Growing up Gotti in Long Island, the joke was always on New Jersey. Crowded with gargantuan strip malls, full-service gas stations and beautiful, rolling freeways, Jersey was an easy target, especially because they shared the same universal stigma that we had. But in truth, the reason Long Islanders made such merciless remarks at the expense of New Jerseyans wasn’t because of that weird smell that emanated from Hoboken, but because we we didn’t have a Medieval Times.’
It was an earth-shattering discovery when my friends and I discovered Medieval Manor at 246 E. Berkley Street, so we went for our buddy Dan’s birthday.
Our group went on a Thursday, when admission is discounted to $20 a person with college ID. We walked into the Manor with high hopes, expecting Archimedes from Sword in the Stone to fly down from his coop and land on my shoulder, then whisper some wise nothings into my ear. Instead ‘-‘- we stumbled upon a short grown man dressed in jester’s clothing, looking more like a knock-off Botero dressed up for Halloween than a court clown. After making sure we paid in full, he led us to a dark area with a cash bar to wait for our other guests, giving us the option of light (PBR), dark ale (Sam Adams), alcohol-free Mead or white wine. I immediately opted for the latter, and before long our party had arrived.
We were led to a decent-sized dining room, clad with wooden accoutrements and a large central stage, where our wench, Chloe, sat us to a table with metal plates and without silverware.
The musical comedy show began shortly after we arrived (late), and we were introduced to the motley cast of characters, all in costumes that revealed a lesser budget than their larger, Medieval Times cousin. With references to Shakespeare and Monica Lewinsky (they rate themselves PG-15 ‘frac12;), the show was somewhat entertaining. But throughout each scene I could only imagine what my first middle-ages meal would be: whole spit-fired pheasant? Pottage? Mutton pies?!
The first course, ‘dragon soup,’ was a murky, tomato-based broth with some vegetables floating around, which was more like medieval salsa when sopped up with the table flatbread.
The next dish, beef ribs, was dry-rubbed and dry-as-a-bone. Totally overcooked, the meat had to be chewed into rawhide before it would separate from the bone. With the beef came mussels, smothered in fresh garlic. I tried one, even though the aroma was nauseatingly salty and fishy. It tasted like seaweed-flavored gum, marinated in garlicky water.
The last course didn’t improve much. The wench threw half of a roasted chicken on my plate, parts of it tie-dyed with red blood clots and pink rawness. I picked, but by then the wenches had refilled (and refilled) our metal pots with enough cheap Chardonnay to slur our disappointment into mild groaning.
The night ended on a high note, as spirits were soaring and we all had a good laugh, mostly at the ‘oaf’ character onstage whose enormous Boston Red Sox tattoo peaked out under his tunic sleeve. Although the goofy fun of it all overrode the terrible scraps passed off as supper, I’m reluctantly renewing my EZ pass to make the hajj to Jersey.
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