There are certain class distinctions living on Galveston Island, almost like a caste system. People who call Galveston home are broken up into two specific groups that are identified through two acronyms—BOI or IBC. Neither Adi nor I knew this until we began mentioning to people that we lived on the island. Whenever me mentioned this we were met with the question: Are you BOI or IBC? It didn’t take locals long to discover that we were definitely not BOI because we didn’t know what BOI meant. Longtime residents quickly detected that we were indeed IBC because any BOI would have been raised understanding these labelings. IBC is the truncated abbreviation for “Islander by Choice.” Had we replied BOI they would have known we were “Born on the Island” (don’t ask me why they wouldn’t be called BOTIs).
No one is necessarily judged by anyone regarding their status, but it lets people who have lived on the island understand how entrenched someone is in the culture. When it’s discovered that someone is “IBC” there becomes a certain level of taking a newbie “under their wing.” Suggestions of where to eat, which beaches to go to and which to avoid, or which local haunts that were favorites of the natives were tips that Adi and I were given. The locals guard certain spots and like to keep them secret from the “tourists” that act as transients for a long weekend or week-long vacation. If in the course of conversation, it’s divulged that someone has decided to plant their roots on the island certain secret spots are revealed. Being IBC isn’t looked down upon, it carries with it more of a feeling or “Oh, this person actually wants to be here. They aren’t just here to use us for a weekend and then leave our money on the dresser for us.” Being IBC comes with only a hint of skepticism depending on how long a person has actually lived on the island.
Island life is unique. Timetables don’t really seem to exist and instead take a backseat to vague time generalities. If someone says 4 pm that could very easily mean 4:30 or 5 or 6 or 7:30 or…let’s try to do this on another day, I got tied up at the beach. There is something in the energy of the island, a certain haunting presence that never really says out loud but instead quietly whispers, “At any moment a hurricane could wipe this place out. Let’s not get too worked up about ‘time.’” I like to call this Galveston Time.
Time is a concept that exists only in worlds where they have a perception of certainty. Certainty is an illusion no matter where it exists however in Galveston, with all of her storied history—it’s not a place that pretends to be certain. Here today and gone tomorrow is a theme that those on the island never talk about, but every BOI knows deep in their heart that uncertainty is lingering off in the gulf, waiting to formulate into an epic storm to wipe out our former yesterdays in one giant gust of wind and rain. IBCs have to learn this, and it usually takes that epic storm to bring the realization. I haven’t even experience this and yet it lingers in my mind each time the wind picks up.
Galvestonians, specifically BOIs, are survivors and those that have always called the island home have a tendency to want to help those that have adopted the island as their new home. Adi and I learned this very early when after visiting Miller’s Seawall Grille, (one of our favorite breakfast spots on the island. See? I’m already giving tips!) for the second time in as many days. We became fast friends with Christy, our wonderful waitress on both occasions, after she learned that Adi and I eat a fairly Keto diet because our oldest son is a Type One Diabetic. We manage his symptoms by eating a low carb diet and we learned we shared something in common with Christy when she told us that she eats Keto too. She decided to give us the lowdown on a local favorite gem that was a “must.”
“You guys have to go to Marina’s in League City. It’s 30 minutes off the island but it is an absolute must.
He makes bagels that taste as good, if not better, than a regular bagel. And his blueberry bread is to die for. It’s worth the drive for that alone. The guy who owns the place is like the ‘Soup Nazi’ from Seinfeld. There is a system and you have to follow it. Walk to the register, know what you’re going to order, place the order, pay and get out,” she instructed. “Don’t make him mad or you won’t get your bagels and…get there early, there will be a line.”
We thanked Christy for the tip and promised her we would go very soon. This is exactly the kind of thing that gets Adi excited. For my part, the words “There will be a line” was enough for me to write the place off. Nonetheless, I knew the second Christy suggested going on this journey that there was no way of avoiding going on a drive off the island to find this place. Adi always waits just enough time before I forget about these “ideas” before she drops her plans on me. In this case, it was a couple of mornings later following our Saturday Aquarian Sadhana with Siri Bahadur that started at 4:30 am (Adi had planned the Aquarian Sadhana for back-to-back weeks).
Sadhana ended at 7 am and Adi suggested we take a nap for a couple of hours which thrilled me to no end. It had been a long week of packing and then unpacking while living in a house that was not completely put back together. A nap sounded perfect. Little did I know that Adi had set her alarm for 9 am with plans to leave the island for a “little drive.” When the alarm rang to life, I was presented with Adi’s plan.
“Let’s go check out the Keto bakery today,” she said with the excitement of a 5-year-old on Christmas morning.
“You want to go see the Bagel Nazi?” I asked with a certain amount of fear in my voice.
A big smile came across her face as she nodded and said, “I’ll drive.”
It wasn’t long before we were off in the car with a cooler in hand (she had plans to go to Central Market in Houston—plans at that moment I was unaware of ). I wouldn’t call my state of mind excited, but I slipped into the passenger seat as we trekked off the island to find Keto Heaven. The drive was nice. We got to see the hordes of people, most likely from neighboring Houston, trying to get on the island for their weekend getaway. It wasn’t lost on me how lucky Adi and I were to be living on the island. This was more than weekend life for us now—this was our new reality, as uncertain as it has been.
We arrived at Marina’s in League City at around 9:50 am right before the place was about to open. True to Christy’s promise there was already a line forming with at least 75 people deep wrapping around the building as anxious people waited to get their Keto treats. Adi and I took our place on line and it didn’t take long to hear everyone raving about the infamous bagels and cookies that this mysterious chef made and sold out of daily.
“This is worth the wait,” one woman told us who was one person ahead of us in line. “I came yesterday and right as I got up to the front of the line they sold out. I came back again today.”
The man behind us, who I came to know very well after our 45-minute wait in line, chimed in, “I buy as much as I can and freeze it in Ziplock bags, so I have enough for the entire week.”
“What about the Bagel Nazi?” I asked. “Should I fear him?”
The blank stare coming back at me eased my mind a bit. Maybe Christy was being hyperbolic about the “Bagel Nazi.” Maybe this was just an apocryphal story she used to scare away the weak-hearted.
We slowly plodded our way through the line and each time we looked towards the front entrance we would see people leaving the store with at minimum two to three large bags stuffed full of everything they had purchased. This place is a gold mine, I thought to myself. This guy is printing money in there; people are just handing over their hard-earned cash for this “crack” bread that he is selling. This might just be worth the wait.
It was only 10 am and the sun was already pounding down. It was “middle finger” hot and I searched for respite under any shade I could find. No matter the heat, no one around us was complaining about the length of the line ahead (accept maybe me silently). Although it snaked around the building people’s dispositions remained joyous.
“Worth the wait,” became the mantra of everyone in line. “You won’t be disappointed…unless they run out before you get inside.”
I thought to myself, if we drove for 30 minutes and we don’t make it before they run out, I may have take drastic action, and mug someone for their goodies. Fortunately, it didn’t have to come to that. Adi and I finally made it inside the building and although we could see the dwindling supplies behind the counter, it looked pretty clear that we were going to score paydirt. The system Marina’s had in place was like a well-oiled machine. Now that we were actually inside the building, I could feel the pressure start to mount.
“We have to figure out our order,” I instructed Adi, feeling the fear rise up in me. After 45 minutes of waiting I didn’t want to be denied by the “Bagel Nazi.” As it turns out, as we took our place behind the register and placed our order, we discovered the staff couldn’t have been nicer. They were incredibly efficient. They took our order, bagged it and had us out the door in less than two minutes.
It was 10:45 am and we could tell that they were about 20 minutes from being sold out of product. I was quite impressed by the entire operation. Adi and I carried our three large bags back to our car and we were about $160 poorer than we were when we started the drive. Adi didn’t wait long before she opened one of the short bread cookies and broke off a piece and handed it to me as I took a bite.
One bite made me realize it was all worth it. Heaven in the form of a Keto cookie. The cookie was so good I actually, for a moment, considered never telling anyone about this place. I knew that the moment I let the world know how good the cookie was the less likely I would be able to get my fix in the future. It was probably the best Keto cookie I had ever eaten.
“If this cookie is this good what do you think the bagels will be like?” I asked Adi.
“We’re going to find out tomorrow,” she said with a huge grin.
Sunday morning came and it was time to unveil the bagel that I had heard so much about. With just a little bit of ceremony, Adi took one of our precious bagels out of our Ziplock bag and she ever so delicately placed it inside the toaster for just a touch of browning. Moments later, she delivered the bagel with whipped cream cheese to the kitchen table where we sampled our first taste. I was in love. It felt like I was in New York eating a bagel. The taste was divine. Adi and I looked at each other, and in that moment, the four-hour round trip (including Central Market, she can be very convincing) became ever so worth it. It was literally one of the best bagels I had ever eaten. It was like two angels having sex on my tongue. Yes, it was that good!
As Adi and I enjoyed our Sunday breakfast I couldn’t help but think that being an IBC definitely had its perks. By being a local we were given entre into one of the gems of the island that incidentally wasn’t even on the island. We had become an Islander by Choice and the island welcomed us with open arms. I’ll always love that about Galveston. It’s like a little club and quite a few of the members have simply decided to drop out of the rat race and just enjoy life by the sea…with a really good bagel and a cup of coffee. Island life is good, I thought. This is something the BOIs have known since birth.