Posts Tagged ‘Carroll Street station’

We were swamped at work and I didn’t get a chance to catch my breath until well into the afternoon. Even if I hadn’t forgotten my lunch at home, I wouldn’t have been able to eat until 4:00 at the earliest. But by then I had gone beyond hunger. Ever been there? When you wait so long to eat that you no longer feel like eating? It’s like your hunger fed on itself until it disappeared.

So I decided that I wouldn’t run out and get something awful in the area (the deli around the corner makes a semi-competent egg sandwich; the owner of the deli two doors down is still mad at me because I refused to comp him a doctor’s appointment; the Chinese buffet next door makes Panda Express look like Shun Lee; the Burger King next door is a Burger King). Instead, I’d wait until we closed at 9:00, hightail it to Zito’s Sandwich Shoppe on 7th Avenue (in Brooklyn, not Manhattan) and get my new most favoritest sandwich ever: The 8-Hour Slow-Cooked Pork Bracciole.

It’s a butterflied loin of pork (from Faicco’s!) stuffed with provolone, garlic, parsley and a pinch of bread crumbs, covered in their deceptively simple tomato sauce, and sprinkled with parmigianno reggiano — all served on a perfect hero (from Brooklyn’s own Il Fornaretto Bakery!). It’s absolutely amazing.

Zito’s closes at 10:00, but I called them at around 8:00 and asked when they stopped taking orders. “10:00 p.m.” Perfect. If I left work at 9:00, I’d be between the Carroll Street station and the 4th Avenue and Ninth Street station (which is an area that gets great cell reception as it isn’t in a tunnel) by 9:45. I’d call in my order and arrive at Zito’s by 10:00 at the absolute latest.

I wasn’t hungry until around 8:30, but from the moment I devised my plan I could only think of that sandwich and how good it would taste when I ate it with my face.

A patient arrived at 8:15, so I started tidying and closing down what I could. He was on his way by 8:50 and I considered calling in my order and telling them that I’d be there in an hour. “Nah,” I thought. “No need. My plan is foolproof.”

Cut to 9:30, when we actually locked up.

I calmly walked to the R train, frantically doing math problems in my head (what if I get off the train just before 10 and call in the order and then get back on the train — would that work?). I didn’t see myself getting a sandwich. So I started considering the places near Zito’s that would still be open. Mediocre pizza, horrendous Mexican, Dunkin’ Donuts, Rite Aid… nothing really tickled my fancy. Then I heard the R train coming. I raced down the stairs and then raced up the other stairs (I hate you, Cortland Street station) and made it onto the Brooklyn-bound R. I looked at my watch phone. It was 9:35.

“Hmmm… I could get to Jay Street by 9:48… if there’s an F train there by 9:53, my plan will still work!”

I maneuvered through the train so that I was standing exactly where the entrance to the escalator at Jay Street would soon be. When we arrived at the station, I hurriedly climbed the escalator (it’s like walking fast on an airport treadmill except not fun and it makes me wheeze). In all the time I’ve made this commute, there has never been an F train waiting for me at Jay Street. Tonight, there was. At the doors closed as soon as I started down the steps toward it. A crazy person was loudly trying to seduce a morbidly obese station agent as she pretended to sweep the floor. It offered me no succor. I would arrive home sandwichless.

An F came about 10 minutes later. When we were finally out of the tunnel, I called Zito’s. It was 10:02.

“Zito’s, how can I help you?”

“He wants to help me!” I thought. “A place that wasn’t taking orders wouldn’t offer me assistance!” I tried to hide my giddyness from the dead-in-the-eyes commuters surrounding me. “Are you still taking orders?” I asked.

“Sorry, no. We’re no longer taking delivery orders. We stop at 10. Have a good night.”

***

But… but… what of his offer of help? What did he expect me to ask for that he would have been able to aid me with? “Would it be possible for me to not order a sandwich?” I was gutted. But then I had another thought. They aren’t taking delivery orders, but what of pick-ups? What of pick-ups? We were back underground, but I started to feverishly imagine various scenarios wherein I exit the subway and call and ask to make a pick-up order and am told, “Sure thing!” or that I arrive just as they’re about to throw away a pile of unclaimed but perfectly OK sandwiches or that I appeal to the kindness of Zito and he smiles and nods and hands me the sandwich that he had been saving for me all along.

[Full Disclosure: I don't think anyone who works at Zito's is named Zito.]

I started walking towards the shop and saw their sign was still illuminated. “That’s a good sign,” I thought. Then I thought about what a horrible pun that was and winced. I crossed the street and approached their door. As I did, I noticed people sitting and eating. Then, as I was about to reach for the knob (and feign surprise when I found it locked), someone opened it to take out the trash. I saw my opportunity and seized it.

The first employee who saw me wasn’t any of the three guys behind the counter. They all had their backs turned to me and were dealing with various closing duties. No, the one who immediately took notice of me was one of the cooks. He had a slight note of “you’ve got to be kidding me” on his face. I smiled weakly at him and waited by the register. Finally, someone turned around and asked if he could help me.

“Can I get a sandwich to go?”

He looked at the cook, then at his register, then at me — all while wearing a mask of “please notice that I am trying to make it clear that you cannot.”

I would accept a “no,” but he would have to say it to me. I wouldn’t say it to myself. At this point I was getting deliriously hungry.

“…OK,” he surrendered. The cook rolled his eyes. I didn’t care.

I sat down to wait. I could hear various people saying, “I told him not to take out the trash yet” and “lock the damn door” and “we’re supposed to be closed by now” and “what is wrong with him?” I went from fearing that I cost someone their job to wondering if the last remark was directed at me to not caring about anything except bracciole. In fact, I started imaging the man getting killed by his co-workers for unknowingly letting me in and, at his peasant funeral, a rockslide wiping his entire family out. I imagined everyone at Zito’s pointing and laughing at me for being so pathetic that I needed to swindle my way into a meal. None of it mattered to me. I just wanted my dinner.

After what seemed like two minutes (but might have been three), I was handed my sandwich. I profusely thanked the man who handed it to me. Then I profusely thanked the man who unlocked the door to let me out. I almost started to cry.

It took me another 25 minutes to get home, but I didn’t care. As soon as I walked in the front door, I washed my hands, ripped open the foil and paper casing and did unspeakable, inhuman things to my first real meal of the day (the semi-competent egg sandwich I ate at 8:00 a.m. doesn’t count).

You know what? This would be a terrible movie.

Remember Joseph Brooks, 73?

He’s the Oscar-winning composer who was arrested for (allegedly) raping and/or molesting 13 women over the years. Well, he killed himself. He is survived by a son, Nicholas, who is currently on trial for murder.

Is it just me or does did he look a lot like James O’Keefe?

Bonus Points: In the article (END OF HIS GROPE by Jamie Schram, Larry Celona and Lachlan Cartwright), Brooks’ name changes to Brook twice: “One of Brook’s friends was supposed to have lunch with him yesterday…” and “The friend found Brook’s door unlocked and discovered Brooks’ limp, fully clothed body sprawled on the den couch.” I bet those typos would have been noticed of they had a fourth person helping them.

Don Kaplan’s That’s why it’s the F! line informs me that “The MTA has closed Brooklyn’s Smith and 9th Street station until March 2012.”

Oh goody. Of course, this would be less of an issue if the B61 still went down Smith Street (instead on driving through Red Hook). But it doesn’t.

“Shuttle buses will connect commuters with nearby stations, including 4th Avenue-9th Street and Carroll Street, and the MTA has pledged increased service on the B61 bus.“

Wait… really? That’s actually good news! We use the B61 all the time and the service is awful! But if the MTA is promising to increase its service, then… I will assume it’s a lie because they are the MTA.

Today’s update on the NYPD ticket-fixing investigation begins, “The Bronx deputy inspector in charge of the NYPD’s internal-affairs ticket-fixing probe [Internal Affairs Bureau Deputy Inspector John McDermott] has been ensnared in the scandal himself — after allegedly having a highway cop fix a speeding ticket for an apparent relative.”

It concludes by saying the scandal “could lead to criminal charges for dozens of NYPD cops and departmental sanctions for as many as 400 other officers.”

For the first time in what seems like forever, Dominique Strauss-Kahn isn’t mentioned until page 4. And what is today’s update?

“‘It seems obvious that, in the hypothesis that DSK is convicted, he should serve his sentence in France,’ said Claude Guéant, the French interior minister and President Nicolas Sarkozy’s top adviser.”

If by “obvious” he means “illogically repugnant” then I totally agree.

B’also? Mr. and Mrs. DSK have until tomorrow morning to find a new place to live.

Almost immediately after he and his wife (Katy Perry) landed in Japan, Russell Brand was deported. Perry told reporters, “It was for priors from over 10 years ago!”

Either that or Japanese officials have seen Arthur.

Page Six (today on pages 12 and 13) features the following photo of Lindsay Lohan at a photo shoot:

No pixelation, no black bar, no shame.

This weekend’s box office was dominated by Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides ($90,100,000 — plus $256,300,000 overseas, making it the biggest international movie opening of all time), followed by Bridesmaids ($21,100,000), Thor ($15,500,000), Fast Five ($10,600,000) and Rio ($4,700,000).

“Yesterday, actress Jane Seymour claimed [Arnold] Schwarzenegger has more out-of-wedlock kids he’s kept secret from the world. ‘I heard about two more children,’ the actress told Britain’s Daily Mail.”

Really, Jane? Because I heard he has a total of 94 out-of-wedlock children.

(If you got that The Boys From Brazil reference, give yourself 10 points)

Cindy Adams asks, “Anyone think Dominique Strauss-Kahn-he or kahn’t-he should change his name’s spelling to Dominique Strauss-Con?”

HAHAHAHAHAHA die.

At least 30 people were killed in Joplin, Missouri by a tornado. That story is on page 17.

Charles Gasparino is a “Fox Business Network senior correspondent.” He is also the author of More Useless Gov’t: New fed agency won’t solve anything, which tries (and fails) to explain why the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau is worthless and based on falsehoods.

“This is a major expansion of government — a separate branch of the Federal Reserve with immense powers to regulate ‘all consumer products.’ The excuse for it is bogus — a simplistic and false narrative on how the financial crisis began (nothing more than evil bankers pushing risky loans on unsuspecting consumers).”

Fun Fact: Gasparino once told the Washington Post that “[his] job was to rip the lungs out of the competition of Fox Business Network.” Fair, balanced.

I was wrong! The Yankees are still in first place in the AL East (by .003)!

USA! USA! USA!

And that’s Monday.