He's in witness protection -- Dinner with the Sapranos

Padrino's Bistro and Italian Steakhouse
2452 Kuser Rd.
Hamilton Township, NJ




It's not too often I feel like I could get "whacked" during dinner.  But I forgot about the Sopranos when I went looking for an authentic Italian restaurant in New Jersey, but I was soon reminded of it while enjoying the best Italian food I have had in my life at Padrino's Bistro and Italian Steakhouse, in Hamliton NJ.


This place is the real deal when it comes to Italian food, the prices are great and the portions huge.  The owner will come out and play his accordion when he's not busy cooking.

And it's one big happy - eh "family."  I noticed people seemed to dress better than average, lot's of hugging of people who obviously are not related.  And it hits me, "I kinda look like a fed" and here I am taking pictures of the place and my food - just then the guy at the table next to me says to his wife "of course you haven't seen them lately, they are in WITNESS PROTECTION."

Now I'm no longer worried about cholesterol, I'm worried about being whacked.

So, if you are in Southern Jersey -- get to Hamilton and visit:  http://www.padrinosofhamilton.com/

Have some class - buy the tshirt, but pictures?  Forrr getta about it.

RATING:  Bought the Shirt!
 

Welcome to the All Star Version of Hell

Joey G’s Grill and Bar
315 US Highway 206
Hillsborough, NJ





I spend way too much time sitting on airplanes.

Sometimes I feel like the most important moments of life pass me by while I’m stuck in a communicationless metal tube 35,000 feet above the planet.

We can put a man on the moon, map the human genome and instantaneously broadcast videos of singing kittens to the far reaches of Planet Earth, but the airlines refuse to figure out a way for me to watch the game of the century while crammed into 43B.

Granted, a few airlines, like JetBlue, at least try.

But it seems like half the time their in flight “Live TV” is out of order or cuts off just as the potential game winning shot is soaring toward the basket.

Or some overly-estrogenated male flight attendant interrupts the broadcast to hawk some over-priced credit card.

So after being stuck way too often crammed against the fuselage while once in a life-time moments are unfolding down below, I’ve developed a new policy.

I block off certain dates on the sports calendar.

No flights.

The Super Bowl. That fabulous Thursday and Friday during the first round of the NCAA Tournament. College Football’s National Championship Game. Game Seven of the World Series.

And baseball’s All Star Game.

Yeah, I know. The Mid-Summer Classic may not be as impactful on human metaphysics and world peace as those other high profile events, but I still look forward to it. Just like when I was a young Suit757 eagerly shuffling through my baseball card collection and pulling out the All Stars as they were introduced during pre-game ceremonies.

Call it nostalgia. Call me sentimental. But for Suit757, the All Star game is a can’t miss diversion on the annual sports calendar.

So I successfully maneuvered my schedule to avoid having to spend the evening of July 10 on an airplane – a rare occurrence for Suit757.

Sure enough, I wrapped up my last meeting of the day somewhere deep in the bowels of Northern New Jersey right around 7:30pm.

Next plan of action: find a sports bar to watch the game. Right away. Before player introductions.

No time to drive to my hotel an hour and a half away in Philadelphia and change out of my suit.

Just as luck would have it, thanks to the magic of smart phones, I found the web site for a nearby place called Joey G’s Grill and Bar, which bragged about its 20 “big screen TVs” tuned to “ALL SPORTS!! ALL THE TIME!!”

Perfect.

Or so I thought.

The first sign of trouble was when I walked in, not one of the dozens of TVs was tuned to the All Star Game – the only sporting event occurring that evening in all of the world as far as I know.

Fortunately, the bartender was happy to switch the channel for me.

Just in time for player introductions.

I was hoping she would turn the bar’s sound system to the game, but as I quickly discovered, there was going to be no chance of that.

Before this review delves into the nitty-gritty of what a total disaster this place is, I will mention one positive – Victory Prima Pils on draft.

The Pennsylvania microbrew is a deliciously hoppy variation of that overly ubiquitous beer style – the Pilsner.

I mean, Miller Lite markets itself as a Pilsner. Yeah, and Suit757 is a philosopher.

Whatever.

But any loyal Miller Lite drinker would immediately sprout chest hair after one sip of Victory’s Prima Pils.

Too bad Joey G’s was charging six bucks a pint for it.

But the second sign of trouble appeared just as Justin Verlander launched his 100 mph first pitch.

The dreaded Karaoke song book.

Yep. DJ Jazzy Pete started setting up his speakers in the corner of the bar and handing out song books before the National League scored the first of their five first inning runs.

What the hell is with New Jerseyians’ obsession with Karaoke?

It seems like just yesterday I detailed my consternation of having to endure the amplified screechings of Jersey girls – the last time I was stuck in this smog-belching highway of a state between New York and Philadelphia.

Even stranger than Karaoke at a sports bar during the All Star Game, was the fact that the near empty bar began steadily filling with people as the game wore on.

And not one of them was watching the game.

By 9pm, the bar stationed a bouncer by the door to collect a cover charge.

The entire town of Hillsborough showed up to pay money to listen to drunk Jersey girls and old men off the sex offender registry butcher Bon Jovi and Journey.

I think I’d rather undergo a prostate exam by a blue-gloved TSA agent.

Most popular of all seemed to be some old bald guy in a homemade t-shirt he emblazoned with the word “SEXY” in all caps who calls himself Willie “The Manville Idol” Martin.

(I swear, I’m not making this up.)

He used his 5 minutes and 37 seconds of amplified fame to plug his Facebook page.

I spent those 5 minutes and 37 seconds contemplating my odds of being convicted by a New Jersey jury of first degree murder.

Meanwhile, I’m straining my neck to look up over the hoards of Coors Light drinking Jersey Shore cast rejects to keep an eye on the game I came to watch.

Not so easy – or pleasant – when you are being hovered over by drunks gyrating to the slurred words of “Wanted Dead or Alive.”

I’ve never NOT had so much fun with a beer in my hand.

Ever.

The food at Joey G’s did nothing to salvage my miserable evening.

My “Sloppy Joe” was a glorified club sandwich of corned beef, turkey and ham.

Room temperature cold cuts slathered in Thousand Island dressing made me yearn for the days when airlines served meals.

After my head-pounding experience listening to amplified bad pop songs being massacred by hammered Snookie followers, I yearned for the relative peace and calm of a middle seat in coach.

Sometimes being out of communication range isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Rating: Clean Grill with Shirt.

Trying Not to Get Whacked in New Jersey

Tommy’s Italian Sausage
900 2nd Avenue
Elizabeth, NJ




Sometimes when I’m winding my way through the back woods and alley ways of America, I let my imagination run wild.

Like maybe I’ve been here before. When I know I haven’t.

Or I’ve seen this in a movie. Or heard it in a song.

That’s the fun part of travel.

New places, new sights, new experiences. Seeing, feeling, smelling, tasting a place you’ve only seen from a distance.

I had that sense as I navigated my rental car through the gritty narrow streets of Elizabeth, New Jersey searching for the famous Tommy’s Italian Sausage stand.

Deep in the bowels of North Jersey I had an uneasy feeling. Like I’m WAY out of place here.

I mean, as a Suit in Strange Places, I get that feeling all the time.

But this time was different.

The homeless dudes on the park bench across the street, the litter in the streets, the crooked light poles, the construction cones and pot holes, the rough looking natives eying me and my suit suspiciously while I sat in my Impala rental.

I felt like I might get whacked by Tony Soprano at any moment.

Then, just one block from Tommy’s, I spotted Centanni’s Meat Market.

That’s it! That’s the place they show at the beginning of every episode of the Soprano’s.

Oh man! I really am in Tony Soprano’s neighborhood.

The fact that the famous mobster series was a work of fiction and the meat market the boys hung out at was called Satriale’s on the show, did little to put me at ease.

I mean, this is it. This is the actual spot where they shot the show!

There are probably real life Italian gangsters peering out of the windows of the tenement buildings on Second Avenue right now.

I was hoping to find a place to park my out-of-state rental and duck into Tommy’s for a quick Italian hot dog.

Unfortunately, there is no inside to duck into to.

Tommy’s is a carry-out only store front.

You place your order with the old Italian guy (Tommy, maybe?) behind the glass and wait on the sidewalk uncomfortably for your hot dog to be assembled.

All I could see inside were tubs of homemade relish.

Tommy – or whoever he is – handed me my foil package and a drink.

I stood there on the Elizabeth, New Jersey sidewalk looking around.

Now what?

I wasn’t going to stand there on the side walk in my suit dripping condiments on the concrete.

And I wasn’t about to fight the homeless dude across the street for a piece of his park bench.

That left the front seat of my Impala as the only option.

I knew that was a bad idea as soon as I opened the foil.

An absolute mess.

An Italian hot dog is a giant piece of chewy pizza dough split open like a pita pocket and stuffed with two top notch hot dogs, a mess of slippery sautéed onions and peppers, and a mound of scalding hot potato disks fresh from the deep fryer. All covered in ketchup.

There is no physical way to pick the thing up and eat it. Especially with no table to sit at to catch the falling cascade of ketchup, potatoes, onions and peppers.

Of course I had no utensils either.

So I just started picking it apart with my ketchup smeared fingers, hoping to get more of the ingredients in my mouth than on my tie.

The fried potatoes were thin cut and crispy, perfect under the generous application of salt and ketchup.

Eventually I worked my way down through the potatoes, onions and peppers to where I could actually see the hot dogs.

At this point, I got up the courage to lift the entire contraption to my mouth to take a bite – just like God intended.

Delicious.

The sweet, chewy dough provided a nice textural contrast to the snap of the fried hot dogs. The peppers, onions and ketchup added an ideal zesty kick.

Now this is an over-the-top hot dog! Leave it to the Italians to come up with something this good.

Legend has it that the concept of the Italian hot dog began among poor New Jersey Italian immigrants. They would stuff pizza dough with tomatoes and potatoes as a cheap meal.

Someone came up with the brilliant idea to throw in a couple hot dogs.

Walla! The Italian hot dog.

While my fingers and hands were saturated in ketchup, I somehow managed to keep most of it off my suit.

I was so engrossed in my meal and logistical effort to eat it that I nearly forgot about all the natives walking by on the sidewalk watching this guy in a suit with out-of-state plates.

It turns out, Tony Soprano wasn’t the guy I had to worry about.

An Elizabeth, New Jersey meter maid began making her way up Second Avenue toward my illegally parked car.

In all the excitement of Italian hot dogs and Tony Soprano hang outs, I totally forgot I was in a “No Parking” space.

I hastily rubbed as much of the ketchup off my fingers as I could with my limited supply of napkins, wrapped my greasy fingers around the shifter and jammed the Impala into drive.

I mean, my Tommy’s Italian hot dog was so good, I might risk getting whacked to get one.

But no way am I messing with a New Jersey meter maid.

Bada bing! I’m outa here.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

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.

The Agony of Amplified Jersey Girls

Chickie’s and Pete’s
183 US Highway 130
Bordentown, NJ




Have you ever walked into a bar with a crowd of people yelling and screeching at the top of their lungs?

Fun!

Well, maybe fun, depending upon your mood. And the place.

But it loses its appeal when the bar hands those people a microphone and amplifies it throughout the building.

Otherwise known as “Karaoke Night”.

The night before I walked into the suburban New Jersey version of Chickie’s and Pete’s, I had gotten exactly four hours of sleep when my alarm went off at 3:30am. That was followed by a ride to the airport, TSA testicle fondling, planes, elevated tram rides, New York City subways and hundreds of turnpike miles driving a dirty rental car.

By the time I pulled into my Comfort Inn in beautiful (not) Bordentown, New Jersey, I was ready to get out of the suit I had been wearing for 18 straight hours, down a Goody’s Headache Powder and find something to eat for the first time in almost 36 hours.

But in a show of typical Jersey hospitality, my room’s air conditioning was broken, which really wasn’t going to work for me on this 90 degree summer night.

And since I am ALWAYS the last guy of the night to check in, there were no other rooms available. (Although a couple good natured stoners in the lobby offered me the extra bed in their room. I politely declined.)

So at an hour of the night I was hoping to already be half way between the cork and the bottle, I had to set out to find a place to stay, first.

And eat, second.

Fortunately, the Best Western was more than happy to give me a room with a working A/C in exchange for a hundred bucks.

Even more fortunately, I spotted Chickie’s and Pete’s on the way there.

I noted the bright neon lights and the full parking lot.

At 11:30pm on a Wednesday night, that was all I was looking for. Sorry loyal Suits readers, you can’t always be picky about good food and drink.

My Goody’s was just beginning to kick in when I opened the front door and was greeted with the sounds of amplified screeching.

Under almost any other circumstances, I might have a much better attitude about a packed house of fun-loving, hammered Jersey girls butchering “Don’t Stop Believin.”

Well, “much better attitude” might be a bit of an exaggeration.

But you know what I’m saying. I just needed a beer and some food.

Fortunately, I found a nice spot at the bar underneath a flat screen showing one of the West coast baseball games. Perfect. Except for all that screeching.

I asked the barkeep for a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale draft and a menu.

That’s when I discovered that this place I had stumbled into is a somewhat famous small chain of Philadelphia crab houses/sport bars.

In fact, the joint has been voted one of the best sports bars in America. How lucky is that?

I mean, you gotta love a place whose motto is “It’s a lot more fun to eat in a bar than to drink in a restaurant.”

Hey, come to think of it, that might be Suit757’s new motto!

The most prominent item on the menu was “Chickie's and Pete’s World Famous Crabfries”.

Is there any question? Gotta go with those. How could I live with myself if I didn’t?

For about eight bucks, I got an overflowing basket of crinkle-cut fries covered in Old Bay. They were okay, but what made them special was the two little ramekins of hot queso cheese attached to either end of the basket for dipping.

Clearly, this item is not meant to be consumed by just one human. Especially when that human is ordering a crab cake sandwich to go with the “World Famous Crabfries”.

But like I said, I was hungry.

The sandwich was tasty, consisting of two small crab cakes, lettuce, tomato and remoulade sauce.

I suppose Philadelphia is close enough to salt water to justify a chain of crab houses like this, but Chickie’s and Pete’s crab cakes aren’t going to make me forget about the ones served right on the shore of the Chesapeake Bay. That’s for sure.

Seasoned well with a good bit of bready filler, these crab cakes will do if you can’t get to Baltimore or Norfolk.

But at nearly midnight on a Wednesday, I really had nothing to complain about.

Especially when I noticed that Newcastle and Miller High Life bottles were on special.

Forget the $4.75 Sierra Nevada draft, Suit757 never passes up a deal.

Unfortunately, the $3 Newcastle, which I haven’t tried in years, just reinforced all my pre-conceived notions of the British who brew this bland, boring, waste of good barley.

After choking that Eurotrash down, the “Champagne of Beer” never tasted so good. Especially for two bucks.

Just as I took my last swig, the eight-top of American Idol wannabees behind me ordered up yet another round of kamikaze shots to lubricate their vocal cords. It was going on 1am.

If I wasn’t so tired I might have noticed (or cared) that some of them were pretty decent looking – at least for Yankee chicks.

What is it about Jersey girls anyway?

All I knew was that after an hour of enduring amplified Jersey girls I was in desperate need of another Goody’s.

And a good night’s sleep.

Rating: Would Wear A Free 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.