Tomato pies, that is. Last week a friend and I converged in Newark, Delaware, to join John Buck (see here and here) for a few days of baseball, imbibing, and mid-Atlantic cuisine. For the sake of thoroughness I’ll note that Buck fried us up some delicious pork chops with apples and onions, and that we hit the Post House in Newark for breakfast the next morning. But our first stop on the real Trans Fat Trail was the famous De Lorenzo’s in Trenton, New Jersey.
As Buck relates here, “Birch beer is the first drink mentioned when you inquire about the soda list. . . . The pizza itself is quite good. The crust is salty and crispy. Though this isn’t my preferred combination (charred and chewy), I can live with something very well done. It’s refreshing, too, not to be given a pizza overladen with cheese. ‘Tomato pie’ is truth in advertising.” One complaint: This place most likely advertises its air conditioning so prominently because it has no bathroom, which is a serious bummer after three or four birch beers. Ingratiate yourself to your server and he might tell you where to find facilities.
Our friend N— has an alarming habit of salting everything he ingests, including most condiments, but don’t be deceived: The pies have loads of flavor on their own. I could have polished off another, but we had a date with pork roll.
Our next stop was a Trenton Thunder game, where we finally got to sample the local manna. (We had known of pork roll only from this incomprehensible Ween song.) It looks a bit like Spam® or fried bologna, but is quite a bit more flavorful than either. Our Garden State specialist informed us that it “looked a bit avant garde . . . the traditional dish is a hard roll, with one or two fried eggs, a few slices of pork roll, and American cheese.” Native Trentonians take note—you just got served!
The next day we made our way to the Augustine Inn in Port Penn, Delaware. I give this place high marks. Enormous hangout space, plenty of taxidermy (not pictured, regrettably), broken junk, and an astonishingly foul-mouthed bartender. “Instant bikers” beware.
Lunch was twenty miles south, at Sambo’s in Leipsic, Delaware.
Here’s a great concept: a restaurant where kids aren’t welcome. Crabs are a man’s (or at least a manchild’s) game.
I’ll defer to Buck again, since he’s a local: “Leipsic is in one of the few areas of Delaware that hasn’t been overrun by cheap and garish viral development. Of course, Dover is now a ridiculous strip mall, but if you get a few miles to the east, you’re in mostly pleasant marsh country. Regional color is in full evidence at Sambo’s. Pictures of every NASCAR driver of the early 1990s ring the dining room.”
The crabs were excellent. I’d eaten crabs in various preparations, but had never experienced the thrill of wielding a mallet against these stubborn crustaceans. Many pitchers of Yuengling (that’s plain old “lager” to this make-believe Philadelphian) were required to counteract the salt and the Old Bay fries we started with.
Last stop: Baltimore’s Camden Yards, where we suffered the indignity of watching the Orioles defeat the Yankees. The “Cheers” refugee depicted above is none other than Boog Powell, former Orioles first baseman, who now operates a barbecue concession at the park. John Buck, once more: “Boog Powell loves the Orioles (I don’t). He loves running this silly little stand. He sits by counter drinking soda for hours at many, if not all, O’s games. Bear in mind that this is a putrid team. He signs autographs, encourages people to take photos with him, will tell stories about different players or ballparks when asked, etc. And, yes, he eats what he serves (probably to his long term detriment).”
