My follow-up review for this restaurant. Read my previous review for this restaurant here

Okay, Biff’s, we had a good run. Subsequent to my last review, I had quite a few good weekends with you: Good bagels, as always, well-cooked cinnamon rolls, and some really pleasant encounters at the register.

But I’m going to back off for a while after today. Sorry. When I informed you of the inch-long exposed nail carelessly pounded into a tabletop to hold a piece of peeling laminate and which had torn a long ragged hold in my favorite pair of shorts, I was, actually, hoping you might offer me something in compensation. Now, I know that those Patagonia pants are kind of pricey, and maybe it would be unrealistic to hope for someone to take my name, contact the manager, and offer to buy me another pair. But, really, I might have been pretty happy with a couple more bagels. It was nice that the person behind the register really did seem awfully sorry about what happened, and I suppose taping a piece of notebook paper over the match might deter further damages, but …

Who am I kidding? I have a gaping hole in my shorts, there is an exposed nail in the side of a tabletop that could have ripped my leg open, and you say you’re sorry and go back to work? You make the best bagels in town, but this is a hurtful relationship. Bye, Biffs.

Oh, Biff’s you torment me. First, there are your bagels: Delicious, varied, and consistently well-crafted. (I’m especially fond of the asiago breakfast bagel). Second, there are the dozens and dozens of photos of departed dog-friends on the wall—how can anyone not be touched by that? (Honor your own absent dog by bringing in a framed photo; they’ll put it on the wall and give you a free bagel.)

But, third, you have some surly people working behind the counter. Most of the time, the folks who actually take the orders are cheerful enough, even when the place is busy, as happens on those crazy weekend mornings. But there’s some kind of cosmic magic that keeps the hospitality scales balanced, because no matter how much I smile, tip, and say ‘thank you’, the person running the register treats me like I’ve run over his/her grandma with a golf cart. When I remind you politely that you forgot to give me a coffee cup, you don’t need to throw the thing at me. And when I ask for a bag of day-old bagels to go with my order, there’s no need to sigh long-sufferingly. And when the cinnamon roll was raw in the middle, you did promptly refund my money, but turning and walking away immediately after, without uttering a word, was, frankly, bizarre. I had to get back in the long line, order something else (I wanted breakfast, you see, not my two dollars) and conduct another needlessly gruff transaction with you. “You’re back?” you snapped at me. Well, yeah, that’s how it worked out.

You’re making food that people love. Can’t you enjoy selling it to them a little bit more?