Pork Roll, Quoits, and Tomato Pie

So what is uniquely “Trenton” anyway? The abovementioned three things, without a doubt, are uniquely Trenton through and through. Interestingly enough, when I was a growing up, I had no idea that not everyone ate pork roll egg and cheese for breakfast, nor pitched quoits at barbeques, nor ate extremely thin pizza that was light on cheese and heavy on tomatoes. Who knew that Trenton had developed these icons over the years? In the interest of keeping things light and balanced here on the blog, here’s a look back at my experience of “growing up Trenton.”

“What’s pork roll?” I think my eyes just about crossed the first time I heard that question. It was during the spring semester of 2003 that I discovered that pork roll was not the omnipresent breakfast meat I had been led to believe it was in my youth. I had transferred out of Mercer County Community College to a four year school in Northern New Jersey, and the topic came up in conversation among myself, my roommates, and some friends. After I had gotten over the initial shock I began the extremely difficult process of trying to explain what pork roll actually is. “Well it’s this stuff that looks like salami, well sort of, but it doesn’t taste like salami, and it comes wrapped in cloth, and you slice it and fry it, and it’s made of ummmm…” It was at that point that I realized that I didn’t know what the hell pork roll was made of, but what did that matter-it was good! Then I got thrown somewhat of a curveball: “Oh you mean Taylor ham!” “No, I mean pork roll,” I stated, somewhat bewildered. After a bit of arguing we came to the conclusion that we were talking about the same thing, but I was adamant about one thing-it’s called PORK ROLL! You can imagine my surprise when I eventually realized that no matter what you called it, the mystery meat lovingly produced right here in Trenton by Loeffler, Taylor (the one true pork roll in this author’s opinion), and Case, was totally unknown outside of New Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania. Of course this begs the question-who cares? I care. There are few foods I can think of that are more perfect than pork roll. Since it’s smoked and pre-cooked, you can simply lop off a slice and put it on sandwich like lunchmeat, you can fry it and eat it with ketchup, you can melt cheese over it, you can combine it with a fried egg and some cheese to make delicious sandwich on a bagel or a hard roll, you can chop it up and add it to an omlet, or you can simply fry it up and eat it all by itself in all it’s cholesterol laden glory. Pork roll was usually a weekend treat when mom or dad would make it for breakfast or lunch, and it was always a staple at the hockey rink snack bar where I played in my youth. Of course, the Jersey shore was pork roll heaven during the summer. The true test of any boardwalk grill from Point Pleasant to Seaside was whether or not they could make a good pork roll sandwich. Finally, nothing was better than a backyard barbeque with pork roll on the grill. You could substitute pork roll for a hamburger entirely or you could make what I came to know as a “topper” which consisted of a burger, a slice of cheese, a slice or pork roll, and another slice of cheese, cooked to perfection over an open flame. Dr. Oz certainly wouldn’t approve, but healthy or not, pork roll is and always will be the official “meat” of Trenton.

Of course while you were at that backyard barbeque in Trenton or the surrounding area you needed something to do besides stuff your face with pork roll, as great as that would be. To me, a barbeque will never be complete without the resounding “CLANG” of one steel quoit colliding with another. From the time I was old enough to get in the way of a quoit game (not a wise decision for a little tyke) I was fascinated. My grandfather, my father, and their friends would pitch the concave steel rings at pins set in clay pits twenty-one feet apart for hours on end, with some games becoming quite heated. Again, once I was old enough and began to pitch quoits myself, I just assumed that it was a game played by all. In high school, every backyard party eventually ended up with a bunch of guys getting together and digging out the old man’s quoit set (which every dad seemed to have at least one of) and pitching a few. My moment of enlightenment came when I was old enough to go to concerts on my own. In the early days of what is now the Tweeter Center in Camden, about half of the parking lots were paved. Naturally, whenever we Trenton folk would tailgate we would bring our quoits, pound the pins into the hard ground, and pitch game after game until it was time to go to the show. It never failed to amaze us that people would continually stop and stare at us and motion to their friends to come over and watch us play a “weird version of horseshoes.” I would never knock horseshoes, but I’ve played it once or twice and it just isn’t the same. Nothing feels better in your hand than a well worn forged steel quoit, and nothing sounds better than knocking someone’s ringer or leaner off of the pin with your own quoit. Any cursory search of the word “quoit” on Google will reveal a plethora of links about the game along with one major revelation: The game of quoits played in Trenton is unlike any quoit game anywhere else! While quoits are relatively obscure outside of New Jersey and Pennsylvania, “Trenton” quoits are a different game with different hardware. Trenton quoits are lighter than conventional quoits with a different shape. The rules (of course this varies from backyard to backyard) also differ from “regular” quoits. The reasons behind Trenton creating its own offshoot of the game seem lost to history and time, but one thing is certain. Quoits seemed to be a great unifier in Trenton. As someone of Irish/Italian background, I know that both sides of my family played quoits. Italians played quoits at the Neapolitan Club, the Irish played quoits at the Hibernian Hall, the Poles Played it at the Polish-American Club, and so on and so forth. My grandfather, who worked at Roebling Wire Mill played quoits with all of his co-workers who hailed from various ethnic neighborhoods all over the city.

Finally, what could be more “Trenton” than tomato pie? Trenton tomato pie is a microcosm within the realm of what I deem “good pizza.” Good pizza is the kind of pizza one generally finds in the places that Italians historically settled in during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. This is opposed to what I deem “bad pizza,” which is generally found in places that Italians did not historically settle. Basically, good pizza is found predominately in the Northeastern United States, the hotspots being the major cities and their environs. Outside of this area all bets are off and if you’re not eating the mass produced junk that Dominos, Papa John’s, and Pizza Hut is churning out, good luck with whatever it is you find. Although he was referring to another type of Italian food, Henry Hill said it best in “Goodfellas” after he was banished to the Midwest in the witness protection program: “I asked for spaghetti and marinara-I got egg noodles and ketchup.” In Trenton however, there is no question that the pizza you find will be of high quality, but will it be tomato pie? Though Trentonian’s loyalties are strongly divided between De Lorenzo’s Hudson Street, De Lorenzo’s Hamilton Avenue, and Papa’s, I will speak of my experience with De Lorenzo’s Hamilton Avenue, which, from the time my mother was a child, was my family’s place of choice. As a kid, once again my world represented my world view. Didn’t everyone get tomato pies drizzled with olive oil with huge chunks of tomato served by waiters dressed smartly in brilliant white outfits and neat black bowties? De Lorenzo’s on a Saturday night with the family was about as good as it got. Delicious pies, good conversation, and all the Coke in the little brown plastic cups you could drink. Afterwards on a comfortable summer night everyone would linger for a while (I come from a family of very long winded people, can’t you tell?) out front under the famous De Lorenzo’s sign with cars whizzing by on Hamilton Avenue. Needless to say, a semester in Washington, D.C. made me realize just how lucky I was. What Midwestern kids raved about I could barely digest. One of the only things I craved when home on break was simply a good tomato pie.

Perhaps these ramblings mean little to those outside of Trenton. However, for those of us who originated in the city, no matter where we may be now, and for those of us who may be newcomers, these are things that we can all share and that we can all claim as being uniquely “Trenton” and uniquely our own.

Slan go foill