Freedman's Jersey Shore Pork Roll Egg and Cheese

When I'm down the shore and it's raining, I like to head over to Freedman's bakery in Belmar. The old-school awning captures the pitter patter of raindrops, the 70s vintage booths bring you back to a simpler time, and the coffee can't be beat. Today I indulged in chocolate-raspberry brew with half and half. Yes, another fine institution allowing me to consume fat in the liquid form. This already allows me to give one thumb up.

The real reason though, that I head to Freedman's, is because when you're in Jersey, you have to get down and dirty with your food. For me, this normally means sitting at the Parker House dissecting a lobster with my bare hands (one of my all-time favorite pastimes), but in the late fall, it means splattering ketchup all over some greasy pork roll, fried egg, and melted American cheese squares.

Let's start with the roll. The roll is the ideal sandwich foundation. It doesn't get soggy, it's easy to grip, and it's large enough to house all your sandwich condiments. Freedman's is a bakery, so the rolls are always fresh and soft. Next, add some grease-laden pork roll. For those of you outside of Jersey, this is taylor ham. Still don't know what I'm talking about? Ask anyone from Jersey... it's one of the food groups. Usually round, kind of looks like a cross between spam and bologna. Salty and satisfying. Next, add a fried egg right off the grill. Edges all crispy from excessive amounts of butter... Mmm. Then, top it off with some good old-fashioned American cheese. If any state does it all-American, it's Jersey. Add some ketchup for good measure, and consume your heart attack on a roll, using the excuse that it's cold and rainy and there's a Nor'easter outside, so you might as well pack on a few pounds to stay warm. Clog those arteries, grab a newspaper, and know that you won't need an umbrella when you head back outside, because the rain will slide right off your greasy skin.

Slave to the Grind

Ahh alas, my final Bronxville post for a while. Today, I had my last doctor's visit regarding the softball/Basketcase Part II that grew out of my ankle. I decided to celebrate by heading over to Slave to the Grind, my favorite non-commercial coffee house, located in Bronxville, NY. Yes, I, too, am a slave to the grind, and I love the selection that this small hole-in-the-wall has to offer. Coffee abounds in various flavors, and you can choose any to take home with you. Every day they change the brews available "on tap" and today's most interesting flavor was coffee cake. I'm not a huge fan of the coffee cake (again, stems back to a breakfastless childhood and my mother's intention that I would adore something quick and easy and typical of a morning meal... coffee cake was another failure to add to the plentiful list), so I went with the Irish creme (Erin Go Bragh!) and whole milk.

Before I continue, let me take a minute to discuss whole milk. It's delicious. I had a major issue in college, because my particular institution of education (Boston College), did not serve whole milk. The best I could muster was 2%. 2%? 2% of what? Travesty! The yogurt didn't have full fat. The ice cream didn't have full fat. The Starbucks on campus didn't offer full fat milk. I wanted FULL FAT!!!! It irritated me to no end. Who are they to decide what I can and cannot ingest? People have been drinking whole milk for centuries, and suddenly some doctor has decided it should be banned on college campuses? Phooey! Thank you, Slave to the Grind, for offering not only whole milk, but even half and half! Thank you!

The Irish Creme coffee was as delicious as I remembered. Piping hot, smooth, and luscious without being overly bitter. Even the addition of milk did not bring it to a lukewarm temperature. It was lovely on a rainy day to sit at one of the small tables in the back and sip my coffee and grade some students' papers. Maybe write a love letter or two. Listen to the soft radio... Neil Young "Southern Man" (You ROCK Lynyrd Skynyrd!) and some Boston "More Than A Feeling.' I adore the punk/rebellious clientele (Sarah Lawrence is right down the street). These are the type of customers that would be given the malocchio at a local Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts. Mohawks, dyed hair, leather everywhere, black sweatshirts of various punk bands, multiple piercings, loud, rowdy, and in need of a good cup o' Joe so they can continue their 48 hour 2-nighter. The staff is friendly and jovial (but opposed to Red Sox fans, which made me rather sad). They have a variety of mixed coffee drinks, some warm apple cider, plenty of varieties of tea, and pastries, but most people come for the caffeine jolt in its truest form, without the grande-skinny-mocha-half-caf-no-whip tongue twister. So if you want some good old-fashioned coffee, some friendly service, and perhaps an existential conversation with a guy in skinny jeans and three lip piercings, then this, by God, is the coffee house for you!

Egidio and the Breakfast of Champions

Most people believe that breakfast should involve cereal, oatmeal, eggs, french toast, pancakes... things easily available at IHOP (Vanilla Ice's establishment of choice--long story), Perkins, Sunday morning at Mom's, or Lawrence hospital. Most of us working stiffs settle for a granola bar, a pop tart, or a yogurt... something fast, portable, and usually unsatisfying. I for one, am the type to consume cold cake, cold pizza, or cold pasta in the morning. Leftovers from dinner entice me more than any item produced from a cardboard box. Tony the Tiger, Snap, Crackle, and Pop, Lucky and his charms... they never inspired me. Oh, my parents tried. Believe me. they bought every variety pack, forced every type of cereal ever created down my throat. They put it in bowls with milk, in plastic bags dry, and, when it was cool, they even made the little bowl out of the variety pack box. I always felt that eating a soggy mess of mushy wheat out of a cardboard box was a little, well, disgusting. So alas, I troubled my parents with my breakfast conundrum, for every parent knows that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And I always refused it.

I had an issue with fainting as a child. My parents always blamed it on my inability to eat breakfast. I passed out in first grade while sitting at my desk during math class. I passed out in second grade standing in line waiting for an announcement. I had put my hand up, but the teacher shushed me because at the time, whatever our principal was blubbering about was more important. I think she felt pretty guilty when I collapsed on poor Sheila standing behind me. I skipped third and fourth grade, and passed out again when I was ten during church. I lost my Mickey Mouse ked in the process and demanded that my uber embarrassed father go back inside and retrieve it. Then, I thought I was cured. But alas, I passed out again in high school, on the subway, which resulted in an ambulance and my father later screaming at a nurse, "MY DAUGHTER IS NOT PREGNANT!" Good times. I suppose breakfast is important, but for those of you who enjoy food, and not just packaged, sodium-laced "treats," I have a real treat for you. I introduce to you Egidio's Pastry Shop, located in the real little Italy in New York City. (The little Italy around Mott Street is a tourist joke. While there may be one or two decent restaurants, real New Yorkers know that if you crave some old-fashioned gravy and little Italian grandmothers who give you the Malocchio on Christmas because there's only one loaf of bread left and you, by God, are not going to be the one walking out with it, then you need to schlep yourself up to the Bronx!) My brother knows, when his sister is in the hospital, he doesn't need to show up with flowers or balloons, he simply needs to bring a cannoli or two, and his sister will be grinning from ear to ear.

Egidio's is a wonderful little corner pastry shop, serving a variety of cookies, pastries, and coffee. They raise money on occasion for disasters in Italy, and they're really friendly, if not insanely busy. You can find a seat on occasion (if you play hooky from work and show up at a strange hour), but it's usually packed with people placing holiday orders and birthday orders and such. Plus, once people find a table, they work it Italian style, meaning they'll sit there with their empty plates for hours, just socializing. There's definitely something to be said for the Italian lifestyle.

Anyway, what I recommend at Egidio's is the cannoli. And above and beyond that, if you have a sweet tooth, then I highly recommend the chocolate covered cannoli. Pure bliss. But there is a rule... If you choose to order the cannoli, and you should, ask them to make you a fresh one. Most people simply eat the ones on display, which are delicious and usually pretty fresh, because like I mentioned, Egidio's is a popping joint, but there's a whole new level of amazingness when you consume a freshly pumped cannoli. The cream hasn't made the shell soggy in any way, so you still get that lovely crunch of the fried-dough shell paired with the luxuriously smooth ricotta cheese filling. The chocolate cannoli is hand-dipped in thick, rich chocolate and contains clandestine chocolate chips within the sweet cream filling. Powdered sugar is then graciously sprinkled on top, and voila! the perfect cannoli. Pair it with a nice latte, and you have a real breakfast of champions!