Dishing out Bar Stool Philosophy in the Swamps of Jersey

Rutt’s Hut
417 River Rd.
Clifton, NJ




New Jersey. Yuck.

As Suit757, I go to all 50 states. Not every itinerary can include such idyllic locales as Palm Beach, Key West, Coronado or Balboa Island.

Sometimes you get stuck going to the swamps of Jersey.

But the fun thing about being Suit757 is I can usually think up some reason to look forward to going to just about everywhere.

Even New Jersey.

My guess is Clifton, New Jersey doesn’t have a Tourism Bureau.

But if they did, Rutt’s Hut should feature prominently in their promos.

I, for one, can’t wait to come back.

Rutt’s Hut is a North Jersey institution that’s been frying hot dogs for generations.

Yes. I said FRYING hot dogs.

No wonder I fell in love with this place.

I consider hot dogs to be one of the seven great man-made wonders of the world. (Don’t worry, bikinis and beer can huggies are on my list too.)

But even the best inventions of mankind can be improved by a dip in a vat of gurgling grease. (Well, maybe not the bikini.)

At Rutt’s, high quality dogs are deep fried in scalding grease until the molten insides of pig and cow parts burst the skin open, producing a mangled, scarred tube of delicious processed meat, known here for generations as a “ripper”.

A “weller” gets a few additional seconds in the grease inferno. A “cremator” even more – until your dog resembles an over cooked strip of Jersey diner bacon.

You are only allowed two toppings on your dogs at Rutt’s – mustard or homemade relish.

Youse gotta problem wit dat?

Look, you are in New Jersey. Home of Tony Soprano. Just go with it.

Truth be told, I’m not a big fan of mustard or relish on my dogs. But I’m glad I gave the relish a try.

First just a little. Then a lot.

Sweet and zesty, the yellow mish mash of onion, cabbage and spice was one of the best toppings I’ve ever slathered over a hot dog.

Just for the hell of it, I ordered one “ripper” and one “weller”, although I had trouble telling them apart.

The “weller” was just half a notch crisper on the outside. I think.

But both were soft, delicious and juicy on the inside, a perfect accompaniment to the standard issue soft white bun holding all this goodness together.

On the side, I ordered a cup of chili, loaded with big clumps of ground beef and a few beans. Hearty with just a slight kick, this was top notch chili.

When you come to Rutt’s Hut, you have to decide more than just “ripper” or “weller” or “cremator”.

You have to decide where you want to eat these famous fried tubes of meat.

Your first choice is in a blindingly bright holding cell adjacent to the take out counter. Under the radiant glow of florescent lights you stand by a ledge near the big window and eat your dogs prone while admiring through a litter-strewn barbed wire fence the cars zooming by on the Jersey freeway running along the banks of the Passaic River.

Or for the more adventurous, you can open the weathered door under the 50s era “Bar Entrance” sign and walk into a piece of roadside nostalgia that would look familiar to your grandparents.

Guess which side I picked?

Grey haired guys in trucker caps, 300 pound heavily-tattooed union no-necks and a North Jersey politician or two make up the clientele on this side.

If Tony Soprano came walking through the door, no body would even bat an eye.

A long bar punctuated with regulars knock back tiny little mugs of American beer.

Is that a Coors tap handle?

Do they even make that any more?

“Yep. We’ve got Coors AND Coors Light,” the gravel voiced bartender told me in her Jersey accent.

Well, slide me down a Coors Original. This might be my only opportunity in life.

There were only two TVs in the bar. At one end showing the Yankees game. At the other end, the Mets game.

By 10pm, after both games recorded their last outs, there were only a couple of us left at the bar.

The bar tender began ranting about the local politicians down at the Shore who want to ban alcohol sales after midnight.

Apparently teenagers spend too much time these days watching “The Jersey Shore” and head down to Point Pleasant to replicate what they see on television.

Underage drinking, public urination, passing out in the streets, broken beer bottles everywhere, she explained while standing under a sign behind the bar reading, “WE PREFER TO SERVE CHILDREN AT TABLES ONLY. THANK YOU.”

I got her to agree with me that they might want to try enforcing the laws already on the books against the trouble makers before passing new ones to infringe on the liberties of the rest of us.

“Exactly!” She slid me down one more ten ouncer “on the house.”

See? Armed with my famous Suit757 bar stool philosophy, I’m winning converts over to the cause of liberty everywhere I go.

Even in the swamps of Jersey.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Don’t Waste Your Time at the Tick Tock Diner

Tick Tock Diner
281 Allwood Rd.
Clifton, NJ

A good old fashioned New Jersey diner is one of the few redeeming qualities of this state that essentially serves as nothing more than a smog-belching highway between New York and Philadelphia.

If you are looking for something with a bit more local flavor than the Roy Rogers at the New Jersey Turnpike rest stop, you usually don’t have to search too long to find a Garden State roadside diner.

Some say the whole diner thing was invented right here in the swamps of Jersey.

The Tick Tock Diner in Clifton is a historic and quintessential version. Opened in 1948, Tick Tock was dishing out American comfort food long before Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives were cool (let alone had their own TV show).

But the Tick Tock has left its humble roots far behind. This sprawling joint is not sprouting wheels and going mobile any time soon.

Expanded, scrubbed and polished many times over, the Tick Tock Diner has gone Hollywood. Granite lunch counter, polished chrome everywhere and gourmet seafood dishes have pushed aside any sense of 1940s roadside nostalgia.

That’s okay. I kind of like the whole gourmet comfort food craze. I mean, what’s not to like about lobster and Gouda mac & cheese?

In my many years of perusing menus, I’ve learned that any unusual, quirky item with a funny name is good bet.

That’s why the Tick Tock Diner’s “Happy Waitress” caught my eye.

Unfortunately, it turns out, the “Happy Waitress” isn’t the least bit unusual or quirky.

And forget gourmet.

Try two slices of toasted Wonder Bread, each topped with a single slice of boring American Kraft cheese singles, thin tomato slices and some strips of very ordinary bacon.

I have no idea why they call it the “Happy Waitress”. “Happy Cook” is more like it, since they charge ten bucks for the simplest to assemble item on the menu.

I paid a buck or two more for onion rings instead of fries. Thick and crunchy, they were by far the highlight of the dish.

The beer selection consisted of five varieties of uninteresting mass produced bottles.

But, then again, most diners – even the “gourmet” variety – aren’t known for their wide assortment of microbrews.

The Tick Tock Diner is very proud of its desserts, prominently displaying the massive homemade specimens in a glass case next to the front door and behind the lunch counter.

Peanut butter pie being one of Tick Tock’s specialties, I couldn’t resist capping off my meal with a slice.

With a high peanut butter to chocolate ratio, this version of one of my favorite pies was good – but not great.

I mean, there’s no such thing as bad peanut butter pie, but I’ve had much better at diners and cafes down South.

And that pretty much summarizes my evaluation of the Tick Tock Diner.

The place is a notch above the Turnpike rest stop but with all its six decades of history and nostalgia carefully scrubbed and polished away, the food alone isn’t enough to recommend the Tick Tock Diner.

Keep on driving.

Rating: Wouldn’t Wear Shirt If You Paid Me.