carrello d’carne

look.  i’m from jersey, and i know diners.

as i’ve traveled most of the good ol’ usa in my time, and a healthy amount of foreign soils, i have always been convinced that jersey was the one and only true home of the diner.  in fact, the jersey diner, should be referred to as such—the jersey diner—so as to differentiate it from all the other greasy spoons, box cars, and drive-ins guy fieri might shovel down his gullet. 

and then, we went to italy, drove into reggio emilia just as sunday service was letting out, and walked into trattoria canossa.  on the recommendation of a local, we were in for some “typical reggiani fare”.  a half hour from modena, birthplace of true balsamic, and a half hour from parma, home of the globally famous aged cheese, and a half hour from bologna, stomach of italia, traditional fare sounded pretty righteous.  we walked into the restaurant, i looked at her with my big goofy smile, and said the first thought that came to mind:  “it’s a diner!”  the smells, the uniforms, and hum of the staff and the diners—i was instantly transported to a jersey diner circa two thousand ‘one, cutting school, and high as a kite. perfection.

mere seconds after “non parlano italiano” stumbled out of my mouth to the fast talking waiter who approached us, and a steaming slab of lasagna with a half bottle of the house red wine was slid in front of us. literally, seconds. when it comes to food, language matters not. with a view of the italian grandma cooking in the open kitchen, and with the first bites of seriously home cooked lasagna touching my tongue, i knew the jersey diner’s supremacy was instantly up for contention. and once my plate went from saucy red, to bread swept white, two sweet sweet words put the nail in jersey’s coffin: corello d’carne? that’s right—meat cart.

compartmentalized tubs of boiling meats pushed on a cart by a jolly knife wielding server. submerged in liquid, and raised up with a lever for slicing tableside.  little of this.  oh, some of that.  yes, please the rabbit, too.  tongue?  sure.  some of that bloody tube there, please.  pig leg….mm hmm.  this is no diner i’ve known.

the cart of meat would have made the crew back at farm255 proud.  all sorts of odds, ends, and insides.  the types of cuts butchers in brooklyn are becoming famous for serving, presented in the most regular and common setting these people know.  totally normal.  just life. 

it should be no surprise, i suppose, that the birthplace of so many other things, has been crushing the jersey diner scene for millennia.  hats off.

p.s.  when farm’s sous farmer chef francois and i saw this little beauty at the salone del gusto, we were excited.  when we sat it at torino’s eataly, we twirled its wheel and marveled at its craftsmanship like giddy school girls.  and now, after seeing it in almost a dozen trattorias, hosterias, and macellerias across italy—i’ve become convinced that this stunning meat slicer is in the five year plan.  love me some berkel.