Pork Roll.
I’m from New Jersey, and I’m exit 73. I’m from New Jersey and I’ll drive circles around you on the turnpike. I’m from New Jersey, and I eat pork roll. Pork roll, also known as “taylor ham” was invented by a man named John Taylor in the late 19th century. It’s mostly seen on a bulkie, or hard roll, with a fried egg and American cheese. It’s a staple breakfast item, and is hardly seen outside Jersey and its neighboring states. Its looks are similar to salami, made in a similar process by mixing pork and spices and then curing, drying and wrapping it in a canvas casing. It’s then sliced and fried in a pan, or open grill.
The first time I tried the thin, grease slathered circles I was not in New Jersey, but upstate New York, at a local diner. I had just polished off my stack of pancakes, my father sipping his last bit of coffee, when he called the waitress over. “I need a taylor ham on a roll, to go.” I remember being confused, as the item had never entered my vocabulary. We received the foil wrapped sandwich minutes later, and headed home. As we drove back, I anticipated the fate of this my new foiled wrapped friend. What was it? Why had I never heard of it before and what was my Father doing with it? I flung myself from the car and ran into the garage, where I was to spend the next few hours running rampant through my father’s workshop...when I came across the horror. My father was down on one knee, tearing pieces of bread and meat from a bundle in his hand, and feeding it to our golden retriever. This new food, something that had filled my father’s truck with a smell that had tantalized me, enticed me, the whole way home: was being fed to the dog! I’m not sure what I said at that moment, but my uproar was enough for my father to lift off the top of the bulkie roll and hand me a slice. I remember hesitating and then just shoving the whole thing in my mouth. The taste was smoky and mild, sweet and salty, deep and jolting. Ever since, whenever the opportunity arises, I order pork roll. When I’m far from home and I crave that distinct flavor, I buy hard salami and fry it, to be eaten with my eggs. This preparation is very Jew, which I am, and is served “pancake style” in most diners, but alas, is not the same.
My first experience in a real kitchen was at my Godfathers diner in Fairview, New Jersey. His greasy spoon was a family business, started by his father when the area was mostly made up of factories and its workers looking for a cheap, quick meal. They where a famous institution, and when they closed their doors a few years ago, their secret meatloaf recipe was proudly featured in the local paper. This is where I first learned how to cook pancakes on an open grill, carry six plates to a table, and peel lots and lots of onions. This is also where I learned how to cook pork roll. My uncle’s kitchen was old, it was dirty, and it was a diner. Everything on the menu was cooked on the large, open flat top or fried in the fry-o-later. After a few weeks in the kitchen, my godfather decided to give me a chance on the grill. The orders where shouted into the kitchen through the pass, by some of the toughest women I ever knew. When it was slow, or when he thought I was ready, he’d call on me to take on an order. Then, it came “Eggs over easy with taylor ham.” I took six pale pink circles from the stack on the sandwich bar, and carefully placed them side by side on the grill. Immediately they begin to bubble up in the middle, seeing the panic in my eyes, my Godfather reached for the metal spatula in my hand, and used the sharp edge to cut a line to the center of the pattie, “like this,” he said. It quickly deployed, and laid flat on the grill, for an even golden exterior. The meat sizzles and pops, waiting for the right moment to be flipped. Two eggs go on the grill, and before I know it, the whole plate is on the pass. My mission was accomplished.
Instilled on me at a young age was the importance of diners and bagel stores in your daily routine. Everyday of my life growing up, I woke up to the same familiar bag of fresh hot bagel and coffee, left lovingly by my Father in the early morning hours for my Mother, brother and I to enjoy when we awoke. Everything about a bagel store on a weekend morning is memorizing, from the copious amounts of coffee brewing to the burning on my fingertips as the heat from the bagels seeps through those familiar brown bags. But, the best, most rewarding part, is a taylor ham, egg and cheese sandwich. The seemingly simple breakfast sandwich is a staple for the great armpit of the nation, along with our fried hotdogs, sweet corn and late night diners. I cannot imagine how my teenage years would have managed without the countless diners, road stops and deli’s spread throughout the great state. I am thankful for all things grease laden, especially my good old friend pork roll. Even if you aren’t from Jersey, you can order the stuff online, and countless websites ship it all over the country. You can even get a t-shirt exclaiming your love for the breakfast sandwich, and countless New Jersey fan sites praise the stuff. To my much anticipated surprise, I found the stuff at a local supermarket in Providence, RI recently where I attend school. The first thing I did was call every Jersey friend I knew in Rhode Island to exclaim my excitement. Every single one of them sang the same praise when I told them, and came over that night to share my exotic find, and with that, I knew I wasn’t alone.
The first time I tried the thin, grease slathered circles I was not in New Jersey, but upstate New York, at a local diner. I had just polished off my stack of pancakes, my father sipping his last bit of coffee, when he called the waitress over. “I need a taylor ham on a roll, to go.” I remember being confused, as the item had never entered my vocabulary. We received the foil wrapped sandwich minutes later, and headed home. As we drove back, I anticipated the fate of this my new foiled wrapped friend. What was it? Why had I never heard of it before and what was my Father doing with it? I flung myself from the car and ran into the garage, where I was to spend the next few hours running rampant through my father’s workshop...when I came across the horror. My father was down on one knee, tearing pieces of bread and meat from a bundle in his hand, and feeding it to our golden retriever. This new food, something that had filled my father’s truck with a smell that had tantalized me, enticed me, the whole way home: was being fed to the dog! I’m not sure what I said at that moment, but my uproar was enough for my father to lift off the top of the bulkie roll and hand me a slice. I remember hesitating and then just shoving the whole thing in my mouth. The taste was smoky and mild, sweet and salty, deep and jolting. Ever since, whenever the opportunity arises, I order pork roll. When I’m far from home and I crave that distinct flavor, I buy hard salami and fry it, to be eaten with my eggs. This preparation is very Jew, which I am, and is served “pancake style” in most diners, but alas, is not the same.
My first experience in a real kitchen was at my Godfathers diner in Fairview, New Jersey. His greasy spoon was a family business, started by his father when the area was mostly made up of factories and its workers looking for a cheap, quick meal. They where a famous institution, and when they closed their doors a few years ago, their secret meatloaf recipe was proudly featured in the local paper. This is where I first learned how to cook pancakes on an open grill, carry six plates to a table, and peel lots and lots of onions. This is also where I learned how to cook pork roll. My uncle’s kitchen was old, it was dirty, and it was a diner. Everything on the menu was cooked on the large, open flat top or fried in the fry-o-later. After a few weeks in the kitchen, my godfather decided to give me a chance on the grill. The orders where shouted into the kitchen through the pass, by some of the toughest women I ever knew. When it was slow, or when he thought I was ready, he’d call on me to take on an order. Then, it came “Eggs over easy with taylor ham.” I took six pale pink circles from the stack on the sandwich bar, and carefully placed them side by side on the grill. Immediately they begin to bubble up in the middle, seeing the panic in my eyes, my Godfather reached for the metal spatula in my hand, and used the sharp edge to cut a line to the center of the pattie, “like this,” he said. It quickly deployed, and laid flat on the grill, for an even golden exterior. The meat sizzles and pops, waiting for the right moment to be flipped. Two eggs go on the grill, and before I know it, the whole plate is on the pass. My mission was accomplished.
Instilled on me at a young age was the importance of diners and bagel stores in your daily routine. Everyday of my life growing up, I woke up to the same familiar bag of fresh hot bagel and coffee, left lovingly by my Father in the early morning hours for my Mother, brother and I to enjoy when we awoke. Everything about a bagel store on a weekend morning is memorizing, from the copious amounts of coffee brewing to the burning on my fingertips as the heat from the bagels seeps through those familiar brown bags. But, the best, most rewarding part, is a taylor ham, egg and cheese sandwich. The seemingly simple breakfast sandwich is a staple for the great armpit of the nation, along with our fried hotdogs, sweet corn and late night diners. I cannot imagine how my teenage years would have managed without the countless diners, road stops and deli’s spread throughout the great state. I am thankful for all things grease laden, especially my good old friend pork roll. Even if you aren’t from Jersey, you can order the stuff online, and countless websites ship it all over the country. You can even get a t-shirt exclaiming your love for the breakfast sandwich, and countless New Jersey fan sites praise the stuff. To my much anticipated surprise, I found the stuff at a local supermarket in Providence, RI recently where I attend school. The first thing I did was call every Jersey friend I knew in Rhode Island to exclaim my excitement. Every single one of them sang the same praise when I told them, and came over that night to share my exotic find, and with that, I knew I wasn’t alone.