A Calzone for Mr. Bleaney

Sunday afternoon, a little hung over, quite a bit hungry, my roommate implanted on me the idea of eating a calzone. We left the house a little before the start of the one o’clock Yankee game intending to feast on cheese and dough and sauce while watching America’s past time. No such luck. Our usual calzone dealer was closed. We were jonesen though so we decided to wait; according to Helen’s menu, they would open at three.

Two hours later we called up Helen. No answer. I considered maybe they were just getting started and not taking phone calls. I walked over just in case, but the metal shudders will still shut tight. I hung around for ten minutes hoping I was just early.

No luck.

Another hour passed. We hoped by four our grease temptress might be roused. I called this time, letting the phone ring for three minutes before giving up. Alright, we decided, probably time to consider our alternatives.

We knew Stella’s calzones would never suffice after this guy insisted we order food; the calzone arrived looking like a football. It tasted about the same. We looked through our menus. Pino’s had Calzones, with a price point equal to our mistress Helen. Closed on Sundays.

We scraped around the internet. Hamilton Park Pizza Cafe: closed Sundays. Bon Appetito: closed at 2:30. La Rustique: open, but no calzones.

We began to lose hope. We practically had tremors from our calzone withdrawal, but now, some four hours after we originally planned on eating, faced starvation. We agreed to check out one final pizzeria and then head over for deli sandwiches.

3 Brothers Pizza seemed promising. One of the reviews online suggested that it was in a bad neighborhood but the pizza was great. We took issue with the characterization that the shop was in a bad neighborhood as we lived just three blocks away. But still, we thought we would give it a go. We wandered over to the place; the metal doors were drawn shut. Another Sunday pizzeria fail. However, next door to 3 Brothers, was Frank’s Pizza. This oddity always baffled me; how could two pizzerias next door to each other survive?

Fuck it, we decided. Let’s give Frank a shot. We ordered two calzones to go and a slice each while we waited. The pizza had a bit too much dough and not enough sauce, but it was edible. Fifteen minutes later, Frank himself served us up our calzones. Perhaps now its worth noting that Frank also happens to be running for a council-at-large seat in Jersey City. The election is in four weeks. I’m a registered voter who votes consistently.

To go, I instructed as Frank handed us paper plates with the calzones. And can we get some sauce, I asked. Calzones are served with sauce. Its not a choice. Its how they are served.

“No sauce,” Frank said.

What?

“They don’t come with sauce,” he replied. “The sauce is extra.”

Okay. Actually, it was more like Okaaaaaay. So we can get some sauce and pay for it?

He looked at us as though we were asking for his second kidney, but just the same rang us up with some extra sauce. Thanks.

The calzone was nothing special. I now know too why the sauce doesn’t come with the calzone. It wasn’t much more than chunky tomato soup. I won’t be returning to Frank’s. I also won’t be voting for him either.




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