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.

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.