Amazing Things I Cannot Find: Taylor Ham

This is something of an embarrassing question to ask, since all of us who’ve done time in the Garden State carry a residual shame, a sense of terrible inferiority and unworthiness, about the whole thing. Still, I’ve spent many years pondering this query and have yet to find a satisfactory answer: Why is it so goddamn hard to get a Taylor Ham & Cheese sandwich in this fucking town?

For those of you unfamiliar with the comestible treasure that is Taylor Ham (also known as “pork roll,” “the Jersey breakfast,” “the Garden State garbage plate,” “Bon Jovi bologna,” “the Cheesequake colon corrupter,” and “Jimmy Hoffa’s final resting place”), here is a helpful Wikipedia entry on the subject. Though often abused for its unsavory contents, its role as a contributing factor in a majority of diabetes cases, and its perceived culinary inferiority — even the inbred Pennsylvanians who turn their noses up at it, comparing it unfavorably to scrapple, have a point — Taylor Ham is one of those foodstuffs that, one having grown up consuming it, is deeply necessary for personal comfort and sodium replenishment. You used to be able to find the packaged version in some Met stores, but as for the menus of this allegedly cosmopolitan city’s finer dining establishments, you will search in vain for even the hint of a glistening slab of reconstituted jowl meat.

Having worked here at the Awl offices for what is rapidly approaching a year’s time now, I only today ventured over to Crif Dogs, where I was thrilled to discover the “Morning Jersey,” a frankfurter wrapped in Taylor Ham, deep fried, smothered in cheese and topped with a fried egg. Still, it was not enough. (Although, BELIEVE ME, it was enough; I’m supposed to have some blood work done next week and now I’m going to need to push it back to February so that it will have left my system by then.) Where else in New York can I find Taylor Ham, preferably served in between a hard roll, with cheese? Alcohol and cigarettes are not killing me fast enough; I feel like this might just put me over the top. Stop holding out on me, you hidden Jerseyans out there: Spill. I mean, not for nothing, it’s the least you could do, right?