The Jersey City Independent "

Editors’ note: Today we are pleased to bring Kimberly Kaye’s food review column, But I Digest, to the Jersey City Independent. Enjoy.

There’s fine dining. There’s casual dining. There are places you can go for a down-home, home-style meal. And then there are those hole-in-the-wall venues that sling damned good food, skirting by on personality and product even as the very term “dining” starts to regress into the more primal “eating.”

So lets begin by making one thing perfectly clear: Irma’s leans entirely toward, and sometimes on, the latter. And that’s part of the reason you should go there.

Nestled near the corner of Communipaw Avenue and Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, the place itself is hard to miss. A guerrilla graffiti ad campaign stretches across the store’s bright, street-facing brick wall, beckoning with renderings of fish sandwiches, chicken and plates of fried goodness along with hand-lettered promises of items like ribs, chicken, collard greens and cornbread. “Food for the soul,” the sign proclaims, flanking a crude portrait of what is, no doubt, Irma herself at the stove. Point is, if you don’t know what you’re getting into before you step over the threshold, you’d best go elsewhere, because you don’t deserve it.

That familiar smell of fryer oil — a scent of death at some restaurants, but a true sign of things going the right way at a good soul food spot — acts as the only hostess once you’ve abandoned the hardscrabble urban streetscape and are ready to get down to business.

Irma’s isn’t much to look at on the inside: there’s a slightly dingy display case, lined with desserts like pecan pie, which also acts as an old-school counter, complete with register; a refrigerated case filled with sodas, homemade lemonade, and jumbo, premixed Solo cups of the house’s addictive, insulin-shock-inducing fruit punch; and an airbrushed wooden sign, singed by kitchen smoke, on the wall above listing Irma’s two-dozen or so menu options. Behind all that lays the visible kitchen, where one or more of the handful of owners — family of the original Irma (who has long since retired her own commercial apron) — man the stoves and fryers, hand-battering fish and chicken before slinging items hot into the window.

Is the crisping sizzle of food meeting its boiling, fryer demise culinary foreplay to anyone else?

The aproned proprietor behind the counter always says hello when you make your way inside, but don’t expect immediate, fawning acknowledgment. If he’s busy explaining the bus schedule to a pal, you’ll have to wait. Remember, this is “eating,” not “dining.”

It’s simple service at Irma’s: step on up, place your order, or ask the friendly staff what’s best if you can’t decide (and if you’re there during peak dinner hours, hurry up, because there are hungry people behind you). Then sit down and wait, because it’s going to take a minute or two; meals are made to order at a casual pace appropriate for a family-owned eats-spot. Items are delivered as they’re ready.

The restaurant’s dining floor is simple, with five small booths rounding the dark interior, decorated with a few plants and photos — most recently of President Obama. In one corner of the dining floor is a hulking old TV, which occasionally blares any variety of bootleg DVDs purchased from “a guy who stops by every now and then” for staff or diners (we’re honestly not sure which) to enjoy. On a recent visit it was the shamelessly campy B-Horror film Big Bad Wolf, about a deranged, sexually charged werewolf terrorizing those archetypical suburban teens.

“She was a virgin!” cries the jock over the body of his deflowered, dead lady love. “Well she ain’t anymore,” the beast laughs. Brilliant.

If the “ambiance” is underwhelming, Irma’s myriad menu options more than make up for it. Serving breakfast, lunch and dinner, the restaurant has it all: fried chicken breasts or legs (available smothered in gravy), BBQ ribs, catfish, shrimp, oxtail, pigs’ feet, chitlins, rice and gravy, black eyed peas (and sometimes pintos), mac ’n’ cheese, collard greens, potatoes, cornbread … the list goes on. Breakfast, which is only served ONLY until 11 am, runs the gamut from eggs and salmon cakes to traditional grits and pancakes. There’s something for every taste, and all items are priced for the recession-afflicted wallet.

Be forewarned that you can really gorge yourself at Irma’s if you’re not careful, especially given the price point. The menu allows you to order single items “sandwich style” (a piece of fried fish, ready to go as is, for example) with sides added as you please, or packaged as a protein of choice paired with two sides. The portions are huge no matter which path you choose.

On our most recent trip, we dined on a massive, gravy-smothered fried chicken leg; battered BBQ chicken breast; fried fish; pinto beans; rice and gravy; mac ’n’ cheese; collard greens; corn bread; and, at the advice of the owners, two massive cups of the red fruit punch (we’re guessing, based on flavor and color, the generic store brand and not Kool-Aid, much to our personal glee) to wash it all down with. The spread took up an entire booth meant for four and fed us for the next two days.

Irma’s boys know their home cooking. All of the meats were perfectly cooked and arrived piping hot, the BBQ chicken breast dripping a sweet, tangy sauce without becoming soggy, edges of smothered skin still crisp underneath. Their rice and gravy has a sweet, almost nutty flavor, perfect with hand-torn pieces from the oversized, flakey fried fish filet, which, with its savory, seasoned batter and minimal grease, was the highlight of our several trips. The mac ’n’ cheese was a little dry for my taste (for me, the sloppier the better when it comes to mac, if you can admit that about a food item and still be taken seriously), closer to the gluey, shape-holding scoops you find at church picnics — which is exactly how my dining partner likes his best, so consider that one a matter of preference.

The only low point of the meal were the bland collard greens, which needed a little smoke or kick of pepper to bring them up to the standard of the rest of the meal. A few bites of corn bread dipped in … well, everything else, and we forgot about them anyway.

Bloated and stuffed into a near stupor, we finally packed our various left-overs, got a handshake at the counter and a wave from the kitchen and wandered back into the night, souls satisfied.

The motto of the restaurant, painted outside, says goodnight as you waddle on your way — “Irma’s Restaurant: You’ve tried the rest … now try the best.” For the first time in a while, we might actually agree with a restaurant’s marketing pitch.

Irma’s Restaurant
592 Communipaw Ave.
Jersey City, NJ 07305
Tel: 201-332-0044



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