DJ Thomas and the Ramada
My flight got me into Newark early.
Good news for me, I needed all the time back east I could get.
Nothing’s cheap anymore.
Not even New Jersey’s affordable, anymore.
They’re getting over five hundred bucks a night, some nights, for Hiltons in Hoboken and Jersey City.
This trip had to move smoothly. The clock was ticking.
I only had three or four days, tops, to get my storage unit cleared out and packed up. Besides that, I had other scattered scandals, responsibilities, and meetings to attend.
It’s Autumn, 2023. The airport curbside is chilly, wet, and grey. It was barely 9am.
We hadn’t even pulled out of the passenger pick-up area, I was already sunken, low in my hoody and fleece, in the backseat of the Lyft.
We drove south, onto Routes 1 and 9, beneath the Anheuser-Busch eagle’s neon wings.
Real Newark OGs prefer Ballantine.
My rideshare was bringing me straight to my hotel, the Sheraton, in Edison, where my brother’s car was waiting for me, in the parking lot. The keys were left in an envelope with my name at the front desk.
It was too early to check in, so I grabbed the keys and a Starbucks, found the car and headed north, past the Whitney Houston rest area, directly to the milk crate factory.
It was important that I stay focused and remain on-schedule.
The milk crate factory opens at 10am.
My flight landing early was a blessing. Time is a blessing and time’s going fast.
On this trip, priority one was to empty out my storage unit and get my things (most importantly, my record collection) sent safely to our house, back west.
My old friend in Jersey does shipping and logistics by the docks, in Elizabeth. He could get my stuff on a truck out to Vegas. He says it’s no big deal, as long as everything stacks neatly, onto a pallet. All I needed was a certain style and size of plastic milk crates for my cherished vinyl records.
Lucky for me, the factory that makes them, the Milkcratesdirect.com world headquarters, happens to be in Jersey. I was saving myself a hundred bucks on shipping by driving to the plant, in Parsippany, and picking up the crates, myself.
My early arrival, at Newark Liberty, had me pleasantly ahead of schedule.
The guy at the front desk of the milk crate place found my order right away and told me to pull around back.
The warehouse was a beautiful, real-life Tetris come true, a 20 foot tall minecraft rainbow of colorful cubes. I couldn’t help but to take a few pictures of the mile-high milk crate mosaic.
Me and the guy from the place packed my borrowed, mid-sized SUV with as many crates as we could fit, about 16, in total.
“I may have to come back tomorrow for a few more.”
“No problem, we’ll be here.”
Stackable milk crates procured, I was now able to begin the process of cleaning out my storage unit, getting everything over to my friend’s warehouse and packed onto pallets.
I headed straight back to Edison. I had barely slept on the flight and still needed to get some rest.
The Sheraton Edison is located just 7 miles from the Outerbridge Crossing, connecting Perth Amboy, New Jersey to Staten Island, New York City’s least popular borough. From there, it’s a breeze to Brooklyn, long as you time it right, so you don’t hit traffic on the Verrazano.
Home to the Funkmaster Flex Car Show and annual EXXXOTICA Expo, Edison is New Jersey’s fifth largest municipality, and is located in Middlesex County, just outside “the City”, in working class Central New Jersey.
Edison is a fine location for many things, like custom car audio, getting certain sandwiches, or securing a semi-affordable storage unit.
The Township was called “Raritan” until 1954, when it was renamed in honor of its most famous resident, Thomas Alva Edison, whose home and laboratory were located in the town’s Menlo Park neighborhood. Thomas Edison’s nickname, “The Wizard of Menlo Park” is in reference to his time researching and residing in Central Jersey.
Edison, the place, is where Edison, the man, invented (his iteration of) the lightbulb.
Since its dedication, in 1938, the Thomas Alva Edison Memorial Tower and Museum has marked the location of his prolific laboratory. The tower is a 130 foot tall, art deco, concrete obelisk, topped with a 13’ foot Pyrex lightbulb. Next door, there’s a museum, tours, and a gift shop. Every day, neighborhood residents make good use of the benches and walking paths throughout the lovely, well-kept grounds.
Far beyond this town in New Jersey, the entire world has come to recognize the lightbulb as the symbol for “ideas”.
Throughout the years, lightbulbs (and the lightbulb tower) have appeared in Edison Township’s art direction and visual identity. They’ve even had that lightbulb tower on some of the cop cars and garbage trucks.
The town slogan is “Let There be Light”, words spoken, not by Tom Edison, but by God, in The Bible’s Book of Genesis.
Edison, the man, was complicated, and there is a great deal of controversy surrounding his business ethics and showmanship. As much as I love a spirited lightbulb discussion (shout to Nicky T. and Lewis Latimer), my “Edison Pride” revolves around another of the man’s inventions.
In 1877, the record player was born in Edison, New Jersey.
Two years before the lightbulb, right there, in Menlo Park, DJ Thomas Edison spun the very first record (cylinder), “Mary Had a Little Lamb”.
The phonograph record player, and recorded sound, had entered the chat.
Being “The Birthplace of Recorded Sound” is a huge deal. There is no way to fully comprehend or measure the impact this innovation has had on humankind.
Edison being the birthplace of the turntable is also a huge deal, of earthshaking cultural and historical significance, especially to me. Especially as it pertains to the musical genres and countercultural movements with which I’d become obsessed and involved over the course of the rest of my life.
In 1977, one hundred years after the turntable’s birth, I was born in a hospital, a few blocks away from Thomas Edison’s Menlo Park workshop.
My parents met while working at the Edison Ramada Inn, right across from the Sheraton. They both worked in the restaurant, right off the Lobby. Dad was the cook and mom was the waitress. It’s one of the oldest stories there is.
I am proud to have been born in the same town as the turntable
Turntables, along with their corresponding grooved discs of wax, have played a seismic role in my life and my happiness.
Edison's invention of recorded sound, and the phonograph record player, are massive, historical milestones that cannot be overlooked or overstated.
New Jersey’s spicy center, Central Jersey is a unique and spectacularly culturally-diverse region, criminally under-documented, chronically misunderstood, throbbing and thriving, right in the middle of a state that everybody hates.
Edison (and Central Jersey) is a strange and difficult place to explain. Then again, no one ever really tries to explain it.
In addition to providing scenic, b-roll footage for many episodes of The Sopranos, over the years, Edison has produced a steady stream of quiet, run-ins with popular culture.
1995’s "Can It Be All So Simple (Remix)”, by Wu Tang Clan rapper Raekwon, makes direct reference to “Job Corps” and “Ray Catena”, two Edison institutions.
Susan Sarandon graduated from Edison High School. So did poker God, Phil Ivey. Winetrepreneur, motivational speaker, and NFT bro, Gary “Vee" Vaynerchuk, and writer, Junot Diaz, both lived in Edison. So did my Herbert Hoover Middle School classmate and sixth grade friend, Brittany Murphy.
Edison is where fictional rocker, Eddie Wilson, wrecked his car in the 1983 cult classic film, Eddie & The Cruisers and where crooked Sopranos Detective, Vin Makazian, decided to reconcile his debts and regrets.
Recently, Edison native, Bones Brigade pro skater, and current Black Flag vocalist, Mike Vallely, released a graphic novel titled Boulevard of the Eagles, named after the street on which Edison High School resides.
In 2016, Saveur called Edison “One of America’s Best Indian Food Destinations” and a 2017 Eater NY article titled “The Best Indian Food in New York is in New Jersey” is evidence that Edison is close enough to be absorbed into New York’s glory, when it fits New York’s story.
Most days, Edison sits, a hectic, overlooked exit at the crossroads of the Turnpike, the Parkway, and Routes 1 and 9.
Yes, when it comes to custom car audio systems, certain sandwiches, and affordable self storage, Edison is a fine location. Far enough outside of the city, so that it’s significantly less expensive, yet close enough for relative quick and easy access.
Those very same reasons landed my grandparents in the area, a generation before. My great grandparents, lived in Brooklyn, Bedford Stuyvesant and Sunset Park. Like many immigrants in New York’s endless cycle of recent-arrivals, they were eventually priced-out and or scared-off by propaganda. In many cases, they’d get lured out to the ‘burbs with the promise of prosperity.
Now, it’s all one, big disco “stew”.
One electric pulsating gumbo.
The “Try State” Area.
The Greater New York City Metropolitan Area.
The Megalopolis.
Places like Edison are freight elevators in the New York machine.
104 years after a couple of my relatives first started hanging around this part of New Jersey, I was standing in a 20 x 4 square foot, corrugated steel box, packing my belongings (and some of theirs) into my special, Jersey-made milk crates.
My room at the Sheraton was about a mile or two away from the storage facility, and at around $120 per night, was somewhat affordable. Still, I was painfully aware of the quickly falling sand in the glass.
My days started well before 7am.
The sorting-out of my clothing and collections kept me deep within the guts of the fluorescent-lit facility for two or three-hour stretches at a time. The place is heated, so it was warm, but this work hurts. It’s a lot of knee-cracking and back pain, Hefty bags and dust, endless hours of remembering and editing.
The process was, sort-out one section of the unit, separate the trash, then, load up my brother’s car with the things I was sending west, the things I was keeping. Once the car was packed, and I couldn’t fit anything more, I’d drive the 13 miles north, to my friend’s warehouse in the Elizabeth Industrial Park. I’d repeat this process two or three times a day, throughout my stay. Back and forth, Edison to Elizabeth, carload after carload. My friend made a special area for me and my pallets in one of his building’s back loading bays.
My strategy was to get to the unit early and get as much done as possible, before crashing. Best to get the trips to Elizabeth over-with as early as possible. That way, I could get back to the hotel sooner and get some work done and sleep. The bar / restaurant off the Sheraton lobby had a happy hour special, 50% off all appetizers from 4-6pm. I’m frequently on the lookout for that kind of value.
In the mornings, I’d leave my hotel well-before 7am and head towards the storage place. Each day, I’d stop at the 7-Eleven on Vineyard Road.
My daily breakfast was simple, a standard, morning meal for most New Jersey workmen, coffee and a buttered roll. Thick slabs of butter on a just-made kaiser roll.
Perfection, every time.
It was comforting, being at that particular “Sev”, my home-base, teenage “Sev”. My original, box of Newports and Mint Snapple “Sev”. It’s just a few blocks over from my grandparents’ Idlewild Road house, where I went to live for the last two years of high school.
It’s funny that anything can be called both “idle” and “wild”, and that Edison backwards is “No Side”, and that there’s local little league called “Midtown”. All of this sits in the County of “Middlesex”.
Because of my packing routine’s early hour, I kept catching the 7-Eleven building in golden sunrise lighting. Surrounding trees framed the convenience store with toasted fall foliage.
One morning, in the 7-Eleven parking lot, an idling Mitsubishi’s rear was adorned with a popular, local bumper sticker. Next to an outline of the State of New Jersey, the words, “We don’t like you either.”
Everybody hates New Jersey.
The struggle is real.
On my first, full day in town, while crouched uncomfortably, shuffling through a stack of 90s rap mags, something jostled my memory, making me sit up and open my iPhone’s calendar.
It hit me like a 40 of O.E., it was my 31st anniversary of being alcohol-free.
Not only was it my anniversary, coincidentally (or perhaps, profoundly, subconsciously on-purpose), I was in Edison, the town where I went to my first meetings and began my “road to recovery”, 31 years earlier.
I was lucky to have been afforded the opportunity to escape the fate suffered by many people around to me. I had seen the effects of alcoholism and drugs on many people I love. I had also seen the effects of alcoholism and drugs on many people I didn’t love. It was just as sad, both ways. It was obvious that if I continued drinking, things would end up the same for me.
Never again did I want to I wake up from a blackout, in a Newark city subway station.
It’s a miracle that I somehow found “the rooms”.
When I was ready, I was ready.
When I was ready, I surrendered. I did everything the “old timers” told me. I did a “90 meetings in 90 days”, I immediately got a temporary sponsor, I arrived at meetings early and I stayed at meetings late. I emptied ashtrays and folded chairs and I shared. I wanted very badly to stay off the sauce. I got with good people, good men with “good time” and good sobriety. I listened to every suggestion. With the help of a fellowship, and having good guidance through the “steps”, I was able to put down the bottle at an early age.
Sometimes, we’d go on “speaking commitments”, where we’d share our “experience, strength, and hope” to other groups, at meetings throughout New Jersey, Brooklyn, and Queens. They’d send speakers to our meetings, too. That’s part of “how it works”.
On nights we had commitments, we’d pile into the car, three of four struggling drunks, and drive to meetings in basements, back when you could still smoke in the downstairs of churches. We’d smoke in the car the whole way, too. They’d call it “the meeting before the meeting” and “the meeting after the meeting”.
The guys who helped me get sober were all blue collar guys who worked nearby. Some of them used to work at the Ford plant, before they started laying everybody off. A lot the guys were in construction or home improvements of some kind. Many worked in Manhattan and commuted into the city daily, via NJ Transit’s “Northeast Corridor” line.
Some nights, after our meetings, we’d stop at a diner, for food.
Before the meetings, my sponsor and I would stop for coffee and cigarettes at the 7-Eleven on Vineyard Road. If nobody needed cigarettes we’d go to Dunkin’ Donuts, instead. But somebody always needed cigarettes.
It’s comforting, knowing that “Sev” is still there.
Just up a little ways from the 7-Eleven and the self storage, there’s a well-reviewed Korean BBQ spot in the strip mall where another one of the Irish lost their final battle with the bottle.
Also nearby, a popular storefront church is adorned with a flashing LED light display and hologram Jesus, the whole shebang. They’re right by the Boston Market jug handle, across from the rowdy pool hall and Penang.
The day I realized it was my anniversary, I figured I should get myself a decent, sit-down lunch. I was in the mood for classic, “Jersey Diner” fare.
While living in Edison, The Plaza Diner was my “home diner”.
The Plaza was closest to my grandparents’ house and to my sponsor’s house. Most alcoholics, recovering and active, loved The Plaza Diner.
But The Plaza Diner’s been closed for years now.
I was hungry and exhausted from sifting through my storage unit’s hoarde forest, from crouching all morning, breathing magazine mold and deteriorated sneaker dust.
I decided to hit the Edison Diner, a solid stalwart on the diner scene.
Something told me to order the cheeseburger deluxe, so that’s what I did. I was swiftly delivered one of the better burgers I’ve had in the last three years.
Edison changes fast and constantly and sometimes, for the better.
Some diners change, some families change.
Nobody wants to be the legacy-ender. Definitely not any Greeks.
Nobody’s able to take that weight. Not on a diet of John Wayne and chili. Not if you did your part, driving and pulling night shifts for your brothers for twenty or forty years.
Correction, there are definitely people who would love to see certain legacies ended. Sometimes it’s even the legacy members themselves.
Imagine the pain, if your father never bothered to give you a name of your own.
Imagine being “saved”, over and over again, by a whiskey heiress?
That’s the Irish for you.
After my first day of working in the unit, I was too tired to venture outside for dinner. A most pleasant surprise, I noticed that Tastee Sub Shop was available on Door Dash. Minutes later, my submarine sandwich was unwrapped and gone, inhaled, right there, on a sofa, in the Sheraton lobby.
In Edison, a Tastee Sub is the main sandwich to get.
"Tastee Subs” sounds like a kinky escort service, but it isn’t.
Located on Plainfield Avenue, Tastee Subs is a sandwich shop, beloved by area residents since opening in 1962.
This isn’t the place for specialty, gourmet sandwiches, or imported Italian deli things, but for simple, standard subs (think tuna, turkey, ham, pepperoni, capocollo), Tastee’s is the gold standard.
It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why.
We know that the bread is great and fresh and we know that the meat used to come in plain, unmarked sleeves. Whatever it may be, everybody agrees, Tastee subs are pretty much perfect.
Obama ate at Tastee Subs in 2010, while politicking through town.
There are three locations, but Edison is the OG.
I wanted to hit every place on my sandwich list, but I was interested in other local fare as well, besides sandwiches.
One night, I met up with Amy Day, my friend from Susan Sarandon’s alma mater.
We were both in the mood for a “red sauce” joint.
Amy, a redhead, suggested Edison Pizza, on Woodbridge Avenue. She said it’s solid and I believe her. Amy knows what she’s doing.
It was interesting that I had never been.
We split a mozzarella sticks and she got a personal pie. I had the chicken piccata. Years ago, someone off the New York Times Bestseller List, predicted this exact order of mine.
Amy was right, the place was decent.
On the way to our cars, I noticed the “LA BAGEL” sign, just a few doors down from where we had just dined.
I blurted out loud, “Oh, L.A. BAGEL. My mom loves those. That’s her favorite.”
An eavesdropping man on the sidewalk agreed, joining our conversation with a heartfelt, “She’s right.”
My friend’s eyebrows arched.
I wondered aloud about something that had been bothering me, “Is it pronounced L.A. Bagel, like Los Angeles? Or os it La Bagel? Like French? The logo’s in all caps, I can’t tell…”
“Oh my God… I wonder the same thing, every freakin’ day. I live a few blocks away, up the road.”
The man on the sidewalk stood up from zipping his daughter’s jacket, obviously elated to finally be having this conversation with someone who’d listen.
I too, was happy.
You could tell that this guy had thought about this, quite a bit.
Now I was thinking about it. Both names are lousy. Neither makes sense. Bagels from Los Angeles? Bagels from France? Who wants those, man?
It was time for everyone to go home.
I said goodnight to Ms. Day and boarded my brother’s vehicle.
Still curious, at the first red light, I grabbed my phone and did a search for "LA Bagel Edison”. I carefully zoomed-in on the photos.
Boom. French.
My research revealed that “LA BAGEL” has a little bagel character in their logo and they’re wearing a red beret.
It’s “La Bagel”, like French.
On average, Jersey and Long Island have some of the best pizza and bagel spots of anywhere in the states. I’m not talking the really good spots, like Lucali or Totonno’s, in Brooklyn. The five boroughs have those kinds of places on lock. I mean just plain, regular, everyday slices, the kind that used to be all over the city.
What I’m saying is, in New Jersey and Long Island, the average slice is above-average.
Just as with pizza, New Jersey and Long Island have way better bagels than Los Angeles or France.
Although, now that I think about it, maybe it’s “La Bagel” in Montreal French, Canadian French. That could make sense, bagel-wise.
For the rest of my short drive, back to the Sheraton, I wondered about bagels and which other Edison Italian spots I should check out while I was in town. I used to like Desti’s sometimes, but they’re gone, too.
South Edison isn’t the largest area in the world, but even still, it’s no surprise that I had never been to Edison Pizza.
Barely a mile from the apartment, where I briefly lived with my mother, during the nineties, it hadn’t ever occurred to me to step foot inside. Why would I need to? There were three more pizza parlors between there and my crib.
In this part of the world, the neighborhood pizza parlor serves as a sort of public utility service and community center. The pizza parlor often acts as government and university. It was also your kitchen. A lot of latchkey 80s babies were fed nightly, by meals from these neighborhood Italian restaurants. The dinners always came with a salad and bread.
It’s rare you would be disloyal to “your” pizza parlor. I mean, it happens all the time, but for the most part, your pizza parlor was your pizza parlor. You didn’t necessarily have active beef with the other ones, you just went where you went.
It wasn’t that big of a deal because at the end of the day, all of the pizza places in the area were pretty good back then.
At one point, my mother and I lived in an apartment, directly behind the strip mall where our neighborhood pizza parlor, Mama Maria’s, slung a steady, daily stream of parmesans, pastas, and pies.
We were right across Route 1 from the Beauty Rest Motel.
Mama Maria’s had always been my favorite. That was my pizza parlor, that’s where I hung out with my friends and where eventually, I worked, as a teen. Mama Maria’s was next to the liquor store and the payphones and the Pathmark. It’s where young people would often meet up and gather.
Before I started working there, whenever passing by, on the sidewalk, my juvenile delinquent friends and I would throw open the doors and shout inside, to the Staten Island-based family of comedians behind the counter, “Hey, where’s Mama Maria?”
Every day, we’d receive the same answer, “She’s in the back, doin’ the boys.”
Sometimes the old man would shout to us, “Hey fellas, what’s the good word?”
As instructed, we’d respond, “Legs!”
The old man would grin and tell us, “Spread the good word.”
When we were around 14 or 15 years old, I convinced the old man to let some friends and I throw an all-ages, hip-hop party, in his restaurant. I called the party "9 Double M”. Sammy Figueroa, from Rutgers University’s WRSU, deejayed, as well as a rotation of selectors from our little crew of homies. 4 bucks to get in. We kept the door, the pizza parlor kept the food and beverage. It was a great success. We set up our sound system in the back of the restaurant’s dining room, where Mama Maria was nowhere to be found.
In 2020, while visiting back east, I stopped-in for a bite, one night.
Other than the name having changed to Attilio’s, the pizza parlor remained absolutely untouched.
The strip mall’s TCBY is long gone and the Pathmark grocery store is now a 99 Ranch Market. Le Peep is still there, at the north end of Wick Plaza, serving up breakfast.
Besides the name, and the fact that Danny, Rino, and the old man were gone, the place was exactly the same as it was on the night of Saturday, April 3rd, 1993… the night of “9 Double M”.
In 2020, the chicken parm was “just okay”.
In October of 2023, the whole space stood vacant.
Empty.
No Mama Maria, no Attilio.
Back in the day, Attilio’s was a stand-alone pizza spot, a tiny little building, right between Ray Catena and the Roy Rogers jug handle. Attilio’s left that space a long time ago and last I saw, it was an AT&T.
I guess somehow, over the years, they ended up in the Mama Maria’s space.
There’s been a lot of change, in Edison, when it comes to pizza parlor locations.
There’s an H Mart where the old Zia Lisa Pizza used to be.
Zia Lisa moved into the old Irene’s Pizza space, across from Tastee, on Plainfield Ave.
Irene’s had a Street Fighter arcade game and Irene’s was where my friend Nicky worked for a while, doing deliveries. Sometimes I’d ride along and we’d shoot the shit and hope for tips.
Pacella’s Italian deli is gone. Now it’s a Vietnamese sandwicherie called Baguette Delite. Mister Pacella made a great Italian hot dog and Pasta Fagioli. He never ratted me out when I’d cut school and sit for hours, in the back of his cafe, smoking cigarettes and ordering the bare minimum.
Across town, on the Lincoln Highway, the Pines Manor’s still there, and I already told you, the Plaza Diner’s gone. The bakery, next door, has been rebranded to “La Bon”, but somebody was saying it’s not so great anymore.
The Entenmann’s factory outlet store is gone. How could anybody ever compete with that? For years, Edison had an Entenmann’s factory outlet. Nobody’s touching the old corn muffins. Nobody’s touching the Louisiana Crunch Cake or Cinnamon Filbert Ring.
I’m always right in the middle of what used to be, what’s the same, and what’s coming.
My grandfather used to have a little flower shop, a little ways further-up Route 27, but it’s massage parlor now. There’s no way I’d ever be able to bring myself to visit.
In Latin, one Irish family motto translates to, “Not Without Danger”.
I’ll keep it safe and change the subject to “Wawa'.
There never used to be Wawa convenience stores this far north.
That’s a (relatively) new thing.
There was Krauser’s, Cumberland Farms, and 7-Eleven, of course. But mostly there were one-off bodegas and corner stores. Many connected to gas stations.
First Wawa I ever saw was down towards Princeton. It’s only recently they’ve come up this far.
I was happy to see one, just a little ways up from my hotel, on Woodbridge Avenue, right between Raritan Center and Middlesex County College.
You have to understand, New Jersey-just-outside-of-New-York is completely different than New Jersey-just-outside-of-Philly. They’re two, totally different places, two, very different things.
That being said, I am thankful for their beloved Wawa.
For years, Philly people and South Jersey people have sung the praises of Wawa, the ultra clean convenience store chain whose locations usually include a sandwich counter (they call ‘em hoagies, down there), delicious, store-brand soft drinks, phenomenal Philly pretzels, and the absolute most thorough selection of Tastykakes (no affiliation with Tastee Subs) one will ever encounter. We’re talking the full range, every one of their Krimpets and pies. The entire “Winter Collection”.
Over the years, I’ve overheard Wawa people talk about Wawa Hoagies the same way Florida people talk about Publix “Pub Subs”, the same way Edison people talk about Tastee Subs.
Wawa Hoagies were now available in Edison and I was curious.
One night, back at the Sheraton, after a full day of sorting, packing, and driving, I went onto Door Dash and called for a Wawa sandwich.
I ordered a version of my usual, Tastee Sub Shop order.
Wawa uses a different size and shape sandwich roll, so I wasn’t sure how the bread / meat / veg ratios would work out, but I gave it a shot.
Pepperoni, provolone, lettuce, tomato, onion, tiny bit of mayo, oil, extra, extra vinegar.
Verdict: Really great.
It was nowhere near the precise artistry / craftsmanship of a Tastee sub, and about half the total mass, but the Wawa sandwich was tasty. Nice bread, quality ingredients, good ratios. On top of everything, the price was great. Under 10 bucks, super affordable. Best sandwich you’ll ever get at that price. One of the best sandwiches you’ll ever get at a gas station.
Wawa had continued to win me over.
There’s no way I’d ever use the word “hoagie”, but I will say that the Wawa sandwich is a damn good sandwich. And, sandwiches aside, I was already a fan of their whole set-up inside, anyway. Wawa’s the only place that ever had the sepcific lemon pies that I liked.
On this trip, I had more sandwiches to try than I had time.
Part of me wanted to get to White Rose System for a burger or pork roll, but I had been there recently and at my age, grease bombs of that density can be a bit heavy and depressing.
My storage mission was progressing, according to plan, and it looked like I was gonna have everything packed up on-schedule.
One night, my mother was passing through Edison and wanted to meet up for dinner. She wanted Italian, so I suggested Edison Pizza, the place Amy Day had just put me on to. My mother was happy to meet there, she had never been, either.
I arrived first and grabbed a table in the dining room.
One table over, two Senior women were discussing an “upcoming ancestry festival”, their AARP meeting, and bad weather that hadn’t yet happened.
One of the women asked the other, “What are all the fundraisers for, if they’re scared to spend anything on getting proper entertainment?”
From the basket that had been placed before me, I spread half of a roasted garlic bulb onto some piping-hot bread.
Mom was stuck in traffic.
When she arrived, we ordered and got caught up and ate. We were both happy with our meals. This time, I think I switched it up to chicken Francese.
As much as I love turtles and progress, part of me is glad there are still places serving chicken Francese and serving drinks with plastic straws.
Mom and I stepped outside and hugged good bye. As we turned to walk towards our cars, she pointed to a sign above the entrance to an empty retail space.
“Ricigliano, 2013.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but mom clarified.
“Antonia Ricigliano. First female Mayor of Edison. She came to your grandmother’s wake.”
I pointed to the next sign over from what was apparently, my grandma’s friend’s 2013 campaign headquarters.
“La Bagel!”
(I said it in French)
Mom told me, “I usually go to the other one, on Route 27.”
We said goodnight and I drove back up Woodbridge Ave.
At some point during my stay, because of an increase in nightly rates, I had moved to a new hotel, right across the street from the Sheraton.
It was a little less nice, but it was fine.
Eerily, my new hotel stood in the shadow of the now-abandoned Ramada Inn, where my parents first met, as food service co-workers.
Although the hotel was shuttered, Harold’s New York Delicatessen, with its own, separate entrance, remained open and busy.
Known for it’s pastrami and pickle bar, Harold’s holds a solid position on the sandwich lists of most local residents.
It was strange to stare at the decaying, shoddy shell of this once-bustling hotel. It used to be one of the only shows in town. After my days-long dives into remembrance, high school wardrobe, and nightclub flyers, this building took on a heavier symbolism than usual.
What if this mid-range business hotel in Middlesex county had never operated?
Looks like soon it’ll be gone.
Over at my new hotel, the entryway was adorned with an inordinate amount of George Nelson lighting fixtures. I couldn’t see whether or not they were real.
Regardless of the lights, this place was shady.
The room floor hallways featured all sorts of cries and enterprise. All of the rooms’ TVs were turned way-up loud and everybody seemed to be coughing.
Just outside the lobby, facing the hollowed Ramada, a purple, child’s bike is leaned nervously against a shrub.
It was time to head out.
Day Four: Mission Accomplished
On day four, I made my last trip to Elizabeth. Almost two tons, mostly records. Packed onto pallets and headed out West.
Goodbye, monthly storage unit bill.
My bags at the hotel were packed for the next morning’s early flight home.
After finishing-up in Elizabeth, I met my cousin Dante, in Newark.
We met in a parking lot, over by Wayne Shorter Way. Dante drove and we joked about one of the old theaters as we headed to Harrison, towards a most-memorable breakfast.
Many consider the Tops Diner the “The best diner in New Jersey.”
In this instance, many are not wrong.
My cousin is a serious, Newark guy. He knows what he’s doing.
In one of the most powerful restaurant flexes I’ve ever seen in my life, Dante ordered Eggs Benedict on Pork Roll.
Salute, my General.
I had the corned beef hash. It was fire.
My cousin, having been raised just-slightly north of Edison, was curious as to what I called New Jersey’s favorite mystery meat.
“Pork Roll or Taylor Ham?”
Legend has it that North Jersey says “Taylor Ham”, South Jersey says “Pork Roll.”
Staying on-brand with the ambiguity of “No Side” and “Midtown”, it occurred to me that I’ve always used both, interchangeably.
The product’s official name is “Taylor Pork Roll” so, everybody’s right.
On my way to the airport, next day, once again, I’m thinking about past times in the City of Bricks. Times besides that last night I “tied one on”, three decades ago.
I’m thinking about my one, lady friend, from way back in the day, who lived up on Mapes.
My last memory is of dropping her off in Newark. We were sitting in front of her building, laughing together and saying goodbye. I forget what we were talking about, but I remember, as she's getting out of the car, I told her, “You seem like the type who can’t control themself.”
She replied by just ice-grilling me and spitting her toothpick onto the sidewalk.
She winked as she walked away, slinking up the front stoop and disappearing into the darkness of the first floor apartment she shared with her aunt from Guyana.
Obviously, we had been listening to oldies and love songs, but as soon as she was gone I tuned my radio dial right back to BGO.
Most people are some kind of barfly, when it comes down to it.
Every neighborhood’s got their own “Peanut Bar” or “Rick’s Bottle & Cork”.
It felt good to be headed home and to have enjoyed so many special sandwiches from my list.
I’ll probably never say “hoagie”, but I may occasionally be down for a “Wawa”.
And Tastee subs are still delicious. I’m just spreading the good word.