered in revulsion. It was traumatic. And now I repeat the trauma again and again; at Murray's bagels, my favorite bagel shop in New York, but also lesser bagel joints in Park Slope and beyond, I sip Tropicana with pained self-hatred. "Why do you keep doing this to yourself?" I ask, to no avail. I dream of Bagelworks and the orange juice glowing in the sunshine.

Mom, with her Dr. Brown's Diet Black Cherry. She'd always get an egg white omelet "dry" with sliced tomato and onion instead of potatoes. For the rest of my life, I've never heard anyone order an omelet "dry" except when I go to Bagelworks with my mother or grandmother. My hunch is that the waiter blots the omelet with paper towels before placing it down before her. My grandmother, when she comes, will often get an individual canned salmon and take half of it home. But one doesn't go to Bagelworks for dry egg white omelets or canned salmon. One goes for the bagels, one goes for "The Works."

I wasn't allowed to get "The Works" growing up, it was too expensive. "$7.95?" my grandmother would say. "Outrageous." Her mother, my great-grandmother Helen, might call it "highway robbery." For $7.95 you get two scoops of any salad and one scoop of any cream cheese, a bagel of your choice, a small cup of coleslaw, a small cup of potato salad, sliced tomato and onion, a pickle, a carrot, a lettuce leave and two olives.

The potato salad is inedible: mom always asks the waitress to exchange it for another cole slaw, which she eats herself. (That's why it's missing in the picture). The olives are mealy and unpleasant. The lettuce leaf is decorative. The carrot is good for a crunch. But the focus, here, is on the spreads: the lox spread (which I always order) and the whitefish salad (I get two scoops). In combination, it's heaven.

The bagel, of course, is an onion bagel, lightly toasted.

"Lightly toasted"--I got that phrase from my parents. If it weren't for them, I'd probably just say "toasted." I also got that bagel from my parents who would take me, in my early years, to Stuff n' Bagels in Oceanside, New York where the shmear was heavy and the bagels hardy. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the worse it makes your breath, the better the bagel-eating experience. The constellations in my Jewish universe are made of chopped red onion and capers; the planets all have holes in the center. I am of the belief that Jews are the "chosen people" not because of our smarts or strength or stamina; we're "chosen" because when we talk to God, he not only hears us, he smells us. "Oy," he says. "Did Morty Silverstein have a garlic bagel again?"

Look, I'll be honest: I'm not the biggest fan of my home turf, Boca Raton, where most of my family resides. It's not that it's a bad place, it's just too tranquil for my taste, too many pink shopping centers, too many golf courses. The beach is nice once in a while, but there's a reason my dad called me "indoor boy" in high school. I love the indoors and that's why I thrive in New York: I love the theater, I love restaurants, I love museums. My parents have to beg me to come home and when I do, I often submit myself to their agenda for where to eat. I don't really care.

With one exception. It starts with a "B" and ends in "works" and it makes me happy. I hadn't been there in a long time, this last visit, and going back in there I realized the place was timeless. There are waitresses there who have been there since I was 14 and they look exactly the same. They still sell the same gum at the cash register; they still have the same newspaper machines outside with The Sun-Sentinel and The Boca News. It's nice to have a place that makes you feel like a kid again, that makes you feel like you never grew up. That place for me is Bagelworks.

I hope it's there forever.