Reubens Are Vile Things; Decent German at Helmers' Cafe in Hoboken

I see a therapist, though I'm not yet ready for white slippers. Nearly all New Yorkers see shrinks. Those who don't are the ones who push people onto subway tracks or run for mayor as third-party candidates.

So we talk, every Monday, about stress, anxiety, mild occasional depression, hypochondria, sexuality, regrets, neuroses, obsessions and compulsions. Yes, I'm a little eccentric. Obsessed with food, I once turned down a therapist whose office was on W. 89th St. in favor of one in the E. 70s solely because there's nothing tempting to eat on the Upper West Side. Last year I quit a high-paying temp job on E. 56th St. because I was unhappy with the lunch options in the area.

And compulsive; acting on the slightest impulse to find the ideal hamburger or some Brazilian yuca fries. When I can't scratch that itch, I feel isolated and alone in this cruel world, especially during these disheartening times. Sometimes I resort to screaming aloud: "Why can't I get a decent slice of pizza in this God damn city," and depending on where I am and the time of day, people will either approach me and agree that pizza by the slice has gone steadily downhill, or they'll discreetly fumble with their cellphones and call for help.

The other day, I woke up with a Reuben craving. Lord knows why. I'm busy nowadays with this high-profile job as a gastronome and a few music gigs on the horizon, in addition to the more immediate goal of having clean underwear in time for the weekend. I didn't have the time to worry about finding the perfect Reuben, so instead I chose to stay close to home and eat one at my local diner.

I'm not only OCD, but also, apparently, suffer from mild occasional stupidity. A Reuben at my local diner? I've watched in horror as the silver Sysco trucks delivered the cheapest possible ingredients to that place. And I can't stand restaurants that have large menus and try to cook Italian-, Greek-, Mexican- and American-style foods up to and including Caesar salad wraps.

We live in the greatest city in the world, yet I had chosen to patronize this sad coffee shack decorated with Proptronic books and murals of clouds and mountains, trying not to gag on vinyl pastrami and canned sauerkraut topped with melted domestic Swiss cheese (without holes) on commercial rye bread spread with Gulden's mustard, which I loathe.

A mere three and one half miles from this rathole is Reuben's delicatessen, the inventors of this greasy, artery-clogging, defiantly unkosher nightmare. I assumed that if they couldn't hook me up with a delicious Reuben sandwich, chances were slim that anyone else could.

Reuben's deli is an antique. The grease on the walls is vintage 1970s. Orange booths complement faux wood-grain paneling; the mildewed ceiling panels have seen better days. And most telling?the menu lists a sandwich named "Arsenio Hall" (turkey, Swiss cheese and salami).

I was the only customer at 7:30 in the evening (they close at 8), and the waitress sized me up as a hipster in search of kitsch. She assumed correctly that I'd come for their namesake sandwich ($9.50). I sat, bored, awaiting my fate, humming "Don't You Want Me" in my head and staring out the window of this hapless restaurant into the abyss of lower Madison Ave.

The sandwich was the size of a small infant, say 9 pounds, and resembled a large breast. It was plump and parabolic in shape and topped with an orange-slice nipple sprinkled with parsley. Here it was, the prize, the one and only original Reuben.

Did you know that Reuben sandwiches are not grilled, but placed upon toasted rye bread and thrown under a broiler? They are made of corned beef, and not pastrami. My local coffee shop had it all wrong, right down to the condiments (Russian dressing, not mustard).

Reuben's Swiss cheese was a little more intense than the generic stuff back home, and the corned beef sufficiently juicy, though not nearly as good as at the Carnegie or Katz's. Put it all together with some nice Jewish sauerkraut and what do you get? Well, essentially a greasy, artery-clogging, defiantly unkosher nightmare. I've felt bloated ever since.

I considered the possibility of creating a "gourmet" Reuben. I could get ahold of some corned beef from PJ Bernstein's on 71st and 3rd (my favorite low-key delicatessen), rye bread from Jay Dee's bakery on Queens Blvd. in Rego Park, sauerkraut from Schaller & Weber, and imported Swiss cheese from Zabar's. I could beg Mario Batali to prepare it for me in his kitchen at Babbo. But you know, I don't think that any measure of culinary prowess or food-shopping zeitgeist could elevate this sandwich from its position as one of the more vile objects from the diner handbook.

When I told my therapist that I had consumed two Reuben sandwiches in the span of eight hours, he put me on Prozac. And Lipitor.

Reuben's, 244 Madison Ave. (38th St.), 867-7800.

Helmers' Cafe

The first week of January was rush week at my medium-sized Midwestern University. I had been rehearsing for it during the Christmas recess, asking myself questions like, "Where are you from, dude?" and "If you were a tree, dude, what kind what you be?" The answer to the first question was Westchester, even though I'm from Long Island. They'd never know, and I couldn't stand another conversation about the Buttafuocos and the proper pronunciation of Long Island. As for the second question, I really couldn't answer that one because I hadn't the faintest idea who I was at that time. I was pretty sure, though, that I wanted to be in a fraternity, particularly those with the cutest brothers and the most severe hazing practices.

Maybe because I was fat back then, or maybe because I was a dork, they rejected me. Even the nerd fraternity rejected me. Freakin' Dave Matthews-worshipping, cheap-beer-guzzling, overpriveleged hunks of ripped abs, chiseled chins and pouty, youthful lips longing to be pressed by one of their so-called "elevated friends"?those who share in their little secrets?how dare they reject me.

Whenever I visit my sister in Hoboken, I am once again surrounded by these meatheads, only now they are largely unattractive, having drank their way to more pronounced midsections, or shriveled up and lost their hair from years of stressful buying and selling across the river in their financial-sector jobs. I would prefer that she'd come to visit me in Queens, but she's even more terrified of being catcalled by little Mexican men than I am of being called a dork by huge, nasty post-frat trolls.

So it was a sultry December evening that I disembarked from the west side piers on the New York Waterways North Hoboken-38th St. ferry. As the boat fell off into the mighty Hudson, the city vanished beneath the dense fog. With the skyline out of sight, I imagined I was Henry Hudson himself.

Five minutes later we were in Hoboken, and I was angrily awakened from my explorer fantasy by the immediate sounding of the cellphones, the clack-clack of 50 pairs of banal black work shoes falling into step past the blight of Rite Aid and Starbucks. I spotted the evening's first Carolina Tar Heels baseball cap. Ugh. I'm in Hoboken.

Thankfully, there's Helmers' Cafe, a groovy old-fashioned German bar/restaurant that has survived the 20th century intact. It is an oasis of hip on a strip of Washington St. that would remind tourists from Oklahoma of their college days.

I'd kill to have something so enchanting, useful or downright strange as Helmers' Cafe in my neighborhood. There's no jukebox here, no television and the atmosphere is further deadened by carpeted floors and tall, isolated booths. In the summertime, though, they occasionally have live oompah music. The bar is typically home to a combo of old German guys, beer aficionados and women who share my quest in avoiding men who feel compelled, occasionally, to scream out "Woo!" when they are having fun.

German restaurants are fairly rare in New York City. There are a few hidden in Ridgewood and Glendale, Queens, maybe one in Yorkville, and of course Rolf's, and Zum Schneider on Ave. C (7th St.), probably the best place in town to down rare German beers.

Helmers' also has a dizzying array of beers on tap, mostly German, mixed with a few Belgians and some local microbrews. I sampled the Reissdorf Kolsch, a gentle ale in the style of Budweiser, though clean-tasting, with a mild hoppy kick. I also had a Spaten Oktoberfest, which was far more malty and aggressive, a good match for hearty, gravied cuisine.

We ordered stuffed mushrooms, standard German restaurant fare, as an appetizer, along with the anachronistic Clams Casino, part of the American side of the menu. Both were savory and satisfying, particularly the clams. This was my first exposure to Clams Casino, which are even more unkosher than the Reuben sandwich: strips of bacon baked on top of the mollusks.

My sister's weisswurst platter ($11.95) was light and airy, and perfectly pan-fried, though it lacked the characteristic "snap" of the casings of the uber-sausage. You can count on Zum Schneider for that. I had Schwabische Schnitzel mit Speck und Pfifferlingen?spicy pan-fried veal cutlet with a bacon and mushroom gravy ($17.95). It was pretty good, but not as spectacular as I had hoped. The meat was a little too chewy, and only octogenarian German widows would have considered the dish truly spicy.

However, I luckily stumbled upon the restaurant's ace-in-the-hole: the homefries. Make sure you order the homefries as one of your side dishes; in fact, order an extra plate for the table. They are spectacular, and worth a trip to Hoboken on their own merit.

Red cabbage, redolent of cloves and nutmeg, is also a marvel. Skip the mashed potatoes, which may or may not have been processed. My sister's roommate, who eats only macrobiotic foods, ordered the catch of the day, well-prepared but thoroughly boring. Nursing-home cuisine.

We passed on dessert. They were out of Black Forest cake, and the only other choice was homemade apple strudel. I wasn't in the mood; I'd eaten two Reuben sandwiches and a humongous platter of fried meat, potatoes and gravy in a two-day period.

Helmers' Cafe, 1036 Washington St. (11th St.), Hoboken, 201-963-3333.