Shameless Self-Promotion

Yesterday I made my debut on the "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks. And today in the New York Press I continue to beat the dead horse of my youthful encounters with Ethan Hawke.

Out of Time

My watch stopped Saturday at 9:30 a.m. I know this because, well, that's when my watch stopped. I panicked a bit. This wasn't a repair I could do by myself. I own a Swiss Military-brand watch, and not even a Swiss Army knife could pry open the back. And I haven't had a lot of luck in the timepiece department.

Let's wind back the hands a little: It started with my first "grown-up" watch, an Omega that had belonged to my grandpa Jack. (Prior to this I favored cheap Armitron digital watches. I still get a warm feeling seeing that company's name at Yankee Stadium, though it now adorns an analog model.) My uncle had passed the Omega down to me. I was tremendously fond of that watch, even though I had to wind it every day. As time wore on, though, the winding wouldn't last a full 24 hours. Something was awry. But an old man in an old shop on Spring Street in Manhattan (Ennio, if I'm recalling correctly) did a nice job cleaning out the gears, and the old boy was soon happily ticking again.

I employed this gentleman's services on a few more occasions, until alas, his shop closed. And it was only a question of time before the Omega broke down again. Luckily, a store called... um... A Question of Time had opened on nearby MacDougal Street. An Eastern European couple ran the place, and also did nice work. Yet, despite doubling as Rosenberg's Jewelers which blew up in Men in Black, A Question of Time also went out of business.

By now I had given up on the ancient Omega. It was an emotional decision, but the frequency of repairs had gotten just too great. So I moved on to the aforementioned Swiss Military watch. Now I was in the modern world. No more winding. A cool-looking black face. Glow-in-the-dark hands. Day-of-the-week, day-of-the-month displays. Waterproof to 100 meters (for Swiss Navy SEALs?).

But no winding mechanism meant a battery that would die at some point. Which it did. So I took it to the nearby Swiss Army store on Prince Street. No, no, the Aryan woman behind the counter sniffed at me, that is a Swiss Military watch, and this is a Swiss Army store. I was about to draw her a Venn diagram when she produced a form which I could fill out and mail in with my watch, and shooed me out of the store. (Their website confusingly explains, "Victorinox Swiss Army Watch SA does not make the Swiss Military watches, a company called Wenger does. However, since summer 2005, Wenger is now part of the Victorinox family.")

I was not going to mail away my watch. I like looking at my wrist and knowing what time it is. And I don't realize how often I do that until I'm not wearing a watch. My fill-in watches, a Timex Ironman and a chintzy knockoff Clinton/Gore inauguration model, were not cutting it. My life was off-kilter. I needed to bring the Swiss Military watch back to life immediately.

Joon Lee Gifts on Hoboken's main drag saved the day. And all remained calm until 9:30 a.m. last Saturday. Which I knew was, coincidentally, the shop's last day in business. On a previous visit to purchase a calculator battery (I'm a dork, OK?), the proprietor had explained that the rents had gotten too high, so he was retiring. Or was he just too polite to mention… the Silbert Watch-Repair Curse? At any rate, I rushed to the store, as I didn't know what time he was closing. Nor what time it was.

I was too late. They had packed up the batteries. He kindly told me somewhere else to go, but his accent was too thick, so I just nodded and thanked him.

Great, now I had to find another watch-repair shop. I did some Googling that night and set out the next day. A new jewelry shop, advertising watch repair, had opened in downtown Hoboken. I walked over, but they were closed on Sunday. So I walked to another jewelry store in midtown Hoboken. A handwritten note on the door said that "Vicki" was at their uptown location that day. I schlepped up there… and it was also closed. So I high-tailed it back downtown to a weird combination jewelry/comic-book shop. They were open on Sundays… but closed at 4 p.m. It was now 4:15, according to my phone. Had I really become one of those animals who check the time on their phones?!?

The next morning, on my way to work, I tried the new jewelry store again. The door was locked. A woman inside mimed to me that they'd be open in one hour. And how was I supposed to calculate that? Follow the sun's passage across the sky? So I crossed into Manhattan. And there, on Hudson Street, was a place I had probably passed 100 times but never noticed:



Shoes and watches. Normally that might have given me pause for thought, but, when you've seen jewelry and comic books intermingling, everything's fair game. I stepped inside. It looked like they'd been there a while. In the back, an older fellow worked steadily at what I have to imagine was some sort of shoe-repairing machine. A wide assortment of shoes, belts, and handbags lined sagging plastic shelves. An old glass case held a variety of polishes. In the front of the shop, on the right side, sat a younger bearded fellow sporting a yarmulke. He was surrounded by watches and clocks—cuckoos, "Drink Pepsi," you name it.

I handed him my wounded watch. He asked if I wanted to wait…or come back later. The anxiety of being without my watch for even another moment began to rise, but I calmly inquired how long the wait would be. "Eh, five minutes," he shrugged. Now, I know New York City has a reputation for being fast-paced, but are there really people out there who wouldn't wait five minutes?

"The band is very worn, would you like me to replace it?" he asked. Oh, here it comes: the upsell. I didn't want to get suckered into some fancy-pants New York wristband. "How much would that cost?" I replied. "Twelve dollars," he said, which seemed totally reasonable. But before I could even say yes, he added, "I could let you have it for ten." Were we now haggling, or was I just receiving the "Tribe" discount? (And I hadn't even expressed interest in joining the mincha minyan advertised on the front door.)

I casually mentioned that I needed a 20-millimeter band. (It was that same impulse where, at the auto mechanic, you reassert your threatened manhood by referring to any car parts you know the name of.) Then, to while away the five minutes, I turned to my left, where I finally noticed a large display of bright, whimsically patterned plates, bowls, and cups. I was getting accustomed to the shoes and watches—they're both vaguely in the "accessories" family, and they both dig leather—but this threw me for a loop. There were PETA signs, photos of Moby; it all felt very… goyish. But as it turns out, David's Shoe & Watch Repair shares storefront space with Rose & Daisy's. And why not? Tight real estate makes for strange bedfellows. I love this crazy city.

Five minutes later, I knew I was exactly 18 minutes late for work. And all was right in the world.

Two Tales of One City

The media converge on Hoboken's City Hall.



The meatiest converge on Hoboken's City Hall Bake Shop.

The Crimes of Cammarano

In a rare moment of justice, Hoboken's disgraced yuppie-asshole thug-wannabe child-mayor Peter Cammarano resigned in shame on Friday, a week after being arrested in the massive federal corruption investigation. Despite couldn't-be-more-damning transcripts of his transgressions, Petey had denied any wrongdoing and vowed to stay in office. That is, until additional indiscretions came to light. In a Salt in Wound exclusive, I can now reveal those improprieties.


• Has had Bribe-Taking for Dummies overdue from the Hoboken Public Library for three weeks.

• Mussed up junk mail on Henry Louis Gates's kitchen table, obscuring said professor’s house keys.

• Assured Letterman that it was Sarah Palin’s older daughter at the Yankees game.

• Reminded Jon Gosselin that he was “married, not dead.”

• Sold human organs.

• Sold Hammond organs.

• Talked about Fight Club.

• Told Michael Jackson that Sominex was “for pussies.”

• Messed with Texas.

• Suggested a way for David Ortiz to shake the nickname “Moderately-Sized Papi.”

• Killed a drifter with his bare hands.

• Wore white after Labor Day.

• Told Sammy Hagar that driving 55 was “also for pussies.”

• Shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.

• Tore that little tag off his mattress.

• Stopped and dropped; didn't roll.

• Shot the sheriff. (Denies shooting deputy.)

• Rewound, but for purely selfish reasons.

Hablo Español. Un Poco.

I don’t mind too much when it rains on Saturdays. At least I get to enjoy a running joke with the counter guys at Piccolo’s. Though the cast of characters has changed over the years, they’re always from Mexico. And this has allowed me yet another opportunity to practice my rudimentary Spanish.

From 7th through 12th grades, I took Spanish class: From Señora Taylor’s impassioned plea for us to “¡Eschuchen!” to Señor Shuey showing us It’s a Wonderful Life just because it was important, to delivering a how-to speech on playing the harmonica with your nose for Señor Gil’s class (“Cómo Tocar La Armónica con su Nariz”).

There weren’t many chances to speak Spanish in college, so the nuances of the language quickly began to fade. Specifically, any verb tense other than present. But when I moved to north Jersey and started working in New York City, Spanish was everywhere: On subway ads, TV stations, and oh those service jobs.

So I’d test out my rusty Spanish on Estela and Angela, the after-hours cleaning women at work. And with Lazero and Alejandro, the after-hours staff at my local diner. And with Luis and Xochitl, the sandwich guy and cashier at the office cafeteria. I tried to speak only Spanish with these friends, and though my grasp of the language didn’t improve, it didn’t get markedly worse.

Lazero co-owned (I think he did—again, my Spanish is not very strong) a record store in Spanish Harlem. We bonded over this, as I am obsessed with music. I visited the store and couldn’t remember if the band I’d heard and liked in the diner was Los Baby’s or Los Bybys, so I bought CDs by them both. Ultimately, I didn’t care for either one, but the whole experience led to perhaps my proudest moment in the language: an original joke. As I would leave the diner, Lazero would often call out, “Vaya con Díos.” And on this one day, I replied, “Vaya con Discos,” the Spanish word for records. I was pretty pleased with myself.

I never get too cocky, though, as I am never far from a miscue. Which brings us back to Piccolo’s, my regular Saturday lunch place. It was a weekend several years ago, and it was raining, and I felt a need to point out that obvious fact. So on that fateful day, I intended to say, “El cielo… llover,” a clumsy infinitive-form of “the sky is raining.” But what I actually uttered was, “El cielo… llorar,” or “the sky is crying.” Now, maybe Elmore James is cool enough to get away with that sort of metaphorical locution, but not so for a cheesesteak-ordering Jersey boy. So many a laugh was had.

And, years later, the laughs continue. I think they’re laughing with me, not at me, though I’m never 100% sure. Each week we gaze out the large window next to the cash register, and comment on the weather’s mood. A little sad? Very sad? Happy now, sad tomorrow? On overcast days I have often been handed a paper towel, for later, to wipe my tears. And on a few occasions I’ve been given a scrap of paper:





Once, I made a preemptive strike by drawing a sunny day—but it was quickly edited:



The rain eventually lets up… but the joke never will. Es para siempre.

Saturday Night Burger Buddy

"Excuse me, now, I don't mean this to be something weird...."

Oh boy, here it comes, something weird. He wants money. He must want money.

3:30 a.m. on the PATH train. It had been a long Saturday night, what with the college-radio friend's art opening and the record-store friend's friend's band's gig and the art opening after-party. Plus daylight saving time. I just wanted to be home in bed. But it appeared that first, I'd be having a conversation with this fellow sitting across from me, one of only a few passengers on the train car.

He explained—gesturing to the white paper bag next to him—that he had purchased too much food at White Castle.

Will I buy some of the food off him. He wants money. He must want money.

So would I like a cheeseburger?

Now, I'm a college-educated, respected professional, just short of turning 40, so of course I gave the only logical response: "Uh....sure." Get a few drinks in me on a Saturday night, and I turn into a LOLcat.

He handed me the slider, and I thanked him. But before taking a bite, I noticed the conductor who had just entered the train car. "They don't allow eating on the train," I said, all holier-than-thou, "so we'll have to ask her permission."

It was totally OK with her. This sparked a discussion of ethics and modern culture with my cheeseburger chum: people's lack of appreciation for those who clean the trains, me quoting liberally from a viral Louis CK clip, the need to treat everyone with respect, et cetera, et cetera. All the while we both chowed down.

Train's almost in the station. Brace yourself, man. Here comes the pitch. He wants money. He must want money.

I was getting off in Hoboken, and he was staying on to Jersey City, so we said our farewells, and I profusely thanked him again for his generosity. But as I exited the station and walked the quiet night streets of the Mile Square City, a thought occurred: Perhaps I should not have eaten the cheeseburger.

I could've just accepted it—as to not seem rude—but "saved it for later" or maybe clandestinely inserted it in my jacket sleeve whilst pretending to eat. He didn't want money, but he must've wanted something. To kill a random train passenger with a poisoned burger? No, no, he was eating also. Well of course—he handed you the poisoned one, dummy. Great, I'm going to die. I'm not going to make it to my 40th birthday because I ate a hamburger given to me by a random man on the train in the middle of the night. Did "don't take candy from strangers" not sink into my brain from all those classroom scare-tactic films? But no, he and I just had that morality chat—he's a good man, not a cold-blooded killer! Maybe I won't die, I'll just get really, really sick. That wouldn't be too bad. Heck, I deserve it. What diseases could be purposely transmitted via wafer-thin beef patty, bun, cheese, and diced onions? Did I eat a pickle? I think I ate a pickle. I don't like pickles. I guess I'm still a little drunk. Oh I don't want to die.

It's four days later, and I'm still not dead. No apparent symptoms, not even any gastrointestinal distress. (I've got kind of a cast-iron gut.) And the scary thing is, I have to imagine I'd do it again.

Maybe I should've offered him money. He wanted money, but was too proud. I'd gladly pay him Tuesday for a hamburger today.

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.