Sometimes Spaghetti Likes to Be Alone*

Stanley Tucci's love letter to food, family, and the American Dream is Big Night, a small 1996 film about two Italian brothers who own a restaurant at the Jersey shore. Set in the fifties, the movie has terrific period details, from Isabella Rossellini's chic haircut to the giant-finned cars that cruise the main street of the shore town that is home to the guys' restaurant, Paradise. (Parts of the movie were filmed in Keyport, right here in NJ.)

The  brothers Primo (Tony Shalhoub, who plays one of the most convincing Italians I've seen on screen) and Secondo (Tucci) are struggling to make a go of Paradise. Primo is the consummate chef, whose focus is on serving authentic dishes from their native Abruzzi. Secondo is the businessman, who knows that their American clientele are expecting a different kind of fare from the delicate risottos and seafood dishes that Primo lovingly prepares.

As the brothers lose customers to their competition, Pascal (Ian Holm, in a hilarious turn) it looks as though the Paradise will close. When Secondo hears that musician Louis Prima is in town, the brothers risk everything for that one big night, putting every bit of their resources into planning a grand feast for the famous band leader. And here is the real joy of this film--the food. Each course that comes out is more gorgeous than the last, culminating in a timpano, a complicated dish of pasta, eggs, meat and cheese baked in  pastry. I won't tell you if Prima ever does show up, but it sure is fun waiting for him to arrive, as the restaurant's guests eat, drink, dance, and smoke the night away.

To me this movie feels like home--it's got great food, Italian accents, fifties music and the Jersey shore. Paradise, no?

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*Secondo's answer to a restaurant patron who asks why there aren't meatballs with her spaghetti.

Sunlight and Sea Bright

My go-to beach for a day trip is Sea Bright, in Monmouth County. It's a narrow strip of a beach with lots of parking and a short walk to the ocean. The people are friendly to tourists, and it has a couple of old-timey stores in town that look like they were frozen in 1965. (For some people, like yours truly, this is a draw.) Not only is it pretty:

It has a cute little library that shares a parking lot with the beach. I wandered in one day and got chatting with the librarian, who knew lots about the history of the town. It also has a lovely reading room you can hide out in if the sun gets too hot:

But I think I'll let this sign posted at the beach hut say it all:

Good-bye, Sea Bright. See you in June. . .

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Like a Hurricane

I'm spending the day securing outdoor furniture, filling the cars with gas, stockpiling non-perishables, and emptying the bookshelves in my finished basement--all in preparation for a category 3 hurricane that's supposed to be heading straight up the Jersey coast. Our governor has declared a state of emergency, and comparisons are already being drawn between Hurricane Irene and the great storms of 1938 and 1944, which devastated much of the northeast seaboard, including the Jersey shore.

The Neil Young song of the title has been running through my head all morning, and like the weather, I'm feeling strangely calm before the storm. My neighborhood is sunny and quiet; people are walking their dogs and kids are bicycling past. But behind it all is an undercurrent that's driving people to the grocery store and gas stations; we're calling family and friends along the coast and encouraging them to come and stay.

In the meantime, I'm planning to do what I always do when I need comfort--read and cook. There's a stack of books next to my bed and the makings for sauce Bolognese in my refrigerator. And if things get really bad, I can always grab the rum and mix up some cocktails--maybe a nice batch of hurricanes?

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A Jersey State of Mind

Fairleigh Dickinson University recently released a poll about Americans' general perceptions about my fair state. Below are the top five responses to "What comes to mind as you think about New Jersey?" As a proud Jersey girl, I thought it only fair to respond: 1. New York/next to New York You bet it is. And sometimes they even let us visit.

2. Shore/ocean/beach/boardwalk/boating

3. Garden State/farming/open space Finally, someone noticed! We eat real tomatoes here, people. 4. Corruption/crime/mafia/Sopranos Education/the arts/rich heritage/Springsteen

5. Pollution/bad smell/industry At least it wasn't number one. What comes to mind when I think about New Jersey? That's an easy one. Home.

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Information courtesy of PublicMind Poll. Images courtesy wikimedia commons.

Greetings From the (Real) Jersey Shore

For those of you whose only reference to my beloved coastline is a certain reality show, you may want to check out this sweet indie gem, Greetings from the Shore. A 2008 release, the film was made by Jersey natives Gabrielle Berberich, who wrote and produced, and Greg Chwerchak, who directed. The film was shot in Lavallette, and has lots of oooh-I-know-that-place moments for Jersey natives--like Barnacle Bill's, where two of the characters play miniature golf. The film opens with Jenny, played by Kim Shaw (and suggesting a young Meg Ryan), heading south on the Garden State Parkway to look for a summer job at the shore--something I dreamed of doing as a teen, but alas, never did. During that crazy summer she has run-ins with Russian mobsters as well as country club types, and has a sweet romance with the highly  delectable David Fumero. Paul Sorvino does a wonderful turn as a crusty fisherman who looks out for Jenny as a substitute father. If you're a Jersey native, check it out for nostalgia. For the rest of you out there, consider this film a pretty little postcard from a state with a whole lot more to offer than "gym, tan, and laundry." More about this fun film here.

But I Won't Be One of 'Em. . .

Southern Exposure

                                                                                           My college roommate was from south Jersey, a foreign and exotic land where people call sub sandwiches "hoagies," pronounce "coffee" as CAH-FEE (when everyone knows it's CAW-FEE), make obscure references to "Pineys," and root for the Phillies. When they refer to "the city," they mean Philadelphia. (We say "the city" and we mean the real one.) Though we spent a lot of time making fun of each other's accents, we had two important things in common--classic films (see previous post) and a love of the Jersey shore. In the summers I sometimes visited with her and her family in Stone Harbor, my first experience with the south Jersey beaches. Quieter, less crowded, and without the carnival atmosphere of some of the places I was used to, I came to appreciate towns like Avalon, Margate, Ocean City, and of course, Cape May, which will get a well-deserved post of its own. So if your idea of the Jersey Shore comes from a certain reality television show, you need to take a long drive down Parkway South, where the exit numbers are lower, the sand is whiter, and the people are really friendly. Even if they don't tawk like we do.

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Greetings From Asbury Park

Asbury Park holds a place in my heart like no other. Growing up in the 60s in a family of limited means, our "vacation" each summer was a day in Asbury. We started in the morning with a trip to the Monte Carlo pool, with its cheerfully painted Adirondack chairs. We stored our stuff in a locker room that sported a sign with a 40s style bathing beauty in a red swimsuit. After a morning swim, we walked through the cool underground tunnel that led straight to the beach, where we spent the afternoon until it was time for dinner at the Homestead Restaurant. Sometimes we took a ride in the swan boats on Wesley Lake, but we always ended up on the boardwalk, riding the carousel, eating Kohr's custard and taffy from Criterion, always stopping to sit on the reversible benches--where you  could either watch the people or the ocean. I always chose the ocean.

 As you can see from the photo, going to Asbury is a tradition in my family, one that started during World War II. Most of the men in the family were away, so my grandmother, my mom and two uncles, as well as a number of assorted great aunts would spend a week in one of the more modest boarding houses. It was a women and children's vacation during the week, and on the weekends, the men who were either too young or too old to serve would come down and visit. After the war, the tradition continued into the early 50s. On the rides down during our day trips, my mom would tell me stories of Asbury's heyday. My favorite was her description of dances held around the Monte Carlo pool, where a band played out on a floating platform in the middle of the water. It was easy to imagine the ladies in their 40s updos, dancing with their soldier husbands and boyfriends to Big Band music. But the Monte Carlo pool, like many of Asbury's landmarks, is long gone. My heart broke when the carousel was dismantled, when Convention Hall and the Paramount fell into disrepair, and when the Palace Amusement building was demolished. But after years of economic decline, recent revitalization efforts in Asbury are revealing hopeful glimmers of its glory days (to quote its most famous champion, The Boss). And while Asbury is no longer the dream resort of my youth, it's a place I'll always love--even in all its shabby splendor.

Once a Bennie. . .

Bennies* are not made, but born. I, for example, am a Bennie. I come from a long line of Bennies, in particular my Italian grandpa, whose idea of beachwear consisted of a Banlon shirt, khaki shorts, black socks and dress shoes. No kidding. I have pictures. Popular wisdom holds that the word originated as an acronym for the cities from which the tourists arrived: Bayonne-Elizabeth-Newark-New York. (Well, that about covers my family.) We live “up North.” We go “down the shore.” We arrive in overloaded cars and trudge up to the beach hut or the gate or the boardwalk stand to buy our daily badges laden with chairs, bags, food and sunscreen. We are the always either the palest or the most sunburned bathers by the sea. We spend a lot of money on food, house rentals, beach chairs, toys, souvenirs and boardwalk rides. And the locals pretty much count the days until we leave. I’m not sure why we are reviled so much. There is a certain Star-Ledger columnist for example, who has made a career of sneering at Bennies. My nieces, who have thrown off

their Bennie status by dint of living in Ocean County for most of their young lives, use the word as an adjective in its most pejorative sense—as in: “Did you see that ugly shirt he was wearing? It was so Bennie.” I was horrified one day last fall when I opened a local paper in Avon to see that the winner of their town Halloween contest was dressed as. . .me. Not me, in particular, but a Bennie. The picture was grainy, but I could make out a kid dressed in yes—an ugly shirt, his hair slicked back and wearing a penciled mustache that suggested perhaps he was meant to look Italian. Hmm. The best of us act like respectful guests. The worst of us are exemplified in a certain reality TV show That Shall Not Be Mentioned, as it besmirches the very name of my beloved coastline. But here’s what all Bennies have in common: we are outsiders. We are seasonal renters and day trippers who can only dream about living in the towns we visit each summer. I think maybe that's why I set my novels at the Shore. I will always be a Bennie. But through my characters, at least, I can finally belong.

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*Derogatory term for those who visit the Jersey shore as tourists

Best. Gift. Ever.

Right before Christmas a friend handed me a small, worn volume with a marble-patterned cover. He told me he picked it up at his library book sale, and figured I was the one person he knew who would want it. There was no title on the cover, but when I opened it, here is what I saw: My reaction was one usually reserved for a blue bag from Tiffany. I held my treasure, caressing its pages, and while my husband and our friends chatted over drinks, I happily got lost in Parker's poems. I discovered Dorothy Parker in my late teens, at exactly the age when her combination of acid and sentiment held its strongest appeal. The author of work The New York Times famously dismissed as "flapper verse," was also capable of real poetry: Like January weather,/The years will bite and smart,/And pull your bones together/To wrap your chattering heart./The pretty stuff you're made of/Will crack and crease and dry./The thing you are afraid of/Will look from every eye. (Try to read that one without a small shiver of recognition.) I know few writers who get to the heart of women's fears and disappointments so well as Parker, probably because she had so many of her own. Her life has become the stuff of legend, with so much emphasis on her alcoholism and broken love affairs that we forget her sharp, bright talent. And given her role at The New Yorker and her association with the Algonquin Round Table, we tend to forget something else as well--she's the original Jersey girl.

Born in Long Branch (also home to Norman Mailer and Robert Pinsky--is there something magical in our salt air?)  Parker's sardonic observations and ability to hold her own with the guys--whether drinking, quipping, or writing them under the table--have a familiar Jersey edge. From her poem, "Observation": But I shall stay the way I am,/Because I do not give a damn. You go, girl.

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