When I was a kid, it was A.C. all the way. This was before the town was completely whored out by Resorts Casinos, et al. Hit the boardwalk, lay out on the beach. If A.C. was too crowded, why Ventnor was right next door.
I adored Steel Pier and Million Dollar Pier. When that burned, a part of a lot of kids’ memories was burned down with it. Terrible loss. What finer thrill than screaming along a wooden rollercoaster and just as you reach the top, you look out and see the surf pounding?
Fralinger’s Salt Water Taffy…good corn dogs. Ahhhh, gosh. Listening to the Phils usually involved a fair bit of intestinal fortitude, or undying masochism. And yet, we listened…and listened…and waited…patiently…until 1980 when the planets aligned and the very quiet and extremely serious Steve Carlton made dreams come true.
I didn’t make it up to Wildwood this year (too busy relaxing on the Cape May beach) but the roller coasters at Morey’s Piers are worth the trip; their water parks can be fun too, especially with kids. And anyone who has ever been to Wildwood, even only once, will be forever imprinted (damaged) by “watch the tram car please” sing-song in the most nasal voice possible.
Harry Kalas and Richie Ashburn calling a Phillies game on the radio was pure heaven. Their broadcasts were enjoyable for their personalities, voices, and stories, regardless of the game. Harry’s still got maybe the best voice and home run call in sports broadcast, Richie passed away a few years ago and has not been replaceable. “Long fly ball, way back, it’s got a chance, it’s…OUTTA HERE!”
Oh, and that soft-serve mint chocolate chip - does anyone know the name of the establishment that makes it? Kohr Bros.? Someone else? I’m all over that the next time I’m down the shore.
One more Cape May food stop:
Uncle Bill’s Pancake House - Overcrowded and slightly overpriced, but their chocolate chip pancakes go perfectly with a cup of coffee. Going early or late avoids the giant wait for a table.
Oh yeah, Uncle Bill’s. There was one on the Bay side where our house was. The one on the beach was packed with hungry tourists stacked up like cordwood outside the doors every morning.
We went for toasted bagels with melted cheese at the house each day. Still… I do love my pancakes. It gives me something to look forward to. And the next time I head south to Hotlanta for work, I’ll take the Cape May-Lewes Ferry and give myself the chance to try them pancakes.
The house we rent every year is across from Congress Hall. (I’ve got a front bedroom so Congress Hall is my nightlight – and I can’t sleep past dawn, since the sun hits me straight in the face as it rises above CH.) I don’t usually head down to the beach till 10 or so, so the first part of the morning – after an Acme or CVS run – is spent on the front porch, reading and listening to the Uncle Bill’s PA – “Smith, party of five … Johnson, party of three …”
Eating out? Bums. The deal is to rent with a houseful of friends and have everyone cook one night. My sister usually makes her deservedly famous spaghetti – Doug usually makes fresh fish of some sort – I usually make something easy, because I really don’t like to cook (and they know this, and they love me anyway). This year it was cheeseburgers, fresh corn, and salad. (We’re an easy bike ride from Ducky’s farm stand.) Lunchtime has folks wandering through the kitchen and noshing on leftovers, fresh fruit, cereal, chips and salsa, or whatever. Plus, I’ve finally managed to convince these people that cilantro really does taste like soap to me, so they’ll set aside a little bowl of the fresh salsa for me before they add the cilantro.
This year my sister made a coconut cake (triple layer – god. damn. this is seriously excellent stuff) in honor of my 50th birthday – which was last winter, but got shortchanged because some major bad stuff was going on at the same time. So there we were, all blissed out from our day on the beach and a wonderful dinner, eating coconut cake in honor of my New Year’s Eve birthday.
I live at the Jersey Shore and will clarify some misconceptions for you unfortunate mortals.
Dear NinjaChick, we who live at the Shore do indeed ‘go to the beach.’ We go there all the time. The beach is the place between the land and the ocean where the sand is. It’s on the other side of the boardwalk. I live at the Shore. If I want to go swimming, I go to the beach. On my bike.
Dear PigBoy, If you live at Shore, the Center of the Universe, you cringe when you hear the phrase ‘Down the Shore.’ We never go ‘Down the Shore.’ We are already at the Shore. We have always been here and we are never leaving. We never say ‘I’m going to the Shore.’ We say ‘I’m going home. And as soon as I get home, I’m going to the beach. On my bike.’
Dear 633squadron. You are correct. When I go to Santa Cruz, I think ‘Nice Try!’ But that concrete boardwalk is just sad.
If you are visiting the Shore this week, stop by the Fair Haven Fireman’s Fair. Imagine a Jersey Shore fireman’s fair set in Brigadoon.
Hmph. For those of us who do not live at the Shore, we go Down The Shore. ( he says stubbornly). You see, my friends, Goin’ Down The Shore is not just a jaunt of a few blocks. It is a pleasant and gauzy trip into yesteryear, replete with fond memories, food and scent connections and youthful longing. A part of what makes these memories so precious to those of us who do not actually live in seaside communities is the yin/yang quality of the experience.
We suffer the Atlantic City Expressway, so we can enjoy the Boardwalk. We endure hours of bumper to bumper traffic so we can lay on the sand and take the waters. there is a certain balance to life that is maintained when journeying Down The Shore. I can only hope that as a native seaside dweller, you look forward to trips up to the Poconos.
Wow twickster, more than once I parked on the side street that faces Congress Hall, to go to the Magic Bean Internet Cafe in the mornings to do my email and computer business thing. Likely I walked by (or was parked in front of) the house you guys rent. Sheesh. Had I only known, I’d have popped in for some coconut cake. Damn !!
Sounds like there might be enough of us there to try a Cape May Dope some summer.
Twicks, next time you’re biking down to the farm stand, check out the Westside Market. $3.75 will rarely buy a better breakfast than the bacon egg & cheese on a hoagie roll (long Italian roll for those of you not from Philly). I’m told their hoagies and cheesesteaks are good too. After a good bike ride, I love to kick back and while away the rest of the morning with the Westside sandwich, Wawa iced tea and the paper.
Ah, this thread is a fun read. And as a Jersey Shore native, I will aver that **CBCD ** is entirely correct: "going “down the shore” is a Philly/NY thing. You guys are a bunch of shoobies. Those of us who live there never say it.
Or “said,” since I’m now in Florida.
Is Jilly’s still on 12th street in OC? I spent half my teenage years there.
Both my grandfathers were dead before I was born, and as a boy I used to imagine that Harry and Whitey were my grandfathers.
I cried when Richie Ashburn died. I don’t expect anyone who wasn’t a Phillies fan to understand that; but I expect that everyone who is will.
I second this recommendation. We ate there last year. The food was very good. We were there on an August Tuesday morning and the wait was about five minutes.
I was in OC two weekends ago, and can report that there’s a Jilly’s establishment of some sort on nearly every block. I was there during long weekend in Avalon with the husband and the inlaws. Very relaxing, even with seven kids running around.
My grandparents live in Manasquan–visiting them is “going down the shore.” Going to the beach is “going to the beach.” Of course, I’m fat, pale, and hate sand, so I don’t go to the beach much. But I’ll play Skee Ball 'til my arms fall off. (But that’s “going to the boardwalk.”)
For those of you who’ve been in the area recently–does anybody know if the Bijou ice cream place is still around there? We used to vacation in Cape May/Wildwood every year, and I’d invariably get taken to the Bijou after my parents forced me to spend a day on the beach in a long-sleeved shirt and a stupid hat that did nothing to prevent hospital-caliber sunburn.
I remember loving it because they’d give you a little pitcher of hot fudge with your sundae just in case they didn’t put enough on there.
