Ali Baba to the Rescue

Tonight it was my turn to eat out, solo, on my way to see my friend Ads's band in Hoboken.

I had everything mapped out perfectly: I would drive into town, find a parking space, have a delightful and delightfully cheap Cuban dinner at La Isla, and then head to the show with time to order a beer before the first note.

Did I say Hoboken? Did I say parking?

Fuhgeddaboudit.

I don't know how I became so deluded, but it's really not possible to park in Hoboken on a Friday night, a Saturday, or ever. So I watched time slip away as I circled around and around, wider and wider, thinking, This garage that charges $20 used to be $5... Suddenly I found myself, basically at showtime, far from La Isla but close to the club where Ads was playing. Somehow, I even found a spot. All that was left was the nagging emptiness in my stomach.

Luckily, I spotted good old Ali Baba, a mere block away. Two of my sisters lived in Hoboken years ago, and we'd had many a falafel at the little Middle Eastern joint. I was glad to find the place pretty much unchanged. The food's still good, the prices still reasonable. I am the world's slowest eater, but my lateness combined with my hunger saw me scarfing down those little chickpea balls like Oprah on a baked ham.