Eatings From Asbury Park — The Shoperones

On a recent trip to Bruce Springsteen’s hometown of Asbury Park, New Jersey, I bought a t-shirt that says “Music Saved Asbury Park.” But after eating my way through the ultra-hip, revitalized shore town, it’s clear the t-shirt is wrong. With all due respect to The Boss, it’s the food saving Asbury Park now.

Whether exhausted by the Hamptons’ pomp and pretense, or craving authenticity, New Yorkers have finally ‘discovered’ Asbury Park. This summer, Money magazine named Asbury the #2 best beach in the U.S., which doesn't help, or does, depending on how crowded you like it. They come in droves for the vibrant mix of music, glam, grit and surf; unique among the nearby shore towns and likely headed toward a resort-condo gentrification that could drastically alter its vibe in the long run. In the meantime, Asbury’s foodie game has piqued the palates of day trippers and locals alike, and we’re all the better for it.

Grunge at The Shore.

The Shoperones are no strangers to the pre-gentrified Jersey Shore, and I can say, depending on the Shoperone, we quite enjoyed ourselves back when things were a little more, eh, authentic back in the ‘90s. The summer between freshman and sophomore years, I’d taken two jobs–one at an ice cream shop on the boardwalk and another at a surf shop—just to live (read: scrape by) near the sand and surf whenever I wasn’t working. One weekend, Laura visited me at my hovel where I shared a single room apartment with a friend from Jersey City—he and I alternated between sleeping on the couch and the floor. We had no kitchen, save a college fridge and a searing coil hotplate passed down to me by my great grandmother. We washed our dishes (all two of them) in the bathroom sink, where, if the light was right, we could see through the hole in the bathroom wall to the apartment in front. This was also where we did our laundry.

When Laura arrived, she was horrified at the state of things. After I’d given her the grand tour, which she took from the doorway, she resolved she wouldn’t be sleeping inside that night, and to my recollection, she didn’t. In 1992, you could do things like sleep on a porch of a beach bungalow. Back then, all our taste buds were refined to appreciate whatever we could afford, typically a 40 oz. of malt liquor and a ‘couple slices’ of pizza, and of course, free ice cream. We’d loiter the boards until well after everything closed, looking to mix it up in the seedy scene.

Checking in, after a decade.

Between then and now, the Shoperones have naturally matured in our tastes for the finer things, including a general appreciation for cleaner lodgings and tastier beverages (though naturally, pizza is still a staple). And where I still prefer the beach to all else as a destination, Laura could really take it or leave it, unless, of course, that beach is sub-tropical and drinks are all-inclusive. It was not surprising when, even though invited, she and her husband sat out our grown-up night out in Asbury.

Before we came back to NYC from Philadelphia, my husband and I lived at the beach for a few years—proof that he is actually my soul mate. He needs the ocean like I do. For this trip, however, we were headed to the beach on our first overnight away from the child in years when the skies opened up. We checked into the ultra-hip Asbury Hotel and headed to the pool to catch a few minutes of respite in between the spitting sky to regroup and reset about just what we’d do for the next 24 hours in the event the rain persisted. This was an easy reset of expectations; we’d eat and drink our way through the town we hadn’t visited in nearly a decade. Back then there were a few good food options like Langosta Lounge and Toast, but it wasn’t nearly as cool as the vibe seemed now, even under cover of an ominous sky. In 2009, we’d celebrated our son’s first birthday upstairs at McCloone’s with 100 of our closest friends and family members (hello, overboard); this is the place where Darlene Love would be singing the very night of this mini-break. Maybe we’d make it to McCloone’s later, or to some other music, but we had a long way to go before then—it was only 2 p.m.

Cue the tequila.

Let the Revelry Commence
Some great tacos at Pop’s Garage fortified us for what would be sorely needed day (and night) of bacchanalian excess. The Pop’s wait staff t-shirts set the tone perfectly, “Rock out with your Guac out,” as the ad copywriter in me did a happy dance for their cleverness. After hours of walking the boards and sampling more cocktails at more places like it was our job, we went back to the hotel to tart up in our room’s pristine, minimal bathroom. I realize I could never live this sparsely, yet it was all I needed and more as we and readied for our grown-up romantic dinner.

Our experience at Pascal and Sabine was five-star, multi-sensory and on par with the best in Manhattan—all the flair yet none of pretense. But, savoring snails, steaks, cheeses and the best martini in ages pretty much shot any chance of getting us to a music venue afterward, so we opted for the scene back at the hotel. The rooftop bar had been rained out, but the lobby was pleasantly surprising, a social experiment with comfy couches. Here, we had a front row seat to the unfolding gentrification in the tiny shore town, watching as the soon-to-be-edged-out locals tried to take in the off-key moans of a Counting Crows cover band, as top-knotted millennial trustafarians writhed along with the music in Birkenstocks and ripped shorts. I thought to myself about the t-shirt, on this particular evening, at this particular establishment, the music will not be saving Asbury Park.

Pascal and Sabine, and snails and lettuce. Delish.

Cardinal, save us from ourselves.
By the time we reached Cardinal Provisions for breakfast, my husband and I had already sampled five (or maybe more) food spots the day before and were still hungry for more. Through the windowed façade with gold lettering, the tiny spot beckoned. I spied only a handful of tables, booths, and a bar serving nitro cold brew on tap; remarkably airy thanks to a view into the kitchen and 14-foot ceilings. We passed a handful of people outside drinking coffee, and inside a sweet hostess informed us quite earnestly the wait would be about 90 minutes. Of course, she said, we could help ourselves to the coffee near the door. It was the intoxicating aroma of baking confection and cold brew that made me say ‘yes,’ without a beat. Seriously?

The wait was unprecedented, but without a doubt worth every minute. Though some menu items seemed whimsical, each was seriously considered and carefully constructed, giving the impression that vegans and unabashed carnivores alike will be thoroughly satisfied. The unique Lobster Chimichanga! (exclamation included) caught my eye. So did their hair-of-the-dog Drunk in Love, a giant pancake with rum-soaked pineapple, coconut, toffee and salted butter. The M’Cauli Caulkin (roasted cauliflower steak, marinated artichokes, blistered eggplant puree and red pepper pesto on baguette) seemed to give the country fried steak a run for its meaty money. My mouth watered as the Caulkin wafted past my booth, though in honesty, I might have eaten my coffee cup by then.

Our très-hip waitress was friendly, knowledgeable and thankfully swift to our table. It was brunch by the time we sat, so the chili deviled eggs took the edge off. They came out fast and perfect—a complex balance of heat and citrus made from Korean chili paste, cilantro, scallion and lime. My husband’s hefty Breakfast Burrito was packed with the usual suspects and a tangy green tomatillo salsa. He added the vegan taco meat, which was delicately spiced and at once, defied and delighted my carnivorous taste buds. I picked the veggie Brekky Bowl with marinated greens, turmeric cauliflower and warm, herbed beluga lentils; a combination so delicate and satisfying, it felt like a cheat day without actually cheating. I also needed the smoked bacon, cut oh-so thick and griddled flat to caramelized perfection.

Finally, I got to taste the smell that made me say yes to Cardinal in the first place; a nugget of deep-fried sweetened dough that was equal parts French Quarter beignet and spicy churro. A cheat day after all, I might have died if it weren’t for the nitro brew coursing through my completely satiated veins.

As we got in the car to head home, I marveled at how much the place had changed in 10, 20 and even 30 years since I’d been coming. Though I’d hoped for fun in the sun on our mini-break, I’m glad my husband and I got the gastronomic experience instead, so it worked out for the best. Without a doubt, restos like Cardinal, Pop’s Garage and Pascal + Sabine one scrumptious meal at a time. And though I refrained from texting my Shoperone whilst on mini-break with hubby, she got the full download when I got home.