A Perfect Storefront, Ruined

Klenosky Paint on Metropolitan Avenue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, was the first shop I showcased in the running column "A Perfect Storefront," a feature I occasionally use to spotlight what I called at the time "Gothamite street art, coming in the form of conscious, sub-conscious or unconscious mercantile design."

"What makes a perfect storefront?" I continued in that first column, which ran January 2010. "Well, a lot of things. Originality, for one. That doesn't mean the store owner has to be self-consciously bizarre or artful, just that they show a little character and individuality. One should be able to tell that the store is owned by a person or a family, not a corporation or chain... Great storefronts are almost always accidents of time, putting themselves together in haphazard style with the flipping calendar." There's further philosophizing here, should you wish to read it.

Apparently, Klenosky didn't see the beauty of their own storefront. I walked by the other day and found the "new and improved" facade you see above. To which I can only say, "Thanks, Benjamin Moore corporate overlords!" I guess the hanging sign wasn't enough for them. Moore had to have it all. The Moore engine won't be satisfied until their taken over the signage on every independently owned family paint and hardware shop in NYC.

Below, you can see the humble charm that once was. 

What's Left of the Astrotower

The Astrotower's 50-year life came to a sudden, unexpected and violent end over the past week, following reports on July 2 that the one-time Coney Island attraction was swaying worryingly in the wind. Officials shut down the Wonder Wheel and Cyclone rollercoaster, and all surrounding rides, in fear that the disused landmark might topple. Obviously, Coney Island can't remain indefinitely inactive during its peak operating season. So, soon enough, workers got busy dismantling the 270-foot tower, foot by foot. 

At first, the plan seemed to be to lop off just enough so the monument wouldn't present a danger. But I guess once the workers got into a rhythm, they didn't see the point of stopping. I had planned to journey down to Coney on Thursday or Friday to witness the Tower's trimming, but couldn't find the time under Saturday morning.

What I encountered there when I arrived you can seen in the photo above. The Astrotower was completely gone, reduced to a stump fenced off by chain link. I had a tough time even finding the thing—something that was never a problem when the Tower was at its full height. The chunks of Tower were sold to a local junkyard for scrap.

What a goddamned waste. Even as City Hall and real estate developers teamed up in recent years to strip Coney off all its character, the boardwalk retained four seemingly immutable landmarks: The Cyclone, the Wonder Wheel, the Parachute Jump, and the Astor Tower. Now there are only three. When Astroland, the amusement park that gave the tower its name, was unceremoniously kicked out a few years ago, the City was given the option of adopting the tower. The owners of Astroland were willing to make a gift of it to the City. But the City didn't want it, even for nothing. Astroland closed in 2008, and the Tower just stood there, untended. The far less interesting amusement park Luna Park grew up around it.

The only place you can see the Astrotower now is in this map of the Luna Park grounds.

"A Bowl & A Roll": A Cafiero's Memory

I have a feeling that, as long as keep this blog going (and maybe long after I'm gone), memories from people who experienced Cafiero's Restaurant will continue to flow in.

Over the years, I've written about the long gone South Brooklyn Italian joint more than any other subject. My posts have travelled far, and I've made connections not only to past patrons of the President Street eatery, but several actual descendants of owner Sharkey Cafiero and his relations.

Here's the latest memory, from one Howard Linker. It's a particularly lengthy and poignant reminiscence:

My best friend’s father was in the wholesale and retail poultry business and supplied Sharkey with his products. That couldn’t have been their only connection because of the way they were treated during their regular visits to Cafiero’s. My visits to Cafiero’s were during the late 50’s and early 60’s and always with my friend and his family, even when I had a son of my own (He was about two years old during his first and only visit to Sharkey’s). We always sat in the little Dining Room in the back. You had to pass through the kitchen to get there, so you got a good look at the four sauces on the cook-top and a huge dose of the delicious aromas. I do believe the menu was written on one white sheet of paper, however, other than the rolled stuffed steak, I never saw any of the items mentioned in your blog. I remember Veal & Peas, Veal and Mushrooms, Bragiole (not the rolled steak, but a large stuffed meat ball). Our favorite was pasta and meat sauce. We weren’t that interested in the pasta, it was the sauce we adored. What we really wanted was to finish the pasta and sop up the sauce with the best Italian bread I ever tasted (a Bowl & a Roll). No long thin sub shaped rolls, these were large bagel shaped breads about one foot in diameter and sectioned for easier tearing into fairly uniform chunks.

Desert was around the corner at a waterfront bakery I can’t remember the name of. Inside were immaculate polished wood cabinets with framed glass “windows” that revealed marvelous old world pastry treasures.

We were teenagers with gargantuan appetites and it was heaven!

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to The Famous Oyster Bar?"

I thought, by finally dining at The Famous Oyster Bar, I might crack this mystery of a restaurant, which has dumbfounded me for 25 years. Who owns it? How have they managed to hang on to this prime piece of real estate (54th Street and Seventh Avenue) for more than 50 years? Do they own the building? What's their secret? I have been able to uncover little on my own, because it seems that no one has ever written the story of the longstanding restaurant, in either newspaper or guidebook form.

But I left discovering only that the place has been owned by the same Greek family since 1959 and has always been in the same location. There are no framed reviews or stories on the walls that would have told me more. And the waitresses are not forthcoming.

After digging through newspaper archives and finding nothing about the Famous Oyster Bar prior to the 1980s (the results of health inspections, mainly), I begin to doubt the joint's story. Maybe it didn't open in 1959. Since the idea of it's being a "famous" restaurant is obviously a fantasy, maybe the owners also made up the founding date. The only think dissuading me from this theory are the neon signs, the only thing about the Oyster Bar that does look like it's been there since 1959.

I'll get to the bottom of this one if it's the last thing I do. In the meantime, here's my Eater column:

Who Goes There? The Famous Oyster Bar

This year, the Grand Central Oyster Bar has collected pallets of publicity in connection to its 100th anniversary. Meanwhile, the restaurant that calls itselfThe Famous Oyster Bar, which has been sitting on the same Midtown corner for more than half a century, continues its habit of attracting near zero notice decade after decade.

Having lived in New York for some time, I usually enter long-standing restaurants with some basic knowledge of their history and reputation. But The Famous Oyster Bar has stumped me for 20 years. I've often paused outside it to admire the classic postwar neon signs screaming "Oyster Bar" and "Sea Food." But I've never known anyone who ate there; never read a review of the place; never found it written up in any New York food guides, past or present. I've often wondered where they got the chutzpah to call themselves The Famous Oyster Bar (certainly, that wasn't the joint's original name), when the Grand Central is, by any measure, galactically more celebrated.

I have no doubt that many a tourist wanders into the strategically placed restaurant under the misapprehension that they are in the Grand Central Oyster Bar. And you do get mainly tourists here, most of them seemingly happening upon the place by chance. Judging by their unfamiliarity with the surroundings and the menu, there were few second-timers in attendance the night I recently dined there. The joint does get some local traffic, however; a couple of theatre professional were talking business at one table. And one guy at the bar didn't look like he was going anywhere.

With the South Street Seaport institution Carmine's having shuttered in 2010, The Famous Oyster Bar can safely lay claim to the most kitschy nautical decor in the city. A life preserver reading "Oyster Bar" hangs on the wall. There's a Titanic model under glass. Sea shells adorn the ceiling and there's a maritime mural along one wall. The menu is replete with seafood. It's the kind of place that still does Oysters Rockefeller and Lobster Newberg. Prices are typically Times Square: that is, expensive. Seafood is pricey, of course. But this isn't good seafood. The oysters were passable, but the clams were rubbery. And the soft shells crabs only acceptable. On the plus side, the service was unflaggingly friendly and attentive.

I couldn't find out much more about the history of the joint, except this: it has been run by the same Greek family since opening in 1959, and has always been at the same location. According to Internet records, the owner is one Angelo Agnonostopoulo. Finally, I have to point out that, for a place that goes by the name The Famous Oyster Bar, it's odd that they had only two selections: Blue Point and Wellfleet. The restaurant also has no raw bar. So, technically speaking, it's not only not famous, it's also not an oyster bar.

Nice neon, though.

—Brooks of Sheffield

A Memory of Old Ludlow Street

Found among the comments on an item I wrote about the changes on Ludlow Street back in 2008, from the actual owner of the once-popular Ludlow Street Cafe:

I owned The Ludlow Street Cafe and The Piano Store. I lived on Ludlow St. since 1967 and Jack Forster worked for me (Hi Jack) and was right about the guns and that it was NOT a job for a guy just out of college! (Hey Gaby we NEVER sold a piano? We sold lots of pianos!) Before gentrification got out of control it was fun. The block is now unbearable--not then. We had 3 bands a night 7 nights a week. The food was good and it was cheap. Girls would bend over garbage cans--we kept the backyard dark. Drug dealers provided something wanted--if they sold in the bathrooms they were fine. We had no C of O--our legal limit was 74. Fri/Sat night we'd have well over 200 people. They never bothered us for it but clocked us $1,500 for selling a beer to a cop who looked 30. The brunch was first-rate. It was all fun and firsts and I feel responsible for bailing when I did--if it had kept it's rough edges Ludlow St. might have survived. We NEEDED the bodegas selling bags of dope 8-Balls of coke on 

A Good Sign: York Deli

Just the Pepsi sign, I mean, not the awning. Bold. Simple. In Yorkville.

A Perfect Storefront: 3 Star Deli & Grocery

I haven't done one of these features in a while, but I couldn't pass up the chance to showcase this little York Avenue gem of a storefront. It's the old-school signage that primarily makes it, of course. (That sort of sign that lists exciting attractions found inside like "Newspapers, Hot Coffee..," etc., never gets old.) The seven-digit phone number, hanging sign and happy riot of color (blue facade, red awning, yellow sign) all contribute to the charm. The cryptic "Peaceful Deli" written on the awning adds a bit of mystery. And the name's not to be discounted. 3 Star Deli & Grocery. I guess that's according to a three-star rating system, right?

Here are some previous "Perfect Storefront" features. Looking back, I've posted more than I thought.