st. anthony's

"It's the water," she told him from across the bar. "That's what they tell me."
"What the fuck, I'll have another wine," he answered, sliding his empty glass across the dark polished wood.
She poured the Chianti, a rope of beautifully sinewed purple into his glass.
"Thanks," he said.
"The dough, it's all about the dough," she said, corking the bottle. "Maybe it's a bagel, maybe it's a slice, but the water in New York makes the difference. You know, in the dough. Jewish. Italian. By the way, any chance you know my father, Giusto Di Nardi? He knows everybody. I'm just sayin'"
"Giusto Di Nardi?" He measured his words carefully. "No, I can't say that I do. Brooklyn's a big place."
"Yeah, whatever." she said. "That guy, what a fuckin' fuck, he'd talk to anybody."
"Yeah," he said, watching the wine cling to the sides of his glass.
"People nowadays," she said, "they just don't talk to one another like that anymore."
"But what about the bagel? You think it's not like it was?" he asked.
"That's what, like, I'm sayin.' I hear we're gettin' our water from New Jersey now."
"That's a sad story," he replied.