If anthropologists want to solve the mystery of the missing link once and for all, they would do well to spend six months on an ethnographic study of the staff at The Bagel Factory. Never in my life have I encountered such a hopeless scrum of gangly, dim-witted morons. Mouths agape, they poke at the till like a chimp tries longingly to fashion a tool out of its own faeces with a stiff, bony finger. They stare back at you with confused, vacant eyes as though a billionaire has pulled them out of their habitat and put clothes on them for a bet made on a yacht.
If a six-month study is planned, mind, the boffins might want to phone up 2 months in advance to order their bagel should they actually want to eat it. Bear in mind this colony exists in a railway station. I personally gave up waiting after two trains had passed; by that point my only hope was that CERN may have cracked time travel by the time my bagel was ready.
If you value your food to be as you imagined it when you tried desperately to communicate this to the Bagelogist, and if you value your food to have passed your lips long before your body decays into dust, then I might suggest somewhere - anywhere - but The Bagel Factory.