SIGN HUNT

When my son Andrew was three, his favorite kiddie book featured pictures of signs. On a dull afternoon, he and I got in the car to set out on a sign hunt. In the wilds of our neighborhood, he was excited to identify stop signs, no left turns and the speed limits. Our sign safari got better after we parked in beautiful downtown Absecon and strolled down New Jersey Avenue. In rapid succession he spotted; open, closed, no parking, in, out, air-conditioned, welcome, and thank you signs.

Beyond his fun of discovery and learning, I also picked-up on the power of good signage and its value...even to toddlers. It's too bad that this message isn't embraced by more people.

In 1982, at the Golden Nugget in Las Vegas, the concept of good signage slipped through the hands of a co-worker named Oscar. Oscar was an Italian national with marginal mastery of the English language. In addition to having an annoying and abrasive personality, he had little experience as a craps dealer and was a slow learner. Shunned by the entire staff, this pariah forced himself into my little clique. The only reason why he was allowed to weasel himself in was because Oscar had been "juiced" into the Nugget by someone big. So we felt compelled to put on a false-face and tolerate him.

On the job, he couldn't handle being corrected by fellow dealers. The supervisors were in a worse position because he couldn't handle their criticism. Plus, because of Oscar's attitude problems with the customers, the same bosses that hated him had to protect him. The supervisors were so frustrated by him that they took their wrath out on us.

To keep the heat off, Oscar was taken aside by several of us but he never adjusted. Instead, he mistakenly took the attention he received, as friendship. He took advantage of this misinterpretation and oozed into our social circle, outside work. Then whenever Oscar had center stage, he'd reach new, "GUINNESS WORLD BOOK OF RECORDS," levels of irritation by bragging about opening an Italian restaurant.

Once Oscar interrupted a personal conversation I was having with Nick Tucker, (Nick was a universally beloved dealer and central character of my short story, "NO HELP'S HALL.").
In broken English Oscar said, "What's a good name for my restaurant?"
Nick was polite, "I don't know. I'm busy right now. Let me think about it."
Oscar turned my stomach. I thought everything he said was B. S. and that the restaurant nonsense was just a fantasy. I had always made it clear that I disliked him so I was surprised that he asked me to suggest a name for his restaurant too.
I said, "I know!"
Nick saw it coming from the gleam in my eye and said, "Don't."

I smiled, "Oscar, are you going to be doing the cooking?"
Oscar said, "Si."
So I said, "Then you should call it CASA STRUNZA."
Oscar was offended by the Italian phrase for, "House of Shit."
In addition to never speaking to me again, Oscar didn't invite me to the grand opening of his place called, "CIAO." All my other friends were invited but they gave up before they could find the place.

First, Oscar and his brother opened their elegant restaurant in an industrial park, on Polaris Drive, (off West Spring Mountain Road). They were opened for dinner only and for the most part, the industrial park closed at five. They immediately struggled. When they discovered this error, they opened for lunch but the food was too slow to prepare, too fancy and too expensive for the overwhelmingly blue-collar clientele.

More importantly, their CIAO sign, outside the complex as well as the one on the building was written in an ornate, hard to read, cursive font.

Oscar's directions did not include an actual street address. My friends, (none of which were Italian), blew by the sign which didn't even include the word; restaurant, cafe or eatery. They got lost, searched a short time in vain and gave up. After all, even if they telephoned for information, they were typical craps dealers and would have spelled the restaurant: "CHOW." After all, what else would a moron name his restaurant.

Down through the years, business people have softened their signs. These days, the word NO is rarely used. Benign international symbols have replaced "NO SMOKING" signs, and phrases like, "SHOES AND SHIRTS REQUIRED" has replaced, "NO shoes, NO shirt NO service."

SIGNS LIKE THIS ELIMINATE LANGUAGE CONFUSION.

To the entertainment of guys like me, foreigners...like Oscar, still haven't gotten the memo. This point is proven by this year's sign of the year. It is hanging right now, in the window of a gourmet (expensive) Indian restaurant, in one of Atlantic City's casinos.

I preface this statement with the following politically correct disclaimer. I mean no disrespect to my Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi and Sri Lankan friends, coworkers and customers. My "glibness" is aimed specifically at your cuisine...more specifically at the disagreeable smell of curry...To demonstrate my food sensitivity/strangeness, I feel the same way about bananas, strawberries, Brussels sprouts and liver. You put me on "FEAR FACTOR" and while everyone is hesitating about eating manatee eyes, I'd disqualify myself before the threat of the first scent of beets wafted my way!

I am guessing that this particular Indian restaurant has its own customer base...but for the life of me, I've never seen anyone inside. Perhaps it has to do with the sign on their front door...
"NO FOOD OR DRINK BEYOND THIS POINT."

Even a less than entrepreneurial three-year old would find that funny.

THE HARLEM RENAISSANCE

We can all relate to this because --whether you have a child or not--99% of us were children once ourselves.

Your kid comes home and you ask, "What happened at school today?"
Unless some girl was whacked in the head at lunch with a flying chocolate pudding, invariably, the answer is a standard, "Nuthin'!"

This happened recently in regards to my son Andrew's literature class. In recognition of black history month, his class was assigned a project on the flowering or rebirth of intellectualism and culture in American black people. This movement occurred roughly from 1919 till 1935. It was called, the Harlem Renaissance or the Black Literary Renaissance.

Today, Harlem is a predominately black slum in upper Manhattan. What most people don't realize is that it was once a thriving community of middle and upper middle-class blacks. Harlem attracted famous African Americans artists, activists and philosophers. During that time, the National Organization for the Advancement of Colored People, (NAACP) and the National Urban League were founded there.

The ultimate goal of the renaissance was to not only prove to the world that blacks were entitled to equality but that they were capable of doing anything that anyone else could do and that they deserved their own cultural niche within mainstream America.

So I find out through channels that my son is researching Jamaican born poet/civil rights activist Claude McKay. Andrew showed me his findings and read me some of McKay's poetry. He and I discussed some of McKay's imagery. I came away feeling enlightened and Andrew had a fuller understanding of McKay's message. He received an excellent grade...case closed....
P-A-U-S-E...NOT!

Weeks go by and I ask Andrew, "What happened at school today?"
Naturally, he says, "Nuthin'."
A little later I see him feverishly writing and ask, "What's up?"
"Oh I have to re-write all this dialog for Thursday (February 21st)."

It was at that point, I found out the true scope of Andrew's Black History Month project and how his subject, Claude McKay fit into it.

Each student not only researched an individual from the Harlem Renaissance but they were required to work in committees, write out skits and then perform them. In this play-acting, their characters would come alive and interact with each other to identify their accomplishments.

In sets of three, eighteen prominent blacks including: Billie Holiday, Booker T. Washington, Louie Armstrong, Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes and W. E. B. DuBois were portrayed. These skits were inter-spliced with a multi-media production orchestrated by the advanced literature teacher Ms. Barbara Rodilosso. To add to the realism, some of the students went to the trouble to wear clothing consistent of the 20's and 30's.

LANGSTON HUGHES

LOUIE ARMSTRONG

ELLA FITZGERALD

MARCUS GARVEY

Performed in the school library, this hour-long presentation was shown four times throughout the day, enabling the entire GTMS student body to see it. The show opened with a short film of Harlem street scenes during the renaissance with an establishing narration over it. Then between the students' vignettes, a four-piece combo (featuring three teachers and a parent) played live music of the period. Sound bites and slides were also incorporated into the show. Additionally, one of the students sang Billie Holliday's, "Stormy Weather" and Ella Fitzgerald's, "A Tisket a Tasket." The house was brought down when four students spontaneously paired-off and danced along to the music.

I admit, I attended by accident. my son led me to believe that it was just a simple in-class project, (in reality, I came in only to discuss my own writing with Ms. Rodilosso). I'm not sure why the word never got out to the public (very few non-students saw it) because it was a learning experience and a terrific show.

To avoid missing out on great things at school, grill your kid every day and never accept "nuthin'" as an answer! You wouldn't want to waste an opportunity to be entertained and educated at such a high level.

To see some event photos go to the Galloway Township newspaper, "The Current" at:

http://bonus.shorenewsnowtv.com/

For more details about the Harlem Renaissance, either GOOGLE it or visit wikipedia.

SAINT ANDREW? FOURTEEN AND GETTING BETTER EVERY YEAR !

Today, February 25th, is Andrew's fourteenth birthday! Its hard to imagine that a year has past since his Bar Mitzvah. In many ways, we are all still basking in the warm afterglow of that epic event. So it seemed natural to celebrate this birthday on a lesser scale. But when you have such loyal friends as Andrew...

Two of Andrew's female friends decided to throw him a surprise party! They began preparations before Christmas, made all the invitations, picked the FIESTA theme, Mexican menu and festive "south of the border-style" decorations. PLUS, one girl opened her home to us.

In all, twenty blabbering invitees and dozens of ancillary personnel were privy to the proceedings and somehow, nobody gave away the secret. It should be noted that Andrew will never be confused with Sherlock Holmes and although there were many slip-ups, he never pieced the puzzle together, (I must confess, I almost gave it away myself).

The plan worked perfectly Saturday night, (two days before his birthday). His friends suggested going to the movies and Andrew our "sitting-duck" was driven by mom, to the hostess' house. We all waited in the garage. The kids were so noisy, I was afraid they might give it away...until one of the girls shrieked directly into my ear, "SHADDUP!!!!!"

The doctors say, I have an excellent chance to eventually get some of my hearing back...thanks Amber!

The hostess' mom came outside to greet them when they pulled up. For effect, she brought with her a pail and mop. She spilled the water out for Andrew to see and said, "Please go through the garage, the floor is still wet."

The giggling inside the garage rose as the door slowly went up until the collective, deafening scream of, "SURPRISE!" Andrew was shocked. Tears welled-up in his eyes as well as his mom's. Mobbed by his friends, everybody went inside and the party officially began.

ANDREW IS OVERWHELMED AND CAN'T DECIDE WHETHER TO LAUGH OR CRY

UNABLE TO DO BOTH AT THE SAME TIME, ONCE THE CRYING ENDED, ANDREW LAUGHED

A MRS. FIELDS CHOCOLATE-CHIP COOKIE CAKE FROM THE MALL. WE WERE PRE-WARNED AND HAD AN ENGLISH SPEAKING ADULT HANDLE OUR ORDER.

CAN'T YOU JUST FEEL THE HORMONES BURSTING FROM YOUR COMPUTER SCREEN.

ANDREW IS BRACKETED BY THE PARTY ORGANIZERS, THE HOSTESS IS ON THE LEFT.

SOME KID CRASHED THE PARTY. HE STOLE SIX BALLOONS AND DRANK ALL THE MILK BEFORE GETTING KICKED OUT.

NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED DURING THE PINATA CEREMONY HOWEVER ANDREW, UNAIDED BY STEROIDS, DID TAKE OUT THE LIGHT BULB WITH ONE MIGHTY SWING

AFTER THE OPENING OF THE GIFTS...ANDREW GIVES HIS ACCEPTANCE SPEECH...AT THIS POINT, HE'S BEGINNING THE SECOND HOUR AND IS THANKING THE "LITTLE PEOPLE."

INSIDER INFORMATION HAS INDICATED TO ME THAT ANDREW IS WISHING THAT THIS GREAT NIGHT WILL NEVER END.

BACK AT HOME, ANDREW SHARES THE INTIMATE DETAILS OF THE PARTY WITH HIS CONFESSOR.

If you run over to Andrew's school, Galloway Township Middle School (GTMS) his name appears on the marquee along with a birthday message. His history teacher (Mr. Evans) is in charge of that (for a fee). Mr. Evans likes Andrew so well that he has dubbed my boy THE SAINT and included that moniker on the sign.

Let's all raise our goblets of Nestle's Quik and wish Andrew a *HAPPY BIRTHDAY with many happy returns, (trust me, he's NOT always a saint...but close).

While your at it, please also wish BADLANDS a HAPPY BIRTHDAY, its her big day today too.

BURNT OUT, IN CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA

We had a hot time in the old town on the night of Valentine's Day. Andrew and I took our Valentine (Mommy) into Atlantic City to a new steakhouse with an odd name; RUTH'S CHRIS.

Ruth's Chris is an elegant chain restaurant that is truly excellent...pricey but excellent. Their main gimmick is to serve the entrees on plates that are supposedly 500 degrees. Whether or not that's really important or even true is secondary--but I know my dish was still radiating long after it was set down.

The harsh reality is, for the same money, I'd rather eat off the cold plates at the OUTBACK three times, than go back to Ruth's Chris once.

After everyone fell asleep that night, I settled into an evening of hot entertainment that included the double feature, "THE DEER HUNTER" followed by "PLATOON." Nothing warms the soul better than five hours of flame throwing action and napalm hi-jinx.

I had never seen either one all the way through, so when it was all over at 3:AM, I was unsettled and in a bit of shock. While channel surfing, I came across the History Channel's tribute to the states. They were discussing Pennsylvania and the weird story of the small town of Centralia.

Centralia Pennsylvania is in the mid-eastern part of state, about 120 miles northwest of Philadelphia. The closest I ever got was thirty miles east when I was at Jim Thorpe PA.

Deep in the heart of coal territory, Centralia was literally built on top of the mines. But now, nearly everyone has left this once a thriving community. At first, the residents moved away voluntarily. Those who opted to stay were eventually forced out.

The town's woes started warming up, in May 1962 when five volunteer firemen were hired to clean-up a landfill, located at an abandoned strip mine.  The accepted practice was to set the dump on fire, allow it to burn and professionally extinguish the blaze.  Their standard operating procedure went according to Hoyle except for one minor detail...they couldn't put out the fire.

The fire remained burning in the lower depths of the trash and spread...down through gaps in the rock pit and into spent mine shafts below Centralia. The amount of coal left behind was meager on a commercial level but there was enough down there to sustain the fire and allow it to grow.

In the next few years, many attempts to put out these fires continued throughout the 60's and 70's, but failed. More time went by and the fires below were largely ignored until residents began experiencing adverse health issues from the carbon dioxide being produced.

In 1979 with the fires still spreading, the seriousness of the situation was made more apparent when a filling station owner reported the temperature in his underground tanks at 172 degrees. Large amounts of people evacuated the town.

Centralia received national attention in 1981 when a young boy got sucked into a crater filled with noxious fumes. Luckily, his cousin saved him from the sink hole. This incident helped propel a new campaign to re-settle the straggling townspeople elsewhere.

In 1984, Pennsylvania began buying out the remaining residents. Despite warnings from the state, some Centralians still refused to move. These people cited a conspiracy to evict them from their property in order to steal the valuable mineral rights, (the town's mines boast deposits of rare anthracite, which makes up 2% of all coal).

The fires were still blazing in 1992. So, Pennsylvania claimed eminent domain on the whole town. All the buildings were condemned, the deteriorating main arteries to town (Pennsylvania highway 61) were detoured and Centralia died. In 2002, the town's zip code (17927) was revoked by the US postal service.

So whenever you think of the phrase; burnt out, please consider the 46 year (and counting) plight of Centralia Pennsylvania and its FOUR remaining residents (according to 2007 tax records). Because there are no solid plans to attack this fire and experts are certain that the 3700 acres of coal reserves beneath the town is enough to continue feeding the flames for between 250 and a 1,000 years.

THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS

I saw the movie "BOUND FOR GLORY" as part of a film studies assignment while attending Brooklyn College in 1976. An over-looked film, it stars David Carradine, from the hit TV show, "KUNG FU."

Its been 34 years since I saw "Bound For Glory" but I recall liking it. Unfortunately, that enjoyment only thrust the paper I wrote as far as a C+.

Woody Guthrie, was more than just an American songwriter and folk singer. He was an inspiration to the oppressed and stood up against the establishment of his time. Through song, he brought change and helped deliver the dormant dignity of a downtrodden nation.

Woodrow Wilson "Woody" Guthrie (July 14, 1912-September 3, 1967), died a young man. Even worse, he became stricken with a degenerative neurological disease long before he passed and wasn't productive for more than the last decade of his life.

"Bound For Glory" is the story of Guthrie's life in the"Dust-Bowl" and follows him to the land o' plenty, California. Beautifully photographed, it serves as a timepiece of the Depression.

He and thousands of fellow idealistic Okies find out that the descriptions of the "promised land" were highly exaggerated. The fruit growers throughout the area hire hundreds of pickers each day but there are three or four times more applicants than jobs. To make conditions worse, the orchard owners take advantage of this leverage and pay the select few, extremely low wages.

Guthrie is appalled by the living conditions in the shantytown village next to the orchard. He borrows a guitar and sets out to make his own way. When he retrurns, a radio personality, Ozark Bule comes by the camp to entertain the masses. Bule's lyrics carry with them a message of a better life through organization and unionization. Guthrie joins in until the rally is squashed by goons from the orchard. Guthire escapes with his life and takes up the cause.

Ozark introduces Guthrie around and soon, he is a singing radio star too. His stardom becomes tenuous because as he rises in popularity, the sponsorship wants to restrict his rabble-rousing sentiments. Guthrie turns his back on the money...family and friends too...and criss-crosses the country in support of America's suffering working class.

The movie ends there but Woody's life continued in 1940 New York City. Embraced by the leftist folk music community much of his legacy was built there. He meets author John Steinbeck whose 1939 novel, "The Grapes of Wrath" closely parallels Guthrie Dust-Bowl to California experience.

In New York, he wrote his most famous song, "This Land is Your Land." My favorite passage is:

As I went walking, I saw a sign there,
and on the sign there, it said "no trespassing"
but on the other side it said nothing
That side was made for you and me.

Oddly the original title was: "God Blessed America." Guthrie didn't like Irving Berlin classic, "God Bless America," because he felt it was unrealistic and compacent...plus he hated hearing Kate Smith sing it.

During WWII Woody served briefly in the Merchant Marines and later in the army.

After WWII, he joined Pete Seeger as part of the "Almanac Singers." They described their music as anti-Fascist songs. At that time Woody put a sign on his guitar that read: This Machine Kills Fascist.

Guthrie lived on Mermaid Avenue in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn. His famous son Arlo spent a lot of time growing up there until the Guthrie's moved to the Pacific Northwest.

Woody's health worsened and he began acting extremely erratic in the late 40's. Before he was correctly diagnosed with Huntington's Disease in 1952, he was thought to be suffering alcoholism or schizophrenia. In 1954, a freak fire seriously injured Woody's arm...he never played the guitar again. The following year he was committed to a mental institution. He was shuffled to different hopitals for 12 years and died at New York's Creedmoor Psychiatric Center in 1967.

In 2006, my son Andrew and I attended the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame. We got to see a special Bob Dylan exhibit. We learned that Woody Guthrie influenced Dylan both in his style and the theme of his lyrics. Also Guthrie is mentioned in other areas of the museum as a core contributor to the roots of Rock 'n Roll itself.

The title of this great American's autobiography is also, "BOUND FOR GLORY." You should pick it up or at least find the movie. I found it straightforward and thoroughly inspirational.
Sometimes I get sentimental in regards to patriotism and the individual sacrifices that were made to make our country great. I guess I feel that way because I'm no hero and recognize my own limitations.

My only hope now...is that I get a higher grade on this column than the C+ on got on my college paper.

THE STOREHOUSE OF USELESS INFORMATION STRIKES AGAIN !

Yesterday was not only our dog Roxy's third birthday but it was the day that the prematurely anoited kings of professional football were dethroned, prior to coronation.

Deep in the heart of Giants territory, I ventured up to Central Jersey to a Super Bowl party thrown by my lifelong friends, the Zimbiodelic's. The house also served as a convalescent center as many mutual friends met to wish ZYMBOT the host, a speedy recovery from kneecap replacement surgery...ouchies!

In that hostile environment...I of course was the only person rooting for the Patriots--so as I always suggest: find out who I like and bet the other way.

On the brighter side, the patient was cheery from the company and the result of the game. His upbeat demeanor made it easier on his wife FLOWGLO...who throughout the day was her usual lovable self and cordial hostess.

I was enjoying the clam dip with RBOY when he told me that he recently had a get together with other old friends from the neighborhood. They wound up at a schoolyard and shot baskets. He made the point that despite being 53 or so...everyone's personality on the court was a consistant throw-back to being 14.

RBOY said, "Despite the best and worse that life has to offer, we can't change the root of who we are. The selfish friend who became a great businessman still never passed the ball, the cool dude whose life has been riddled with addictions and dead end jobs was still a show-off, the lazy sloth after two divorces still played no defense and stood still on offense waiting for a pass, the whiner was still petty and cried foul too often, the tough guy played dirty and the space-case lost interest right away and played video games on his cell-phone."

I guess what I forgot to ask RBOY was--how are you the same? I think he would have said that his jumper, a step inside the foul line, is still deadly. I also should have asked about me. I really don't know about my hoops personality but I do know one aspect of my life that everyone at the party has come to expect.

I am a STOREHOUSE OF USELESS INFORMATION, if it doesn't matter, I know it. And in small doses, like once every few years, my talent for superficial, free association is greatly appreciated.

The day's first bone of contention was: my mentioning the military draft prior to Vietnam... during peace time.
ZYMBOT challenged this assertion so I pointed out that many celebrities and sports figures had to put their careers on hold, to serve. I used NFL Hall of Famer Paul Hornung's story about his coach Vince Lombardi personally calling President Kennedy to use a favor, to get Hornung a weekend pass to play in the 1961 championship game, (it was called that prior to being dubbed Super Bowl).

He didn't like that example because he couldn't believe that there was ever a draft during peacetime. So I mentioned Elvis Presley.
One of the women said, "Elvis doesn't count because he was drafted during the Korean War."
I regret not not sticking to my guns because he was a nobody in '51-'53. I reseached it on Wikipedia and found out that he was drafted December of '57 and was inducted into the army March '58. In September of that year, Elvid was sent to Germany where he was stationed for the next 18 months.

My second nonsense nugget made a lot of people scoff: The Outerbridge Crossing that connects the Tottenville section of Staten Island New York with Perth Amboy New Jersey is named after someone whose name is Outerbridge.

Most people seem to think that because it was the most southern point in New York or that it was the last outpost in the state, it was named the "Outer" Bridge. But its the Outer Bridge Crossing. More specifically Outerbridge is indeed one word. I wasn't prepared to tell the whole story at the party but "Instant Recall Edelblum" (me), is ready now.

The Outerbridge Crossing was named in honor of Eugenius H. Outerbridge. He was the first chairman of the Port Authority. The "crossing" was opened on June 29, 1928 and in 2006 32,438,000 vehicles came across it.

After finishing my column, to belatedly honor my dog's birthday, I offered her a treat. She rejected it. I guess because I missed HER party, she's wasn't interested in my trifle. Either that or she smelled Cody and Casey, (two dogs who were at the Zimbiodelic shindig) and hates me for seeing other pups behind her back.

A REAL LIFE, "WHAT'S UP, TIGER LILY?"

Woody Allen could probably make a movie out of this...from me, you'll have to settle for another installment of, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND."

It bothers me that the word delicatessen has been nearly forgotten. After all, its a lovely German word--which when loosely translated means; a place to eat delicacies.

Where have these eateries gone?

"Mom and Pop" delicatessens have vanished from our culture partly because of the end of ethnic neighborhoods, soaring costs and enormous carpetbagging, corporate franchises. What's left is a "deli." These days, a deli is synonymous with convenience stores or sandwich shops. It's not only an abbreviated name but the quality it provides has been watered-down with general goods...while customer service suffers due to an indifferent, minimum wage earning staff.

In my upbringing most delicatessens were kosher or kosher-style. But, I also loved to get a ham and cheese with potato salad at Karl's German Delicatessen on the "L" (Avenue L in Canarsie) . Additionally, I was introduced (late in life, I was seventeen) to my favorite, Genoa Salami at a salumeria (sala-maria), a pork store/butcher shop that many people referrred to as, an Italian Delicatessen.

However, this week's rantings are reserved for the THE KOSHER-STYLE DELICATESSEN. These delicatessens were sit-down restaurants/caterers. The front counter (cash register area) were"decorated" with stringed frankfurters hanging on the back wall. Also, for the walk-up trade and impulse buyers, there was cold drinks and a grill with franks and knishes (a novice could get away with pronouncing it kin-NISH...but to be more ethnically correct, try: k'nish).

Delicatessens had tables and chairs scattered about with a kitchen out back. The attentive waiters always seemed to be hyper, old bald men with sweaty foreheads named Yussel, Murray or Bela the Fella, (forgive me, these references are mid-70's and earlier recollections...plus, these "old" men were probably in their 40's).

While waiting to be served, one could feast on the complimentary sour pickle bucket. I liked to slather the spicy brown mustard on my two favorites, a hot corned beef on rye with sauerkraut inside or an extra lean pastrami (on rye). I would wash it and a knish down with a bottle of Dr. Brown's CEL-RAY soda, (Cel-Ray...is a celery flavored soda and nobody except me, likes it).

My mother used to get a whole dinner and one of her favorite entrees was Romanian steak. I tried it once and liked it. Down through the years because true delicatessens are nearly extinct, I have forgotten about it...until recently at my friend Carmen's house, I tried her skirt steak.

Carmen soaks her skirt steak over night in a marinade called "Mojo." Mojo is a Goya product found in most supermarkets, in the Spanish food aisle. Mojo is used to enhance chicken, pork and beef.  It comes in a yellow labeled, 24-ounce bottle.

Mojo's flavorful ingredients include, bitter orange, lemon, garlic and onion. The only other additive Carmen uses is, Goya's all-purpose seasoning called, adobo.

I called my mother and told her how good skirt steak was and she said, "Dummy, skirt steak IS Romanian steak! You've always loved it."

Thanks for your support mom.

Nevertheless, I bragged and continue to brag about Carmen's skirt steak. I tell everyone that it's great barbecued, broiled or fried in a pan...I've had it each way.

At my casino job, I mentioned my love of skirt steak to one of my roulette players and she wanted the recipe. My supervisor overheard and I promised him the recipe too. Well that's where the odyssey begins. I asked my wife and she was vague. So, I E-Mailed both the chef AND her husband Jerry. Jerry robustly told me that he would get her right on it...but it never happened.

A week passed and the player came back into the casino. She was disappointed that I hadn't sent out the recipe. I told her that I didn't forget.  I compared the formula to the recipe for Coca-Cola.  When she scoffed I said, "It's a closely guarded secret with possible military significance. If my friend told me, she'd have to kill me."

This woman doubted my sincerity. So I tried (unsuccessfully) to make a connection with the secretive nature of the skirt steak and the egg salad recipe from 1966's Woody Allen movie, "WHAT'S UP, TIGER LILY?"

WOODY ALLEN RE-EDITED AND SWITCHED THE DIALOG FROM A LEGITIMATE (1964) JAPANESE SPY MOVIE.  THE RESULT WAS A HILARIOUS CHASE FOR AN EGG SALAD RECIPE.

Well I finally cornered the chef and Carmen said, "It's no recipe...just cover the meat over night in mojo and sprinkle some adobo on it."

Last week, I took my mother out for lunch and we went to the world famous, (infamous) Arch Diner, (bordering Canarsie and East Flatbush). I saw Romanian steak on the menu. My mom said it was good there.  I found out the hard way, it wasn't. In retrospect, I should have drove six neighborhoods farther away to last delicatessen standing because the Arch didn't use enough mojo and adobo...if they used any at all!