Cone up to Code

You Know the Housing Market Is in Trouble

...when real estate offices are available for lease.

Sandwich Maker Gets Grilled

In a textbook example of backfiring advertising, a Quizno's commercial inspired me to eat at Subway. Quizno's was copying Subway's $5 sandwich promotion, but Subway is closer to me. With Hoboken being such a quality sandwich town, I only find myself in the Washington Street Subway location a few times a year. But it's always very clean, and the staff is always quite friendly and helpful, and tonight was no exception. And I could get a meatball sandwich for $265 less than Bernie spent.

So I'm sitting there, eating my sandwich, drinking my soda, crunching on my Baked Lay's (sure, I made it a Combo!), reading record reviews from the back of MOJO Magazine. I'm as happy as a bivalve mollusk and minding my own business when two women enter: one in her late 40s I'm guessing, and the other presumably her mother.

"Could we get a grilled cheese?" the younger one asks the woman behind the counter.

My first thought was, had these women never been inside a Subway restaurant before? But because I'm a good citizen, my thoughts quickly turned to helping them. Where could I send them for a decent grilled cheese? Alas, the nearest diner was many blocks away. I felt useless.

The woman behind the counter was baffled by the request. Soon enough, a male staffer joined her, and a discussion took place. "Yes, yes, we can do that," he said. His confidence allayed my anxiety.

But that was the calm before the storm. "No, we want grilled cheese," said the customer. "Not grilled chicken."

She looked over to me with a "Is it me? Or is it them?" expression on her face. I sympathetically offered, "There used to be a diner on the corner where you could get a nice grilled cheese. Subway's not really the sort of place for that."

At this point I should add that this particular Subway branch is operated by an all-Indian staff. So perhaps cultural upbringing prevented the sort of improvisation that might have resulted in an acceptable, makeshift grilled cheese. Instead, I watched helplessly as a 6-inch rosemary-garlic roll was cut in half and layered with slices of American cheese. "Anything else on there? Lettuce?" asked the counterman. I shook my head sadly: The grilled-cheese concept was not getting through to this man.

The two customers consulted, and decided to put three slices of salami and some tomato on the sandwich. The lamentable creation was placed open-faced into the mini oven for an incredibly short time. I couldn't watch anymore. I buried my head in my record reviews as the sandwich was wrapped and the women left the restaurant.

And then I got even sadder. I could've sent them to nearby Panera! With the wider selection of bread styles and the panini press, I'm sure a very respectable grilled cheese could've been churned out. Oh hindsight, how you mock me.

I finished my meal and thought about typing up this story and getting a chance to use the "sandwiches" label again. And that's when the craziest thing happened: The younger of the two women re-entered the restaurant. I braced myself for her inevitable gripe that melted cheese on a sub-sandwich roll did not constitute grilled cheese. Perhaps she would also demand her money back. And this time I would redeem myself with my excellent Panera suggestion.

"That sandwich was really good," said the woman. "Could we get another one?"

Happy Fake St. Patricks Day

I'm typing quietly, with the lights out, so they don't know I'm in here. Rations are low but must last until tomorrow. Each noise from the outside sends shivers down my spine. I cover my head with a pillow to drown it out, praying it will end.

It is fake St. Patrick's Day in Hoboken.

Oh, sure, there are 16 days until the actual St. Patrick's Day, but don't tell that to any of the corrupt, money-hungry weasels involved in fake St. Patrick's Day. For this is the day of Hoboken's St. Patrick's Day Parade. Why isn't it held on St. Patrick's Day? I've heard it's to avoid conflicts with New York City's and other local parades, who are booking the same marching bands. But it's awful convenient that fake St. Patrick's Day is always on a Saturday, allowing a full day of revelry in a city already swimming in alcohol. And guess what, bar owners: On actual St. Patrick's Day, it all happens again.

Hey, go easy, it's an Irish town. Well, no, it isn't. The Italians arrived after World War I and never left. But in fairness, the Irish did rule the roost here prior to that. Shortly after the Germans, that is.

The fact is, Hoboken doesn't need a reason to celebrate. It's been described as having the most bars per square mile in these United States. (I've also heard that characterization applied to La Crosse, Wisconsin. Can we really trust any statistics gathered by drunks, anyway?) On weekend evenings, the countless taverns along the main drag are teeming with a subset of the justifiably much-maligned Jersey "bridge-and-tunnel" crowd—the subset that is too cheap to pay the toll into Manhattan.

On fake St. Patrick's Day, the madness extends beyond Hoboken's main thoroughfare, to every single establishment with a liquor license within the Mile Square City. And if you have the ability to pour, congratulations, you can obtain a liquor license here. And it's all day long. Granted, that's improved slightly—the bars now open at 11 a.m. rather than at 6 a.m. Nonetheless, the day is still a descent into Frat-Boy Hell. Outside even the most nondescript residential-block watering hole, there is an unruly line of red-faced, green-plastic-hat (or backwards baseball cap, your choice!) and green-T-shirt-over-white-longjohns-top-wearing loud, drunken morons. Oh yes, and the Mardi Gras-style green beads, I can't forget those. They roam in packs from bar to bar to house party to bar, stopping briefly at every street corner to laugh maniacally, call some "dude" on the cell phone, urinate, and/or vomit. You cannot look out a window at any moment during the day or night without glimpsing a drunken idiot (or 2, or 15) weaving down the street. With the occasional punctuation of a police siren.

I've lived here almost 14 years, and it is hands-down my least favorite day in Hoboken all year. Perhaps my least favorite day anywhere. I skip town when I can, and if not—like today—I batten down the hatches, quietly seethe, and wait it out. Like microwave popcorn, eventually the gap increases between each hooting-and-hollering session on the street below. Until there is no more, and it is once again safe.

But that's hours from now.

Many, many hours.

I could really use a drink.

Hello, New Jersey!

Well, Jack's bittersweet tale of a love that never was has been linked by nj.com, endearing him to the locals, who are rooting him on with comments and tributes such as, "What a wuss" and "stop wasting time and space on this crap."

First of all, the concern about "column inches" seems to be misplaced. But more importantly, a further investigation of nj.com reveals a disturbing reality. I'm sure people who live there are sick of the Sopranos references. But the stark truth is that New Jersey is a land of too many laws. I don't know about the rest of you, but I can't risk living in a state where this is illegal:

MEDFORD, N.J. -- An 18-year-old Sherwood Drive man was arrested Sunday afternoon on charges of disturbing the peace for allegedly firing a homemade potato gun into the air, according to the Burlington County Times.

The man reportedly was firing potatoes into a lake near where he lives. He was processed and released to await a municipal court hearing.

Curse You, Patrick Moberg

I was intrigued by the tale of Patrick Moberg. He was the wonderboy who created a website a few months back to find the "girl of his dreams" who he'd spotted on the New York subway. And, by gum, he found her! The Internet was all a-buzz—as it is wont to do—and the happy couple even appeared on Good Morning America. Moberg was a flavor of the minute, and the story was forgotten as quickly as it appeared.

But not forgotten by everyone. Young master Moberg may not have considered a sinister consequence of his seemingly innocent romantic quest: Providing entirely too much hope to we legions of pathetic guys who stare at women on public transportation. The following true story takes place a mere two days after I watched the infamous GMA appearance in a Houston hotel room.


With Moberg on my mind, I am on the PATH train platform at Newark Penn Station on Sunday night, returning from a trip. I see a pretty girl. A plain pretty girl. My "type." I think, I'll get on the same train car as her.

And I do. She sits in the corner. Should I sit near her? No, I'll stand, with my suitcase, a safe distance away.

She starts reading a magazine. The image—the girl, the hair, the posture, the magazine—is extremely appealing to me. I decide to clandestinely document it on my cellphone camera.

I figure I should take a close-up too. For good measure.

Hmmm. I calculate the odds. There's about a 10% chance she'll transfer at Journal Square to a Hoboken train. If she does, maybe I'll talk to her. If it's the New Yorker, definitely. But doesn't quite look like the New Yorker. Could be a fashion magazine.

Journal Square. She gets off the train. I get off the train. There's a waiting-at-the-end-of-the-line Hoboken-bound train across the platform. But there's not an obvious car straight across for both of us to enter. I take a chance and choose first. She doesn't follow me. I'm sad.

"Joaquin," calls one of the friendly employees from the Spa Diner, where I am a regular. I don't know his name. I explain that there was a "mujer bonita" on the "otra tren." But where she is now, I don't know. I am a little "triste."

I get off the train in Hoboken, go up the first flight of stairs, approach the exit, and—wait, I recognize that jacket, that bag, those black tights, that longish-dirty-blonde hair that is the trademark of 1/3 of the women I am attracted to. She exits first. She takes the steps to ground level TWO STEPS AT A TIME. Wild.

Is she walking home? No, she's headed to the taxi line. I planned to walk but, now I must also take a taxi. I bid "buenos noches" to my diner friend, who must begin his shift.

Now I am standing behind her in the taxi line.

I am nervous.

First cab pulls up. "Fourth and Madison," she says. This cabbie refuses: Most cabs take three passengers, but the first determines which section of town they will drive to.

So if a cab accepts her and still has room for me, WE WILL RIDE TOGETHER. Fourth and Madison being one block south, two blocks west of me. And since I won't be asking for the same exact intersection, it won't TOTALLY seem like I'm stalking her. It's what they would call a "happy coincidence."

That’s how it goes down. I am SHARING A BACK SEAT WITH HER.

She buckles up. Backseat buckling is for wusses but I do it. I buckle up. But will I buckle down, or buckle under?

As we drive into the Hoboken night, I think, "Man, it's fucking creepy that I have two photos of this girl on my phone."

And then I think, I should say something.

There's a third passenger, in the front seat. A woman. I am not attracted to her.

I think, how can I talk to one without talking to everyone? What would Moberg do?

Maybe we'll drop off Front-Seaty first.

No.

We're headed to my street first.

Fuck.

I haven't said anything.

Maybe I'll say something as I get out.

But I don't.

Fuck.

Not even "goodnight."

I am angry at myself.

I am triste.

Later I post one of those pathetic "missed connection" messages on craigslist.
But there is no reply.
No reply at all, as Genesis once sang.
This is the time of no reply, said Nick Drake.

And the wind cries Moberg.

The Last Sandwich

"I've got bad news for you," said the guy behind the counter. "We're out of sun-dried tomatoes." And after a quick pause: "Wait, never mind, you don't get sun-dried tomatoes. Of course I get it wrong on the last time."

The last time? His sentence didn't make sense to me, but I didn't give it much thought as I fetched an orange juice from the refrigerated case.

My prosciutto-and-mutz sandwich was ready, and I took the $7.50 out of my pocket. I like to bring exact change, but I don't like to seem anal, so I always pretend that it’s a happy coincidence to have the precise amount on me.

"So thanks for your business over the years…."

Thanks for my business? The last time? He must've seen the confusion on my face. "You didn't know? Yeah, we're done. The lease was up, the rent kept going up, we couldn't do it anymore."

And so that's the end for Piccininni's Salumeria, the Italian deli at the quiet corner of 6th and Park in Hoboken. It's an all-too-common story in this town, but when you're a regular, it hits particularly hard. With the caveat that clearly it's infinitely harder on the out-of-business shopkeeper than on the guy who needs to find a new place to buy a sandwich.

As a creature of habit and as a person who doesn't cook, I'm a regular at a number of food establishments. Of course, there are different levels of being a regular. In some places I've developed friendships that transcend commerce. A couple of places count on me for amusing holiday cards. At the diner I only know the night crew, and I speak broken Spanish with them. And then there's a place or two where it's just the standard relationship: They recognize me, and they know what I order. (And they usually remember it doesn't involve sun-dried tomatoes.)

Such was the case with Piccininni's. I knew that the guy behind the counter was the son of the owner. I assume the last name is Piccininni but I don’t know for sure, and they don’t know my name either. But they made a real good sandwich. Fresh mozzarella cheese, known as "mutz," is one of the things Hoboken is famous for, in addition to being the birthplace of Frank Sinatra, baseball, the zipper, and Mallomars. I moved here in 1994 and my then-roommate Joe introduced me to perhaps the perfect use of the cheese, the prosciutto-and-mutz sandwich. In those years we lived closest to a deli called Luca Brasi's, so that's where we scored our sandwiches.

In 2000 I moved 5 blocks north and 5 blocks west, a little too far to make Luca Brasi's the regular stop. I now lived directly across the street from Hoboken's most famous Italian deli, Fiore's. In the Sopranos episode where Furio made mozzarella, the close-up hands were really from Fiore's. And though the food there is excellent, and I did enjoy rubbing elbows with Danny Aiello one December 24, Fiore's did not become my regular prosciutto-and-mutz place. The line was always way too long (it's just a sandwich, people!) and a comprehensive study by the Newark Star-Ledger claimed that Piccininni's actually made the better Hoboken mozzarella. Most important were the hours of operation. The delis tend to close before I get home from work, so weekend lunches are my only opportunity to go. Saturday lunch is booked. (Creature of habit, remember?) As for Sunday: Fiore's is closed, Piccinini's wasn’t.

So that became my tradition over the past eight years. I'd go order a sandwich. Getting ever so slightly more health-conscious over time, the accompanying beverage switched from a bottle of Coke to a can of Coke to a bottle of orange juice. I'd bring something to read in case there was a line, but it was never too long. I was a little jealous of the rapport that many customers had with the guys behind the counter—they'd speak Italian and laugh heartily—but I'd remind myself that there were other places where I was the preferred regular.

In the colder weather, I'd go home and eat in front of the TV. On nice days, I'd go sit on a bench in Church Square Park, one block from Piccininni's, and read the paper while I ate. Few things made me happier.

And now it's gone. I had my last Piccininni's sandwich today, and I'm not sure what I'll do next week. Slink back to Luca Brasi's? Or maybe Lisa's Deli up on 9th. And begin the slow process of becoming a regular all over again.