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The best tomato pie of your life

We visited Pepe’s. And, no, this is not becoming a food blog. But Pepe’s is Pepe’s. Here’s the old man on the cover of the menu:

But what can you tell about a man from line art? Oh, his pixels are lovely. Mr. Pepe’s actual photograph.

And, no, food photography is difficult, not my strong suit and never works on a cell phone, but this pizza can’t be ignored:

Pepe started his first store 86 years ago and, some argue, it is the origin of pizza in the U.S. Who knows? Truly it is the best pizza you’ve ever had. This is not opinion or left to taste, but rather a fact. It is science and we must accept it.

The place is owned by Pepe’s grandson today. We go there every time we visit the in-laws. Ronald Reagan loved it, too. That was back when Connecticut was a GOP stronghold. The Republicans had won Connecticut in eight of 11 presidential post-war elections, only John Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson and Barry Goldwater could break their grip. That led up to Bill Clinton, who also enjoyed Pepe’s.

Connecticut has gone Democrat in the last five elections since 1992. Clearly the pizza is the key.

More of their historic photographs are here.

In New Haven, where Pepe’s started, pizza is one of those cultural touchstones that says much about the diner. You’re a Pepe’s fan or a Sally’s person. The competing pizza place was actually founded by Pepe’s nephew in 1938. Sally’s Apizza is no good. As I wrote in 2007, the long wait outside in the cold and the long wait inside aren’t worth considering:

The waiter, who’s doing you a favor by being there, just got off his bike apparently and is still wearing his Harley vest. He finally gets your order, promptly brings the drinks and disappears for 20 minutes. He returns to ask about your order, which he’s incorrectly scribbled. How one pizza becomes three I’ve yet to figure out. Half-an-hour later, when you finally make eye contact with the waiter (who’s doing you a favor) you inquire as to the whereabouts of the pizza.

“We’re on a 90 minute wait,” he sneers while stalking off. Truly, the last half of the sentence is spoken with his back turned. We speculate the wait just grew to 100 minutes. At 75 minutes you consider calling Information to get the number to the nearest Domino’s and order a delivery. At 90 minutes you actually make eye contact with the waiter again (who’s doing you a favor) and get a simple refill.

Throughout this time as people peer into the windows to gauge how busy the little place is you wave them off. “Don’t do it! It isn’t worth it!”

At 100 minutes, as speculated, the pizza arrives.

And it isn’t worth it. The pizza is OK. It is not 100 minute pizza. If such a thing exists you will not find it here. Instead you’ll get a burnt crust and charcoal on your fingers.

Eight minutes later the pizza is gone, because everyone at your table was famished. Ninety-three seconds after that your bill arrives. Sixteen seconds after that you throw the money on the table. The exact change. To the penny. In pennies. Under the pizza tray.

So that’s Sally’s. Pepe’s, meanwhile, made the Guardian‘s best food in the world list.

That’s one down on that list. Forty-nine to go. Lists like that are dangerous for completists. When are you ever going to be in Lisbon, to eat supposedly the world’s best custard tart?

I received a copy of 1,000 Places To See Before You Die a few years ago from a dear friend who decided she wanted to give me angst via the written word. How can I accomplish this? And now I see there are apparently annual editions.

Great. One of my most recent achievements has been removed for the list in favor of some Mongolian Milk trailer 100 yards off the Great Wall of China that is operated by a talented group of tap dancing, orphan entrepreneurs.

She signed the book (which I have lately decided is the best part of receiving a book as a gift):

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I have visited 30 of the 1,000 sites listed in my copy. (Yes, I’ve counted.) Miles to go, indeed.

Robert Frost knew what he was talking about.

He died in 1963, in Boston. I wonder, did he ever have Pepe’s?

adventures / food / links / photo / Wednesday — Comments Off
28
Dec 11

On diners and Twain

Ask any photographer and they’ll tell you, in a series of bad photographs a picture of a sign is an egregious sin.

But still, I had to show you this, just to prove it. (Pay no attention to the four clashing fonts.)

That’s a New Jersey diner named after a Missouri literary character. Only in America — one hopes.

The important concept here is that there aren’t a lot of true diners in our part of the world. The Yankee, being a Yankee, misses them. We saw this one while out running errands today and decided to stop in.

Not like any diner I know, but a nice joint. Here’s their site which has that tortured, flash template feel. This is the website equivalent of over-produced pop music. In the photo gallery I found some faces we saw in the diner today, not all of them even of the staff.

The place gets decent reviews, 3.5 stars from Yelp and is well respected by whomever writes Trip Advisor, where they call it the best diner in the area and one of the best in the state. They say it was destroyed by fire and recently rebuilt, which explains the new feel of a family-owned business dating to 1974.

It does not explain why everyone was wearing ties. Or how her tie got in our waitress’ way of returning to the table.

The uptown feel and the carefully designed staff uniforms don’t scream diner to me, but everyone has images in their head. Mine is not very good. I started describing what I pictured as a diner: white, chrome and bright, but not necessarily clean. Narrow and long.

As I was describing this I realized I was talking about the old Tiger Time. And then I grew a bit sad. The place was removed and replaced by an unsuccessful string of uninspired things that have failed one after the other. At this point I’m not even sure what is even in that location.

So we just left it with the world needs more diners, no matter where their names come from.

Oh. This morning my father-in-law told his daughter: I watched television on my iPad! He’d downloaded his cable system’s app and was streaming the Today show. He’s a natural.

Until two years ago he’d vigorously defended against ever even owning a cell phone. Look at him now.

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27
Dec 11

The day after the day after Christmas

Went to the mall. That’s safe, right?

Santa’s gothic stand is still in place, but no one has any more use for it.

It is as if we’ve said: The season has passed you by, old man. We’re here to return things, not ask for more from you. And why did you bring me this awful thing anyway?

We were not returning things, however. We’d ventured into the cold and damp for a visit to the Apple Store. No longer do people wish to see Saint Nick. Now they are looking for Saint Steve.

We were there to look at iPads for my father-in-law. He wanted something a bit more new than his hulking desktop. He’d told us what he wanted to do and we decided that this might be the way to go. We just had to put one into his hands.

This being his first Apple Store experience, it was a bit eye-opening. We showed him the basics in the crowded store, he didn’t seem especially into it at first, but ended up buying one. We snagged a salesman pretty quickly. He went through the data-mining procedure. Told my father-in-law to sign his device. He looked around in vain for a pen, a stylus, anything. The kid was concerned with his lunch break.

“What? Am I supposed to use my finger?” he asked, if a bit sarcastically.

“Oh yeah. Just use your finger. I see it every day and have gotten used to it. Sorry,” he said.

This was the first thing my father-in-law had ever signed for with his fingertips. We live in an age of wonders.

Got him home and opened the box. The Yankee signed him up for iTunes. I threw way too much information at him at once. He logged in, found his home network, registered and started playing with it. One little hiccup later and he was suddenly a professional.

My mother-in-law came in and said “Is this how it is going to be from now on?”

“Huh?”

She said, “Finally I can have control of the remote. For the first time since we’ve had a remote!”

They’re on a cable system that has an app which acts as a remote control.

Had dinner with The Yankee’s collegiate diving coach. They were comparing dives they threw a decade ago. They seemed to recall teammates technique with alarming clarity. Let that be a lesson for all of us.

We had dinner at a place called The Black Duck. It is an old ship that is tied to the bank under an interstate. It looks like it is falling into the river. It was featured on Diners, Drive-ins and Dives. Guy Fieri pointed out on the show that it looked like the place was falling into the river.

It could be that the place is falling into the river.

I wondered if it was happening on a trip to the restroom, where the floor is at a severe tilt. Turns out you’re OK as long as you notice the tilt. It is when you don’t feel the angle, I was told, that you should call a cab.

The steamed clams were a big feature on the show, but the burgers were the quintessential calling card. I had the stuffed bleu cheese burger. It was pretty good. You would think places featured on a show like that would blow you away, but this was perfectly acceptable. It was a bit pricey, but that could be the regional thing, too. As with the few other places featured on that show, this one gets some bad reviews online, but that could be two trolls with an axe to grind against the Food Network for all anyone knows.

The stuffed procedure involves tearing apart 12 ounces, putting the cheese in the middle and then putting one part of the patty on top of the other, closing up the seams so there’s no leakage. I was surprised to learn from the segment that these were 12-ounce patties. I do believe they cooked them down. Judge for yourself:

By the time we got back the in-laws were asleep. The iPad was nowhere to be found.

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26
Dec 11

The last Christmas party of the season

Sat with friends and family, visiting with nice people I don’t get to see often enough. We had delicious shrimp and the best lasagna you’ve ever tasted. Listened to Sinatra and Dean-o and Glenn Miller CDs. It was a lovely day.

Got to meet my god-second-cousin-in-law today. (My wife’s godparents have two daughters. Those girls and my wife all grew up together. One of them now has two children of their own. We call The Yankee’s godparents aunt and uncle. That makes their daughters would-be cousins. Their children would be second-cousins. Do try to keep up.)

I held her, and then watched her as she rolled around on the floor. And then I got to hold her again. There was a house full of people and she is one of the stars, so you count each experience.

One of the other stars of the show is her big sister. She speaks four languages. She’s crunching math and serious logic and reasoning with no problem. She’s three. She and I played three long hands of Go Fish and one exciting game of Hide-and-Seek, this being the first time that she’s ever wanted to hang out with me. She pronounced that I was “full of the sillies.”

But toward the end of the evening the little one made one last lap back around to me. She has a way of staring into your eyes, unblinking, for the longest time. And every so often she’d lean down and touch my nose.

Once she started the crying feint, and then collapsed into my arms in a perfect snuggle.

I melted. It was almost, almost, enough to make you want to take up babysitting.

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25
Dec 11

Peace on earth

Not to be Santa-centric, but this particular Santa’s helper is family. I hope your Christmas has been a blessing of family and friends and peace and joy very kind.

We had the chance last night, in a dimly lit church, to sing Silent Night with a fine and internationally renowned baritone. It was about as moving a musical experience as you can ask for. I hope for you that your holidays provide moving moments and lasting memories.

I hope to remember the man I met this week who thought he had cancer in his kidney. A checkup sent him to an oncologist, which meant tests and then an operation. It was not cancer, but he was bleeding internally. Still lucky — timing is everything and he could have bled to death — they removed half a kidney. It is, he said, “the best Christmas in 15 years.”

I hope to remember the Jamaican immigrant, who’d already worked two jobs on Friday when we met and will work two jobs on Christmas day. He’s been here for six years, he said. “And this is the number one country, the best country in the world.”

There are hundreds, thousands, of little stories like that which don’t involve any of the lovely presents we’ve purchased or received. I hope you remember to count them in your blessings, too.

And for no reason whatsoever, remember that Christmas when the world felt very small, and all of creation seemed so much more immense. Our reaching outward, seeking a goal, stretching for some larger discovery and achievement, meant an especially poignant look inward:

“(G)ood night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you — all of you on the good Earth.”