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Sunday afternoon, a little hung over, quite a bit hungry, my roommate implanted on me the idea of eating a calzone. We left the house a little before the start of the one o’clock Yankee game intending to feast on cheese and dough and sauce while watching America’s past time. No such luck. Our usual calzone dealer was closed. We were jonesen though so we decided to wait; according to Helen’s menu, they would open at three.

Two hours later we called up Helen. No answer. I considered maybe they were just getting started and not taking phone calls. I walked over just in case, but the metal shudders will still shut tight. I hung around for ten minutes hoping I was just early.

No luck.

Another hour passed. We hoped by four our grease temptress might be roused. I called this time, letting the phone ring for three minutes before giving up. Alright, we decided, probably time to consider our alternatives.

We knew Stella’s calzones would never suffice after this guy insisted we order food; the calzone arrived looking like a football. It tasted about the same. We looked through our menus. Pino’s had Calzones, with a price point equal to our mistress Helen. Closed on Sundays.

We scraped around the internet. Hamilton Park Pizza Cafe: closed Sundays. Bon Appetito: closed at 2:30. La Rustique: open, but no calzones.

We began to lose hope. We practically had tremors from our calzone withdrawal, but now, some four hours after we originally planned on eating, faced starvation. We agreed to check out one final pizzeria and then head over for deli sandwiches.

3 Brothers Pizza seemed promising. One of the reviews online suggested that it was in a bad neighborhood but the pizza was great. We took issue with the characterization that the shop was in a bad neighborhood as we lived just three blocks away. But still, we thought we would give it a go. We wandered over to the place; the metal doors were drawn shut. Another Sunday pizzeria fail. However, next door to 3 Brothers, was Frank’s Pizza. This oddity always baffled me; how could two pizzerias next door to each other survive?

Fuck it, we decided. Let’s give Frank a shot. We ordered two calzones to go and a slice each while we waited. The pizza had a bit too much dough and not enough sauce, but it was edible. Fifteen minutes later, Frank himself served us up our calzones. Perhaps now its worth noting that Frank also happens to be running for a council-at-large seat in Jersey City. The election is in four weeks. I’m a registered voter who votes consistently.

To go, I instructed as Frank handed us paper plates with the calzones. And can we get some sauce, I asked. Calzones are served with sauce. Its not a choice. Its how they are served.

“No sauce,” Frank said.

What?

“They don’t come with sauce,” he replied. “The sauce is extra.”

Okay. Actually, it was more like Okaaaaaay. So we can get some sauce and pay for it?

He looked at us as though we were asking for his second kidney, but just the same rang us up with some extra sauce. Thanks.

The calzone was nothing special. I now know too why the sauce doesn’t come with the calzone. It wasn’t much more than chunky tomato soup. I won’t be returning to Frank’s. I also won’t be voting for him either.

I’ve taken Amtrak twice. Both times I was traveling to Lincoln, Nebraska. Nebraska is not exactly the premiere destination for many travelers. I was in high school both times, on my way to the International Thespian Society conference, a theater camp for high school students. The train provided a marginally less expensive travel alternative.

The first year we boarded the train in Penn Station in the early evening. The Lake Shore Limitedwould take us through Rochester, along the Great Lakes, and into Chicago where we would transfer to a California bound train that would deposit us in Lincoln. The first sign of trouble began before we left New York; the train delayed its departure by several hours. On a two day train journey, two or three hours isn’t really much of a delay, but then halfway to Rochester, the train came to a stop. Engine trouble.

We were hanging out in the cafe car for most of the evening playing cards at one of the tables. It was sort of an adventure for us. We weren’t old enough to drink, but in retrospect, the bar car probably would have made the whole journey far more acceptable. I had my first White Castle burger there, served from the cafe menu.

Around midnight, one of the train crew sat down at the table beside us. Most of the other passengers were trying to sleep quietly in their coach seats, but we were young and midnight seemed far too early an hour to sleep in cramped coach seats. We began talking with the crew member; he might have been an engineer or a conductor. Engine trouble, he explained. We were waiting there on the tracks for another piece of equipment to tow us along to Rochester.

We sat on the tracks until 1:30 in the morning. By then the train was five or six hours behind schedule including the delay leaving Manhattan. But even after we began moving, the train had to wait to allow freight trains to pass. Late at night, the freight trains had priority. We had blown the schedule.

We ultimately arrived in Chicago too late to board the California Zephyr, the train that would carry us to Lincoln. The next train would leave in the morning. Instead, we completed the final leg of our journey by Greyhound bus, traveling through the night.

The return train left from Lincoln at dawn, between four and five in the morning. We couldn’t check out of the dormitories before the departure time, so instead we left the campus at midnight and headed for the station. Another group of students, from Florida, would also be taking the train. We milled about outside the station, too compact to accommodate all the people. There must have been six seats in the whole Amtrak terminal; this was no Penn Station. We slept on the sidewalk outside the station. The streets were empty except for us. No pedestrians, no cars, just the eerie clicking as the traffic lights changed colors. Nebraska is hot in June, even at night.

Then dawn arrived, awaking us with this blazing pink sun. Still no train, late of course. We wandered down the block to a hotel, found coffee, wandered back to the station. Still no train. The night faded from dusky night, to deep blue and finally full morning sunlight. Finally, some three and half hours late, the train pulled into the station to collect us.

The train to New York left Chicago on time. We had just enough time to collect our bags and change trains. The final ride to New York was mostly uneventful. We were of course late, but only by a few minutes. Those few minutes though meant waiting for a drawbridge over the upper end of the Hudson River; once more we had blown our schedule and a passing boat needed to slip under the rails.

Two years later I was in Italy accompanying my grandfather there visiting his cousins, my cousins too. My cousins lived outside of Rome, in a suburb halfway between the ancient city on the coast. While we were there we took the commuter train into the city or out to the beach. As usual, the rail workers went on strike twice while we were there. The strike delayed the trains by fifteen to thirty minutes.

We took a few excursions to cities north of Rome. We rode up the western coast to Pisa without trouble. We took another train to Florence, where during the trip we saw a massive vehicle pileup on the motorway; drivers were hanging outside their cars because they had been sitting in the same place so long.

The distance between Manhattan and Rochester is about 330 miles, or roughly the same distance between Venice and Rome. Amtrak’s service completes the trip in a little over 7 hours, assuming of course the train hasn’t broken down. Venice to Rome, 4 and 1/2 hours.

The President’s not so ambitious plan to build high speed rail might be a step in the right direction, but more needs to be done. His outline calls for ten high speed corridors and improvements to the existing Acela train service. Still, the plan does not go far enough.

I was last in Atlantic City four or five years ago, around my birthday. The Borgata, the glitziest of the new Atlantic City casinos had recently opened. I played a few slot machines, mostly video poker. I won a few dollars, but between my friends and I, we were probably down about a hundred dollars altogether. Luckily we were staying at a friend’s house. The drive home is a grueling two and half hours on the Garden State Parkway, one of my least favorite roads to drive.

The Casino Redevelopment Authority and NJ Transit recently began offering express service from New York to Atlantic City, the ACES Train. I was excited when they announced the intentions to begin offering the rail service. I’m not fond of driving, but I do enjoy pulling slot levers along the boardwalk. The ACES Train, consisting of modified double decker commuter coaches, provides express service with just one stop in Newark on the way to Atlantic City, via Philadelphia. Unfortunately, the trip still takes two and a half hours. At least you can drink in the bar car.

According to the times, French trains average 133mph, Japanese trains 180. By contrast, Acela, capable of 150mph, averages speeds of just about 80mph. Atlantic City is about 130 miles from Manhattan. European style high speed rail would connect wealthy New York financial types with the original sin city with travel times under an hour. I should be able to board a train on a Friday night, gamble for a few hours, and then sleep in my own bed later that night. Maybe now you see why I think the President’s plan lacks ambition.

The White House unveiled a nascent plan to bring high speed rail to various parts of the country. California’s passage of a $10 billion bond in November to build their own high speed rail network will help that state get federal funding first.

The plan provides a solid starting point but suffers from a lack of ambition and imagination. “Imagine whisking through towns at speeds over 100 miles an hour,” the White House begs. Sure. 100mph is sure better than the regional Amtrak trains chugging along at 60mph. But the French have a record setting TGV capable of 357mph, and commercial TGVs run at 200mph. A train traveling at that speed would connect New York to Boston in a little more than an hour.

Amtrak’s Acela train was the first attempt to build an American high speed train, and the service deserves an epic fail. The train runs along existing tracks, saving money, yes, but slowing down the train. For the service to function properly, the wooden rail ties need to be upgraded to concrete and the overhead electric wires need strengthening, which is why Acela only runs at top speed for 15 miles over the entire route. The 200 mile journey between New York and Boston takes more than 3 hours. Moreover, instead of buying an off the shelf train system, Amtrak insisted on building an entire new engine, adding delays and costs. For all of this, Acela is only marginally less expensive than flying.

A high speed rail system could work in the United States if the federal government would stop bailing out automakers– the primary lobbyists behind the federal highway system– and make a real investment. Japanese or European train systems could be purchased, ready to go without new research and development costs. New track could be laid–coincidentally, creating tens of thousands of jobs in the process. Most critically though, trains are far more energy efficient than air travel. As the finite supply of oil is consumed in places like China and India, a national high speed rail network will allow Americans to continue traveling even as carbon energy prices increase.

The New York Times has a bit about debt collectors seeking money from relatives of the dead; relatives are not obligated to pay dead people’s debts, but many do.

Some relatives are loyal to the credit card or bank in question. Some feel a strong sense of morality, that all debts should be paid. Most of all, people feel they are honoring the wishes of their loved ones.

For the record, I hate all the banking institutions I’m obligated to do business with. When I drop dead, I sure hope they are holding my last bar tab.

Begin with fresh tomatoes; select a variety that is readily available. I went with these cherry tomatoes mostly because the other varieties available at the local Shop Rite were rotting or green.

Slice the tomatoes into even sized pieces; in the case of the cherry tomatoes, I sliced them in half. With larger varieties, I’ll quarter them and sometimes halve the quarters.

Next up, slice the cheese into portions roughly the same size as the tomatoes. Sometimes grocers sell balls of mozzarella that are roughly the size of cherry tomatoes making it easy to gauge the correct size.

I found a relatively fresh slab of cheese that I sliced into chunks. Try and use the freshest cheese available. It will be softer, creamier, and more flavorful in the salad. Processed mozzarella cheese will taste like a factory.

Finally, finely chop an onion. I prefer red onion for tomato salads.

Season the salad with salt and pepper; dress with extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar just before serving.

Tags:: Gastronomy by ianmac47 :: No Comments » :: permalink