Deep dive, it's the only way

To the dive bars of New Jersey we go...

In a typical travel writer’s month I am forcing my husband onto a flight to somewhere like Portugal to go buy gloves in the world’s tiniest store, or I am saddled on a mechanical bull at a gay rodeo in Dallas, or I am foraging with aboriginals in Western Australia...but somehow with all this travel, I always end up in New Jersey. Mostly because I married into New Jersey Italianess. I think of myself as someone who can turn any situation around into a fun activity. But even I had some obstacles, when I fell in love with New Jersey. If you need some New Jersey start with Chelsea Handler’s useful lessons here.

You know when your person says to you, oh so here’s the new plan: we’re going to the family Thanksgiving holiday in New Jersey, not for a usual night - but for almost a week. And don’t get me wrong here, I love my in-laws. More than most son-in-laws do, definitely. My mother-in-law is Carmela Soprano: the hair, the jewelry, the exercise clothing (actually, she gets up every single day at 5 am to hit her nearby suburban gym, where she proceeds to make the teenagers and young yummy mummies look weak, this also happens when she’s in a bikini and we’re beaching down the shore).

But also it’s Soprano cuisine. Can you just hear that voice saying “man-uh-COT”? Remember when Tony Soprano would come home, after a night of floozies and killings and open the fridge, to tuck into some baked ziti from a Tupperware. Food never looked that perfect. 

And my father in law plays the drums in a few bands around town, often down the Jersey Shore right on the beach. He’s the most easy going person you’ve met in your whole life, and he takes Italian cooking to new zeniths. He is also in pool construction, Northern New Jersey Italians in pool construction. When I first got into this family, I did think about mobsters. I’ve grown to realize they’re not that, but hey, that’s still a lot of concrete. So there is always something to eat, and a million reasons to belly laugh with them. 

I know there are two Jersey Shore references here, and plenty more where that came from. I judged it terribly before getting romanced by it. Snooki lied, it’s not like that at all. Is she even from there? New Jersey is sort of everything you think it is, and just about everything else. It’s the most populated state in the country, and called the “Garden State” for good reason. Outside of New York City it’s hard to find this kind of diversity in almost every corner of this state. It also does crazy progressive things like add in LGBTQ curiculum into the school systems and they legalized marijuana before New York did. But it also still conjures up the face, when I say my husband is from New Jersey there is a certain judgy face - let’s call it the I-should-judge-even-though-I-really-don’t-know face. So stop judging, and come and see it for yourself. And this is totally why I want to talk to you about New Jersey - a dive, if you will, into this Italian family and its food, and the multitude of swimming pools. 

Ok so in order to make a week at the family under one roof work out, well, you have to take a few extra measures. I am, of course, always the eager one here. I am so grateful that my mother-in-law decided that scaling down when the kids leave the house would be just totally crazy, but that scaling up is where it’s at. That ensures the kids come home, often. Now throw in a Bellagio-style Olympic size pool complete with sound effects, multi-colored kaleidoscope lights, rows of loungers, a hot tub and you have, as she calls it, the perfect “final resting place.” 

So, what is in this very Italian enclave, northern New Jersey - besides for the famed Willowbrook Mall where romances are clinched or broken, the endless quota of undecoded strip malls, the relentless and incredible wawa (I’ll leave you to figure that one out for yourself) and then those strange jughandles at the intersections (I salute anyone who can figure them out and not drive in a figure eight for 10 minutes - Waze won’t help you with that). So what New Jersey DOES have are dive bars. And many, many, many of them. Once you head out west, on the I-80, you’re heading into serious bonanza territory. And when I say dive bar, I mean deep dive. 

The names of these second-to-none establishments are as good as the bars themselves, “The In Crowd,” as you can imagine, of course, attracts exactly that, “The Landmark” is precisely what it says it is - ask just nobody. “The Great Notch” is wondrous in all its knotty pine glory right on the freeway. I couldn’t find a single olive at the “Stuffed Olive” but when the wings came out the games of pool and darts evolved into something totally new. There are actually dingos at “Dingo’s Den” and “Basket of Cheer II” (you heard that right, not one, not TRES but DEUX) has a handy liquor store and equally convenient gambling facility attached to the bar. Turns out one of our crew’s father built this bar and liquor store we ventured to, what are the chances? Well, as I told you, all roads always lead back to New Jersey.

You don’t even have to drink to make this work - I don’t drink. But dive bars don’t care. 

So let’s get down to some logistics. First off, you need your crew: six or so is the magic number. Not too small a group for it to seem like a sad couple on a date to nowhere, and not too big that you take over the entire bar causing fights or just about everyone to take shelter. Get a driver at any budget, so let’s call it Uber or chauffeur, so you can stop worrying about navigating the Garden State Parkway, exits so many exits, and those jughandles. And now, if you can add a contest into this - all the better. For me, I kept it very simple. I rounded up a group of friends who would say yes to just about anything with the following instructions: Go forth, and find us the diviest dive bars in Northern New Jersey, extra points for puns. And extra extra points if they don’t have ridiculous eye-rolling craft cocktails, or bartenders with that painful hipster manner. Add in elements of danger if you dare…

Oh, before I forget, a uniform uniting your little flock gives it just enough of a special touch. Luckily my father in law has t-shirts for all his pool workers - in a fancy navy blue no less, and a lovely “We care to build it better” slogan at the back. Add a “Hi, my name is” sticker ($1.99 at Staples for a pack of 100) to these t-shirts and you have yourself a night made. You don’t need to use your real names, of course: tonight you are whoever you want to be. New Jersey won’t judge you. Little Mike sounds so much better than Michael tonight. And Chris with a K and three Ss never sounded so good. And remember that name your parents wanted to call you, but luckily came to their senses and gave you a real, grown up name. Well, tonight you can parade that one all you want. 

The universal dive bar rule is: don’t outstay your welcome. Get in, get a lot of drinks, play a game of pool, plunder that jukebox, round up your crew and get out. Unless you want an ashtray thrown at your head. Speaking of the jukebox, it has very specific rules. I learnt this the hard way - ashtray notwithstanding - Madonna, circa 1980s is my happy place, it can turn any car ride or annoying situation into a happy, dancing, prancing joy. Who doesn’t want to bob and swirl to “Holiday” - well, turns out, most of the world. So trust me - stick with the classics - AC/DC, or Queen are clear easy wins. The bar as a collective will probably buy you some shots, or at the very least raise their glasses when “Another One Bites The Dust” comes on. You can venture into some Lynyrd Skynyrd territory with absolute ease, and that meanders to the Allman Brothers, The Eagles and definitely Fleetwood Mac. If you want to get into some serious trouble go into Whitney Houston or Celine Dion ballads - but not even I would do that to a room full of people. Drunk or not. Dive bar, or not. 

Above: You always need your best Gabba to go along, thanks Gayle.

So this is who I met in my dive bar hunt of New Jersey. Our bartender, Anne, who for tonight wants a drag queen name, like Farrah Moan - who is now proudly wearing a “Hi my name is” name tag forever more. Or the man who owns one of the bars and decided it’s a handy place for him to show off his hoarding, and I mean he could have a TV show type of hoarding. Toasters, ordered-off QVC exercise equipment kind of hoarding. Or the lady who comes to the bar every night after she puts her kids to bed, for one glass of very bad chardonnay, two songs on the jukebox and a New Jersey lottery money ball session. So you might not meet Anne, or our friend with her glass of vino, but you won’t know who you’ll meet until you strike up a conversation with random people in dive bars. And don’t worry, a dive bar is where being shy will quickly be forgotten, even by you. I can’t promise that you’ll meet these people every night, I can promise you certainly will meet some unexpected personalities if you set aside your preconceived notions, like I did.

For instance, when someone asks, in all innocence, why are you all wearing the same t-shirts - an easy answer is “it’s our company off site” or “pool team building.” The face that will grace you, and I promise, that face is not judgment, is unforgettable. And as you look across these fine establishments, think of how you put your judgment aside, to come and enjoy the finest things New Jersey has to offer. You put your own judgment aside, and look, they did the same to you…And end off your night with some disco fries will you?