Thank You, Delfino’s

On social media, my Amazon author page, dating sites, etc., I always mention my interest in sandwiches. I like ’em. And when you find a good sandwich, by god you stick with it. For the past 21 years, that’s meant a chicken parm from Delfino’s in Hoboken. Friday, July 2, was their last day in business and I will miss that sandwich a whole lot.

Now, wait a minute, Delfino’s opened in 1987, I moved to Hoboken in 1994… 21 years… the math doesn’t work. That’s because I lived downtown with my buddy Joe for the first six years, and Hoboken’s west side was mysterious, mostly unexplored territory for us. We slowly found local favorites: Benny Tudino’s, Piccolo’s, Spa Diner, Leo’s Grandevzous. Joe knew about a special spot called Fiore’s. But I think the only time I entered Delfino’s in those early days was after a sweltering visit to the St. Ann’s Festival, in search of a nice cold soda.

It all changed in 2000 when Joe moved to 5th and Madison and I moved to 5th and Adams. Smack dab in the middle, at 5th and Jefferson, was Delfino’s.

But, why chicken parm? I have a strangely clear memory of my parm origins. This would’ve been in the ’80s, I was a young teen, and my mom’s Aunt Snookie was hosting a big party in a New York restaurant. I remember two things from this day: One, that my visiting cousin Nikki from Arizona was mischievous and totally fun, and two, that I ordered veal parmigiana. Why did I do it? A particularly compelling description on the menu? Did someone recommend the dish? All I know is that I have always been a very picky eater, but here was a new dish that I absolutely loved, and most importantly, it seemed to be on the menu of every “nicer” restaurant I went to after that day. No more panicking about what to order! I’ll have the veal parmigiana, thank you. Or its low-rent brother, chicken parm. Which became more and more of my choice as I started paying my own way in this crazy world of ours.

Back at 5th and Jefferson, Joe and I continued to visit our regular haunts. But in late 2001, a show we loved — 24 — debuted. On Tuesday nights I’d head to Joe’s place to watch it. On my way, I’d stop at Delfino’s and pick up two chicken parm sandwiches. This was such a routine that on my first many visits to Delfino’s after Joe moved to Italy in 2003, Frank behind the counter asked if I wanted two chicken parms.

In the summers, Delfino’s would take an extended vacation, and I’d use the opportunity to sample other chicken parms around town. Nobody has ever come remotely close. It’s just a magical perfect balance of tender breaded chicken, robust (not sweet) sauce, and melty cheese on crispy, chewy Hoboken bread.

Ever since, generally once a week, I’ve gone to Delfino’s, usually for takeout, usually chicken parm. Up through 2011 I worked at Scholastic in the city and routinely worked late. I’d rush back to Hoboken and take a cab from the PATH station to Delfino’s, often getting in the last order of the night.

When I started freelancing from home, Frank was confused for a long while why I was coming in earlier.

Frank and his brother Del (Delfino) ran the place. Patty at Piccolo’s told me that Del learned to cook as a kid at Marty Casella’s old restaurant in Hoboken, under the tutelage of head chef Ciro. Patty says both brothers can cook very well but when he puts his mind to it, Del can really cook. A higher compliment you’re unlikely to come by.

You go into a place over a couple of decades, you meet people, you recognize people. The guy in doctors’ scrubs. Gruff-voiced street guy John, sometimes charitably hired to sweep up, put the chairs up. (I told you, I was often there at the end of the night.) Frank’s son Giorgio. Del’s little son with a little easy chair in the corner. Anthony driving deliveries. A proud history of sassy, funny waitresses. Before Thanksgiving there was always a drawing for a free turkey; I never, ever won. Leading up to Christmas there’d be a small table next to the tree with holiday cookies and small plastic cups for a wee beverage. I favored Baileys Irish Cream.

I learned that a scene had been shot in Delfino’s for a movie, Mail Order Bride starring Danny Aiello and Big Pussy. There was a limited screening at the Quad Cinema in Manhattan. I eagerly attended and reported back. Del hadn’t gone — they were Jersey guys, not New Yorkers.

Cousins with Biancamano who makes a freaking amazing sandwich on upper Washington; oh that mutz!! (I’d go more often but, you know, it’s uptown.) And Peter Biancamano, showing up on the local ballot. My buddy Barry used to live upstairs; Del was his landlord. It’s a small town, Hoboken. A mile square they say.

Yvonne the tailor from Italmoda, half a block up on Jefferson, she likes Delfino’s. This is another very high compliment, in case you didn’t know.

In 2014, Giorgio struck out on his own and opened the Blue 42 restaurant and bar in Elmwood Park, in the shadow of the big MARCAL sign. Nice joint. I don’t know if they told Del it’s a Packers bar. Delfino’s is all about the New York Football Giants. Lawrence Taylor proudly on display among the many photos on the walls (Joey Pants, the aforementioned Mr. Aiello, etc. etc.)

Summer of 2016, I think? Second half of the year was kind of a blur for me. But Delfino’s closed for a gut renovation of the building. I think they’d sold it but rented the restaurant space? (Hmm maybe signed a 5-year lease?) But by the time I was back at home like Rapunzel in spring 2017, they were back in business. My dad, man I miss him, he loved calling up Delfino’s from Maryland and ordering me stuffed rigatoni Massimo (that’s their vodka sauce) for delivery. Or my wonderful friend Karen would come after work and bring me a Delfino’s chicken parm and a bottle of Coke. We’d eat and watch It’s Garry Shandling’s Show. Since I’ve been back on my feet (so to speak), she and I would go in person; I was often the lucky recipient of her leftover baked ziti.

It wasn’t all good news. While I was hospitalized, Del was fighting his own battle, with cancer. So sad to think of this sturdy, no-nonsense, smiling guy humbled by that damn disease. I maybe knew a thing or two about getting knocked down and the very long road back.

Covid times. I learned how to order my sandwich from an app. Limited indoor dining finally returns. December 23, I head over for a little holiday cheer, maybe some Baileys. Talk about your Christmas miracles — there in the flesh was Del himself. On his feet, not in a wheelchair! Looking pretty good. First time I’d seen him in 4.5 years. That immunotherapy doing its stuff, thank goodness.

Last month I ran into Anthony on the street and he broke the news: Delfino’s was closing. Frank was retiring after 34 years. It is a real bummer for me personally, no longer having such a beloved place so close. Plus the trend of new places being, uggh, artisanal. Cutesy. The other day at Delfino’s I was chatting with local character TJ and suggested that he should take over the place; he predicted low lights and $12 coffees. TJ is probably right. It stings to lose an old-school classic. In the past week-plus, I tried to revisit my Delfino’s “greatest hits.” Karen and I went; I had stuffed rigatoni Massimo with chicken, she had baked ziti, and I received her leftovers. Then they were closed Sunday and Monday; some things never change. Last Tuesday I had a meatball parm. Wednesday I recreated my original regular order from when I had started to occasionally go by myself and sit at a table: ziti with sausage. Time ran out as it always does, so I didn’t get to once more sample their Sicilian slice, steak sandwich, meatball calzone, or lasagna. And I must admit, I never did try the tripe.

The final night was a rainy one but I knew what I had to do. I grabbed my umbrella and some cash and walked the block from my building. The front door was locked but a police officer motioned toward the side door. Huh, I’d never been behind the counter before. The joint was packed. Balloons, cake, the little table with cookies and Baileys. Everybody was there, including Del looking the picture of health in an Italia jersey.

I ordered a chicken parm from Giorgio. He pointed to an empty two-top in the front, said if I wanted to grab it I should do it quick. Thanks but no, I wanted to do my most common thing: the sandwich at home with a bottle of Coke in front of the TV. I shook hands, hugged, said my goodbyes and “I’ll see ya”s, and headed back into the rain.

Soon enough I’ll head over again to Blue 42 in Elmwood Park. OK, it’s not down the street but it’s only about a half hour drive — and let’s face it, everything in Jersey is about a half hour away. I happen to know that Giorgio makes a pretty damn good chicken parm. It runs in the family.