Bye Bye Benny

In March of 1994, my buddy Joe and I signed a lease on a Hoboken apartment. We went to a pizza place called Benny Tudino’s to celebrate, sitting at a booth in the back room. That became our regular table, and every Sunday night that both of us were in town, we’d be there splitting a medium sausage pie.

Soon enough we became friendly with Benny Drishti, the proprietor. And also with Tony the pizza man, Gianni the occasional pizza man, and so many waitresses: little Rosie, big Rosie, charming Dua from Egypt, gruff but wise Jessie, tough Sheila, Marie who loves Atlantic City, etc. Then there was Benny’s family: his lovely wife Sophia and great sons Arbend — always quick with a handshake and clasp of the shoulder — and Simpsons-loving, smiling Eddie. And Benny’s brothers, visiting from Albania. We met everybody.

We loved talking with Benny, though as I’ve often said — with his thick Albanian accent — I only understood about 1/3 of what he was saying. Benny loved hearing about our personal and professional misadventures; he’d laugh and laugh. When you hit upon a point he really liked, his eyes would light up like a little kid. Oh, how he enjoyed that newly freelance Joe had a writing assignment about snakes. He’d repeat it visit after visit, pronouncing it “snacks.” You still write about snacks? Heh-heh-heh! And he was fascinated that Joe’s soon-to-be-ex had stolen his remote control. This was proof she was bad news. What kind of woman steal remote?!? Low-life woman! This guy write about snacks! Heh-heh-heh!

Benny was also extremely concerned about my love life, or lack thereof. He wanted nothing more than for me to be with a “nice girl.” (Though his definition and mine seemed to vary quite a bit.) He’d fish through the countless folded scraps of paper in his wallet, looking for the name and number of some woman he’d promised that I’d call. I tell her about you; he is writer, he is good guy. Or when I’d arrive with a woman, he’d immediately send over a mini bottle of wine, on the house. Quite the romantic, that Benny.

It was pretty sad when Joe moved away in 2003. I still went on Sundays, because, what else am I gonna do? But I’d just get the one slice and sit in the front, usually. When I go places by myself, I always bring something to read. But, if Benny saw me come in, no reading would get done. He loved our conversations. And over time, it became expected that I’d join him — either at the outside table to the left of the front door in the warmer months, or at the first booth inside in cooler weather. Always an assortment of keys, envelopes, business cards, half-empty water bottles, etc. on that table. Bring him sausage slice, eh? We’d have these wild conversations, which I’d frequently struggle to follow. Often about global politics. And though I strongly disagreed with some of his opinions — when I understood them — in general he truly had a good heart, always caring about people in need, always generous.

Sitting with him at that front table, I met an endless parade of interesting characters. (Everyone paid their respects to Benny.) So many families who had either been away from the area for a long time, or had never been to Hoboken but someone said they had to try Benny’s pizza. When it crispy-crispy, don’t need knife, fork. Often, I felt like I served as his unofficial translator. One week it would be a Tony Soprano impersonator saying hello, the next a family visiting from Scotland, the following week a disheveled psychologist hoping to find work at Stevens Institute. Or Joe Biden dropping in after Superstorm Sandy. (Benny trying to fix me up with the attractive advance White House staffer: He is writer!) Benny made time for them all, listening, listening, then lecturing, lecturing. He loved to hold court.

One such surreal encounter took place about a year ago. As per usual, I was seated at the inside front booth across from Benny. (He always sat with his back to the front door. When that door was open, they installed a makeshift clear plastic wind-guard behind him.) A young woman entered and explained she was applying to be Miss New Jersey, and was hoping to get sponsorship. She clutched various folders and booklets. I attempted to excuse myself from the table, but no, Benny insisted that she join us, and sit next to me. He proceeded to launch into a tale of a young couple that used to eat there: The woman entered a pageant, Benny sponsored her, she won, and got a job on local TV. But the next time Benny saw the young man, he was alone; the woman had left him. It had soured Benny’s opinion of pageants. I glanced over at the young woman, shuffling her folders, likely hoping to just get out of there and move on to the next place of business.

But as we’re sitting there talking, I noticed my friend Nancy enter and wait for a takeout order. I called out, “Nancy, you were Miss New Jersey a few years back, weren’t you?” and we had some amusing banter. Instantly, Benny’s eyes widened: Jack knows a woman? Who is woman? He quickly invited Nancy to sit with the three of us. So as he continued his speech about the ethical failings of the pageant circuit, he also began interviewing Nancy and suggesting that we “work” together: He is writer; you work writers. He is boy; you girl…. Very awkward all around but just when it seemed all hope was lost, Benny summoned a staffer to bring his checkbook, and the hopeful Miss New Jersey left that day with a donation.

As uncomfortable as it could be when Benny took actions on my behalf, I really appreciated that he was looking out for me. That’s a good feeling. When I announced that I’d left my longtime job, he was genuinely concerned, and refused to let me pay for pizza. Or when I would publish an article or book, he was really proud. I tell her you writer! He write children books. He trusted me on a wide variety of topics: Where to get color paper for lamps? Where to get cord for grandson computer? You order, tell me how much. And we discussed many projects that never quite saw the light of day: finding investors to franchise the business; starting a Jewish deli in town; etc.

An intriguing possibility hangs out there still, or is it lost in the sauce? In early 2012, Benny told me he’d recorded thirty 60-minute tapes, his life story. (I’d written a local newspaper article for Benny Tudino’s 45th anniversary but there was definitely more to tell, much more good and bad, and not just about Benny’s 5K plaque hanging above the pizza prep counter.) The tapes were all recorded in Albanian, of course. Joe and I corresponded: What would be the cost and procedure of translating and transcribing? Then editing it down to a manuscript….

I’m sure Benny and I would’ve discussed it again, just not in the summer. For the past decade, Benny would take an extended trip to Albania, two months or more. He truly loved it there, the mountains, the beaches, loved reconnecting with family and friends. I knew he was due back at the end of August this year, so on Tuesday afternoon, I dropped in to welcome him back. Aslan behind the counter said Benny had been in earlier, but wasn’t feeling well, and headed home.

Yesterday I learned that Benny had passed away, mere hours before. Clichés, sure: I wish I could’ve seen him once more, wish I could’ve said goodbye. But we both knew we were good friends, so that’s something. That lasts. And I’ll still go on Sundays, because, what else am I gonna do? I guess I’ll just get a lot more reading done.