Somewhere along the line, the bagel lost its sense of adventure. The chains rolled into town, thwarted whatever sorry fight the Bagelands among us could muster, and summarily patented predictability. At least in Pittsburgh, the bagel lost its character; and yes, a bagel sucked dry of character still tastes all right, even delightful, but the same can be said of Entenmann's.

Sometimes, you still hanker for homemade.

Bruegger's and Einstein Bros., the bagel titans of our region, have tried to generate some new tricks. These days, you have square bagels, bagel twists, bagels with consumer-approved fixins' (apple crisp), and even bagels with toppings perhaps approved by no consumers whatsoever. (The Einstein's potato bagel, for instance.) Still, these are misguided attempts to escape the Predictability category. At Einstein's, the bagels are too soft and airy. At Bruegger's, they're too small. Every time.

Munch, desiring a more authentic bagel experience, stopped on a recent Saturday morning at The Bagel Factory, which bills itself as Pittsburgh's only independent bagel bakery. It has three locations -- with the flagship, Munch's destination -- in Squirrel Hill. But such expansion hasn't diluted the Bagel Factory's product. The place produces, without question, the finest bagel in town.

Some bagel joints -- to cite the aforementioned Big Two -- have lost sight of the ringed product itself, channeling attention instead on toppings, sandwich specialties, even iced-coffee drinks. At the Factory, the bagel itself earns its keep. It's a substantial mass of dough, heavy and chewy, large without being obnoxious. You can practically taste the carbs. You can pick from more than a dozen varieties, including poppy, cinnamon raisin, plain, cracked wheat, honey oat, marble rye and onion. (Potato-lovers, though, might be bummed.)

Munch, sticking with a time-tested favorite, ordered lox on an onion bagel. All the best weekends should start with such a sandwich: the bagel itself had a generous decoration of flaked onion bits, a collective punch of flavor. The bagel was fresh -- no need here to trumpet the fresh-baked batches with self-congratulatory "Hot!" signs. The sandwich grew with several pieces of smoked salmon, a few slices of tomato and a tasteful smear of basic cream cheese, the perfect harmony of size and simplicity.

Friend of Munch opted for the smoked whitefish salad sandwich on an "everything" bagel and loved the mosaic of flavor. The fish spread tasted fresh, FoM said, same with the vegetable toppings. Munch and FoM picked an outdoor seat and gorged. Three-quarters of the way done, both eaters felt entirely sated. Both eaters continued eating.

Munch stopped back inside the Factory to return the tray and basket and took another glance at the menu. It's dense reading material, actually. And the multitude of options here escape scorn because they accentuate, not detract from, the overall product. The place has the feel of a Jewish mother's kitchen: it's busy, and it pays no mind to proper health. Bagel devotees can concoct sandwiches with corned beef hash, matzoh brie, pastrami, hot brisket, hot pastrami and hummus and sprouts. Those who somehow wander into the Bagel Factory wishing for something other than bagels can satisfy the craving, too; the place offers omelets, pastries, cold cereals, potato latkes, noodle kugels and lettuce wraps. You can even order from among eight "signature" salads.

Munch, though, left the Factory just glad to know that somebody in town is still making bagels the old way. They take some work to wolf down. They fill you up. And they aren't made of potato.

The Bagel Factory is at 5885 Forbes Ave., Squirrel Hill. Call 412-521-8100.