‘m one of those suckers who cries every time they hear “New York, New York.”

I only lived there for a couple of years, but whether it’s Frank or Liza singing, I can only get as far as the refrain about ‘those little town blues melting away’ before I tear up. Hopefully this goes some of the way toward explaining why I found myself trying not to weep into my basket of pastrami and eggs over the weekend at Nosh, Nob Hill‘s post-modern take on the Jewish deli.

If the Carnegie Deli was reimagined with a sleeker set design and daintier proportions, Nosh might be the result. But the menu—including noodle kugel, chopped liver and matzo ball soup—promises the kind of urban comfort food I’ve come to believe simply isn’t in the offing unless I have a ticket to JFK in hand. Our breakfast at Nosh was a reminder that some of the best parts of my New York experience (read: food) are simply too good to be contained on an island and, like all good things, manage to find their way to appreciative audiences wherever they may be. Before we left the table, I’d sent some iteration of The Three back to the register three times: for rugelach, a bialy and a slice of seven layer cake to go.

Living in Albuquerque, we don’t make it to the city very often. Watching Peaches enjoying her bialy with Nova lox at Nosh on Saturday, I was comforted to know that she still gets to enjoy the taste of it from afar.