New York used to be a city full of candy stores and cigar stores. The classic New York candy store carried regional NYC treats (Little Chunkies, Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews and Joyva Halvah) in addition to the national candy bar brands like Hershey, Nestle, Mars, etc.. It usually had a soda fountain dispensing egg creams, glasses of seltzer (“two cents plain”), milk shakes, “malteds” and simple sandwiches and coffee. It also sold cheap toys and some stationery items (“school supplies”). Cigarettes and cigars, naturally. There was a rack of magazines and comics and outside there was a newsstand. Well into the 50’s New York had four afternoon newspapers (Post, Sun, World-Telegram, Journal-American) and four morning papers (Times, Herald-Tribune, News, Mirror) and for a time, the super-liberal PM (later re-named The Compass). There were loads of foreign language papers: The Forward, Day, Morning Journal, Il Progreso, La Prensa, Aufbau, etc.). There were even two communist newspapers, The Worker (in English) and Freiheit (in Yiddish). After dinner, men strolled to the neighborhood candy store to get the early edition of the News and Mirror. The News was the better, sharper paper but the Mirror had the Walter Winchell column and the latest racing results (a necessity for the inveterate horse player).
The candy store was the hangout of bookmakers, gamblers and money lenders (known as “Shys”). Except in the Times Square neighborhood (where there were no candy stores), New York’s cigar stores didn’t attract quite the same sporting element. Candy stores flourished in Jewish neighborhoods. The tough Brownsville neighborhood of Brooklyn was a predominantly Jewish neighborhood. The lethal Murder, Inc. flourished there. It was typical that the Jewish contract killers (“Kid Twist”, “Pittsurgh Phil”. Albert “Tick Tock” Tennenbaum, etc.) didn’t hangout at bars. Their hangout was a candy store called Midnight Roses’s. When little HG visited his Brownsville cousins they were pointed out as neighborhood celebrities. The Brownsville prize fighters — Al Davis, Morrie Reif, Schoolboy Friedkin, etc. — had their own candy store gathering place.
HG grew up in The Bronx of the 1930’s and 40’s. The Bronx was, and still is, a borough of neighborhoods, each a little village with its own landmarks and legends. The family unit dominated these neighborhoods making the streets safe because neighbors, family and friends were always watching, alert to any danger or strange occurrence. Little HG spent most of his waking hours on the street — a street filled with his contemporaries — boys armed with pink “spaldeens” and eager to play punchball and stickball and stoop ball and box ball and “association” football. These were afternoon activities. Night games were ring-o-leevio, hide-and-seek, johnny-on-the pony, kick-the-can. It was a world of small shops, fruit wagons (pulled by horses), street food sold by the desperate vendors trying to get by during the Great Depression. There were street singers who bellowed sentimental songs and were rewarded by nickels and dimes tossed from apartment windows. Few cars, but silence did not reign on Bronx streets. The knife and scissor sharpener made his presence known by shouting as did the man who bought old clothes for pennies and the various junk collectors. For HG, the happiest sound was the noise of the Bungalow Bar and Good Humor. Frozen treats for a nickel (Bungalow Bar) and a dime (Good Humor). The best evocation of those days can be found in World’s Fair, the remarkable novel by E.L. Doctorow.
When Paris cab drivers (and many French truck drivers) want a cheap, tasty and filling meal they head to a Vietnamese eatery in one of the less classy arondissements. When in New York, HG often follows their lead and goes to Nam Son, a Vietnamese restaurant at 245 Grand Street in Chinatown. On previous visits, HG had an exemplary steamed flounder and crispy fried soft shell crabs. The bargains here, however, are the spring rolls (four for four dollars) and pho, the Vietnamese national noodle soup dish. Nam Son has about 15 varieties of pho, all good, at prices between six dollars and $7.25. Feeling peckish a few afternoons ago, HG popped in for a plate of spring rolls served with the ubiquitous fish sauce for dipping and lots of lettuce and mint. Adjacent to HG was a table of ten good looking young people joyously eating spring rolls and pho. They were having a very good, affordable time. Yes, you can eat very well for few dollars in pricey New York. You just have to know where to look.
Strolled through the Lower East Side with SJ. Gazed with wonder at the new art galleries, hip restaurants and bars, chic clothing shops (How about 500 bucks for a pair of jeans?). The Essex Street Maket (which used to be a cluttered, ramshackle affair) has now been revitalized and offers artisan cheeses (Saxelby Cheese Mongers) and superb butchers (Heritage Meat Shop) with wonderful charcuterie, fresh meats and fowl. Boubouki, perhaps the greatest Greek pastry shop in existence, offers savory spinach pies and, hands down, the best baklava HG and SJ have ever tasted. Eccentric restaurateur Kenny Shopsin ( a Calvin Trillin favorite) has relocated here from the West Village. HG and SJ ended their stroll on Houston Street at the venerable Russ & Daughters, the best smoked fish emporium in the world.
June is the season for delicious raw herring from Holland. When HG was in Amsterdam he ate scores of these yummies. The ritual is this: Dip the herring in chopped onion. Take a bite. Then a shot of chilled Genever gin. Beer for a chaser. Then repeat and repeat as the sense of euphoria expands. Russ & Daughters (and the Grand Central Oyster Bar) are the only sources in New York for this seasonal delicacy. SJ ordered a platter of the Dutch herring plus some sable, Scottish smoked salmon, red salmon caviar, cream cheese, bagels and bialys. Back to the SJ Brooklyn home for a feast. Present were the SJ family plus HG daughter Vicki and her chef husband Marc Meyer, the dynamic duo behind three New York restaurants — Cookshop, Five Points, Hundred Acres. Vicki and Marc brought a bottle of upscale Genever plus splendid wine. Also present was SJ pal Jay S. (and his bride to be Maya T.). Much joy. Much laughter. Some gin-fueled inebriation. Nothing beats family feasting. And, while much has changed on the Lower East Side, Russ and Daughters has remained the same. A taste monument.
Okay, pals and buddies, let HG tell you about the perfect summer lunch. The place: Cookshop on 20th and Tenth Avenue (one of three downtown New York restaurants run by HG daughter Vicki Freeman and chef/husband Marc Meyer. The others are Five Points and Hundred Acres. All superb). HG and BSK’s luncheon companion was Stephanie Pierson, author of The Brisket Book among many other rollicking prose accomplishments. It is very hard to have a bad time when Stephanie is around. She’s a true wit with a flair for friendship, laughter and good food. She is also the creator of the world’s best chicken pot pie.
So, what did Vicki and Marc serve the trio on a more than tepid late June day? Long Island Blue Point oysters (briny jewels). Fried zucchini blossoms stuffed with smoked mozzarella. Crispy Rhode Island calamari with capers and a state of the art aioli.(Yes, there were white wine spritzers for HG and non-alcoholic pleasures for the ladies). Grilled shrimp salads (for HG and Stephanie. BSK is allergic to crustaceans). Chicken salad for BSK. Sound mundane? Not when the salad contained the very best, fresh-from -market vegetables and perfectly cooked, heritage chicken. Finished with a nicely curated cheese platter .Cookshop was busy and bustling (as it deserves to be) during this weekday lunch. A snappy crowd. At a neighboring table were two black suited, white shirted guys from Italy. The stylish gents ate some huge salads and did a lot of damage to a bottle of red wine. Permit HG to assure you. The HG party didn’t get special treatment. Vicki, a warm and glowing soul, makes everyone welcome. Marc, a pioneer in barn-to-table cuisine, uses only the best ingredients and then gives them a creative tweak that makes the diner stop with fork in mid-air and say “Wow!!”. HG advice: Get over there. Say HG sent you.
HG and BSK have been in New York and, with SJ as an informed guide, have been dining in Chinese restaurants in Chinatown and one in Brooklyn (on the border of Bay Ridge and Sunset Park). Glorious gluttony.
First stop was dinner at Oriental Garden on Elizabeth Street. A bit pricey and formal and (surprising for a Chinatown restaurant) a reasonably ambitious wine list. First some steamed chive dumplings and a dish of delightful little cubes of bean curd, deftly deep fried and then smothered in parsley, garlic and ginger. Then came the most heavenly prawns any of us ever had. Big ocean prawns presented to us wriggling in a net before going into the wok. The prawns were juicy, firm fleshed and filled with flavor and seemed almost like a cross between a prawn and a langoustine. Then a big flounder, steamed in rice wine and finished with hot oil, garlic, ginger and parsley. Continuing the sea food theme there were giant sea scallops (still attached to their shells) in a light black bean sauce. Final course was chow fun noodles. These were charred in the wok and mixed with scallions in a lusty brown sauce and melded with generous quantities of squid, scallops and chunks of cod.
Next was a fiery lunch at Shanghai Hepking Restaurant at 100 Mott Street. First, some fried pork dumplings, then, a fiery Ma Po Tofu — tender little chunks of bean curd in mouth tingling chili oil. Fish filets with bok choy and mushrooms in a slightly less blazing chili oil. HG restored his taste buds with the restaurant’s special cooling coconut milkshake.
HG also lunched solo at the tiny, plain spoken Henan Flavor Restaurant on Forsyth Street. A lovely young woman with a winning manner turns out soups and noodle bowls from her native province of Henan in China (Don’t confuse Henan with Hunan, the province noted for sophisticated peppery food). Big bowls of noodles and chicken topped with a variety of fresh vegetables cost five dollars. The noodles are hand pulled and silky (broad like pappardelle). The flavors are rich and hearty, redolent of cumin seeds and varieties of pepper. The taste is vaguely middle eastern, reflecting Henan’s history as an outpost along the Spice Road, and portions are huge. Henan Flavor has proved to be a savior of indigent lower east side artists who flock there on cold days to enjoy a warming, nourishing cheap bowl. The restaurant’s two dollar pork pancake is the best food bargain in New York.
On to Brooklyn for dinner at East Harbor Seafood Cuisine, a majestic place at 714 65th Street. Here, there was perfect Peking duck served with Bao, puffy buns rather than flat pancakes. Filets of tender flounder were served with the vegetables of the season plus some delectable slices of winter melon. There was a nice platter of chicken breasts and vegetables in a subtle sauce, all nestled on a bed of chow fun noodles. There were more vegetables in the form of garlicky sauteed pea shoots. Adding crunch to the meal were fried squid dusted with garlic and chili pepper. Fresh melon and slices of orange for dessert. Family and great Chinese food spell a winning combination for HG.
Chaika (later Anglicized to “Ida”) Kopkind Freeman, HG’s Mom, was born (late 1880’s, precise date vague) in the tiny town of Plestyanitz in present day Belorussia. When she was a little girl, a traveling circus came to town. The star was a black African. You had to pay extra to see him and for an additional tiny sum you could rub the man’s arm to prove the ebony color wasn’t painted on. Mom arrived in the United States in the early 1900s. She and her female roommate would often leave their tenement for a stroll on The Bowery, then a lively entertainment center. “What a country!!,” Mom would marvel,” Here there’s no charge for looking at black people.”
Many years later, Mom lived in The Bronx with husband and three children. The energetic woman cooked, cleaned, mended, washed and, blessed with nimble fingers, made shirts, scarves and dresses. During the last stage of the Great Depression (around 1938), African-American women from Harlem would line up on major Bronx streets in middle class neighborhoods and be hired for a day’s domestic work. Their pay was very modest and angry leftist newspaper columnists derided it as “Bronx Slavery”. At some point, HG’s older brother persuaded Mom to hire a woman for a day so she could have some rare leisure time. Mom was a Socialist and an early union member. She had friends who died in the tragic Triangle Shirtwaist fire. Suffice it to say, she was very uncomfortable with the idea of hiring a house-keeper (even for a day). Before the cleaning woman began her work, Mom cleaned house. “You want a stranger to think we live in a dirty house?” Mom didn’t quite get the idea. Filled with guilt, she made the bemused African-American woman a sumptuous lunch. Tuna salad and salmon salad. Lots of fresh vegetables and bread. A big fruit cup for dessert. “Bronx Slavery” ended as the war boosted the economy. That was Mom’s last experiment with having a servant or “help.” To little HG’s distress, when heavy cleaning was necessary Mom called on HG. Left HG with a lifelong aversion to domestic labor of any kind.
Harlem is making a comeback. In a big way. Marcus Saumelsson’s Red Rooster restaurant is a hit. (HG used to drink at the original Red Rooster bar on the Lenox Avenue site during HG’s college days. Then it was a hangout for Harlem intellectuals and artists). Harlem brownstones and condos are selling for millions. Gentrification isn’t happening, it has happened. HG remembers a much older Harlem. The main drag was 125th Street anchored by Blumstein’s Department Store. Harlemites didn’t go uptown to shop. They went to Blumtein’s even though the store didn’t hire African-Americans. It took a vigorous campaign by Adam Clayton Powell Jr. and Benjamin Davis Jr. (forgotten Communist New York City Councilman) to get Blumstein’s to integrate its workforce. The star restaurant on 125th Street was Frank’s. For most of its history, Frank’s wouldn’t serve African-Americans (with the exception of a few politicians and well known entertainers). Joe Louis, the great heavyweight champ (and a onetime publicity client of HG) changed all that. Louis would go to Frank’s with a big crowd of friends and hangers-on. Frank’s couldn’t say no to The Champ. HG lunched at the integrated Frank’s often in the 1950’s. Great steaks.
It may be forgotten, but New York was a viciously racist city in the 1950’s. HG was a journalist at that time and remembers riding with a police official on Central Park South. The policeman spotted an African-American man walking on the street. He pulled over the car and shouted at him: “What are you doing here? You don’t belong here. Get back to Harlem.” The humiliated man walked away rapidly. Did ultra-liberal, leftist HG protest? No. The cop was a top source. So HG kept his mouth shut. HG is still ashamed.
When HG was a kid it was possible to have a very good time in Manhattan for little or no money. The best of all bargains (a five cent fare) was the Fifth Avenue double decker bus which ended service in 1953. The upper deck (where HG and his late beloved sister, Beulah K., always sat) was a sunny, open space — an absolute panacea to packed urban streets and over-crowded apartments. The Fifth Avenue Bus was an Irish enterprise. The driver and conductor had rich Irish brogues and piously crossed themselves when they motored past St. Patrick’s Cathedral. HG and sister would clamber onto the bus at Ft. Tryon Park at the northern tip of Manhattan (this was preceded by a visit to The Cloisters, the wonderful museum of medieval art in the park). From the the top of the bus, you could take in lovely views of the Hudson River and the New Jersey Palisades. From our Ft. Tyron start, the bus would journey along upper Broadway, east on 110th Street to Fifth Avenue. Ah, upper Fifth Avenue with Central Park on our right and the homes of plutocrats on the left. Then, Tiffany’s and the fashionable shops. On a sunny spring or autumn day there could not be a better trip. Last stop was Washington Square Park with its colorful crowd of Moms, kids, bohemians, eccentrics. A stroll through Greenwich Village to Little Italy and a vast (25 cents) bowl of spaghetti and meatballs in robust red sauce. Hey, you don’t need a million dollars to live like a millionaire. At least, not then.
Elevated trains still rumble through The Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens. None in Manhattan. This wasn’t the case when little HG was growing up and the ELs (as they were called) ran along Second Avenue, Third Avenue, Sixth Avenue and Ninth Avenue. Noisy. The El made Second Avenue a low end street, furtive with shadows and subway grime. Sixth Avenue was devoted to middle class shopping and the train took you directly to Macy’s on Herald Square. Ninth Avenue was a manufacturing street. Third Avenue was lively. Many restaurants and scores of Irish bars. Loved the various stations on the Third Avenue line with their little cupolas for the change giver (the comedian Jackie Gleason’s mother was one of these ladies) and the pot bellied stoves where you could keep warm while waiting for the train. HG and his late beloved sister, Beulah K., would take the El at Fordham Road in The Bronx (fare was five cents) and take a downtown trip. Exciting. We looked into countless tenement windows (witnessed some entertaining scenes), backyard gardens of brownstones and, best of all, the huge copper pots of the Jacob Ruppert Brewery in the 90’s. We exited at Chatham Square. Chinatown. A big lunch. Wonton soup. Roast pork (or barbecued spare ribs). Shrimp chow mein. Almond cookies. Lots of tea. Lavish lunch for 25 cents. Strolled to Union Square Park on 14th to hear Communists, Anarchists, Socialists, Trotskyites harangue crowds from soapboxes. No Fascists or Capitalists. Free speech, yes. But, there were limits.
