The Faded Ad Wall on West 36th: Sam Landorf & Co.

Sam Landorf & Co. is the ad most erased by time on the hanging gardens of faded advertising that is the westerly wall of 64-70 W. 36th Street. You can barely see the "Sam" and the stuff beneath it is almost impossible to read. It says "creator of infants and children's dresses," I think. I wonder by Landorf's paint job faded so much more than his neighbors'. Shoddy paint? Excess exposure to sunlight and rain?

Landorf was a resident of this building for a shorter period of time than any of the other businesses featured in these ads. He moved in 1950 and moved out 1956, decamping to 34th Street. The concern was founded by Sam Landorf, who spent his whole life in the garment trade. Sam was born on the Lower East Side and went to work at the age of 13. The company was founded in 1949. Sam had spent many years at the Joseph Love & Co. before striking out on his own.

Landorf was a quick success. In the 1950s, he produced a line of girls' frocks called "Cinderella" and another called "Youngland." In 1954, the New York Times said Landorf had "pushed the Youngland Dress trade-mark close to the top in the short space of five years." Landorf sold $8 million in goods in 1954. He had nine factories in New York, Pennsylvania and Texas. The Youngland dresses were very safe and traditional, but made more of a fashion statement than had previously been the case with mid-priced girls frocks. Landorf was still advertising Youngblood in New York magazine in the early '80s. The ad said its children's dresses were carried at Macy's.

Here's a sample of a Youngland dress:

Sam had two sons: Howard (who was married at the Waldorf=Astoria) and Floyd (who was married at the Plaza). Floyd had a daughter, Carol, who also went into the garment business. This family was big on placing wedding and birth announcements in the Times. But then, they had more than enough money to buy space in the Paper of Record.

Sam Landorf died on Jan. 8, 1963, of a coronary thrombosis while on a vacation cruise with his wife Lillian. I know so much about Sam's death because his family was the subject of a 1969 U.S. Claims Court case. Something about capital gains and an insurance policy, as I gather. The company lasted until the 1990s.

Offending Yogurt Sign on Court Street Removed

The 16 Handles sign on Court Street lasted about five days.

The gaudy orange-and-green thing went up last Friday or Saturday. It immediately offended the senses of Carroll Gardeners, who thought it out of character with the Brooklyn Brownstone neighborhood.

I posted my (rather heated) feelings about the sign early on Monday. This was followed by similar sentiments on the prominent Carroll Gardens blog Pardon Me For Asking. Someone sent the posts and forwarded them to the vp of the franchise of the east coast chain. He wrote a contrite and polite message to me and PMFA, vowing to remove the sign and replace it with something more appropriate.

I expected a two-week lag or so. But by 2 PM today, the sign was gone. A case study in respectful merchant response to a community concerns.

The Subtle Westmore

The Westmore is a fairly typical mid-century apartment building. It's located on W. 57th Street, west of Columbus Circle. It was built in 1936 and is eight stories tall.

I'm sure the apartments inside are mighty fine, but what I love about it is the low-key, Art Deco way the building announces itself. Those stylish metal letters pictures—following the graceful curve of the small metal awning—are no more than six inches tall. And that's the only thing on the building's facade that says Westmore. It's quite beautiful, especially when the morning sun hits the sign, as it does in this picture. I assume the builders were anticipating that effect, and that's why they put the lettering on the east side of the awning.

Inside, the Westmore features a large garden court the width of a city block. Most of the apartments have bay windows looking over either the garden or the street.

The Faded Ad Wall on West 36th: Bo Peep Mfg. Co.

Of all the old painted advertisements that climb up the west wall of 64-70 W. 36th Street, the Bo Peep Manufacturing Company—second ad from the top—has the most fanciful and memorable name.

The company was founded in the 1920s. In the early 1930s, it was situated at 1350 Broadway, off Herald Square. It was located here from 1941 to 1957. It ceased business sometime in the 1970s.

It's ad message is curious and unclear: "Brother and Sister, Individual and Companion Clothes, Play Togs." What does that mean exactly. Brother and Sister probably means they make clothes for little boys and girls. I get that. But how do clothes differ between a single person and a person with a companion?

The Worst Sign on Court Street

NOTE: UPDATE APPENDED.

Some weeks ago, Joe's Restaurant, an old diner and a standby of Carroll Gardens' Court Street for years, packed it in. The space was then rented to a yogurt joint. Which doesn't sound too bad on the face of it. But with the shop, called 16 Handles, comes this horribleriffic monstrosity of a sign, which made its debut a few days ago, scarring the eyes of innocent locals and frightening mild-hearted dogs and children.

Do store signs have to be approved by local community boards? If so, how did this garish piece of visual offensiveness get by the town fathers? This is, by far, the worst, the ugliest sign in the 20-plus block of stretch of Court Street. It is worse than McDonald's, Popeye's and Dunkin' Donuts, and that is saying something. The so-bright-they-hurt colors were obviously chosen to attract the attention of the freeway driver whizzing by a roadside rest stop. But this is a quiet neighborhood commercial strip in an old residential area. The chain is so ignorant of the neighborhood that on their website, they list this location as being in Cobble Hill.

UPDATE: The owner of the franchise contacted me and had the following to say:

Your blog was sent to me via a friend and I wanted to send a comment on behalf of 16 Handles. 

We agree that the signage used at this location does not fit the vibe or feel of your neighborhood.

It wasn't the intention of our franchisee to upset the community. 

We have heard you and we thank you for your feedback.

Our mission is simply to bring smiles to communities. The sign we hung clearly missed the mark. 

Having said that, we are working to have the sign removed and replaced with one which is more suitable for the neighborhood.

Jon Lake, vp operations - 16 Handles

I am stunned, as I have come to expect authority never to respond to the complaints of community members. All I can say, is, while I may not like the sign, the man who hung it is a gentleman. I applaud his reaction heartily. And, when the shop opens, I will try the yogurt.

Oak Street's Haunted House

Give or two a few bends, the Greenpoint streetmap is a fairly predictable grid. But there's an interesting twist or two. If you walk westerly on Manhattan Avenue, then hang a right on Calyet, in a couple blocks you'll reach an interesting intersection. On the left, it's Guernsey Street. On the right it's Guernsey, too. But a right turn will take you only a hundred yards or so before the road makes a severe left. At that turn, it becomes Oak Street. After that, Oak runs a few blocks before being stopped dead by the East River.

That odd hook in the street is dominated by a stately structure that looks like what you might find it you looked up "haunted house" in the Dictionary. The building dominates the corner, and gives it the feeling of a Hollywood stage set that is ready for a Halloween scene 24/7. The trees and lawn are overgrown. The fallen leaves lie unraked. The fence is rusted. The whole place is unkempt, but wonderfully grand.

Adding to the ancient feeling of this place is the sidewalk out front. On either side of the house, there are cement sidewalks. But in front of this mansion we have old bluestone. Bluestone in front of a building these days is a sure sign of one of three things: the property lies in a historical district; the owners are preservationists; or the owners are old and neglectful and never make improvements. In this case, the first is true. This building is—just barely—inside the lines of the Greenpoint historic district laid out in 1982.

The sign on the cast iron gate reads "Private Property Keep Out." It's an ornate gate, of a width you don't see much in front of private homes anymore. The yard between it and the house is also unusually expansive. Compared to surrounding domiciles, the plot is huge.

The stoop is in need of a paint job and the lovely wooden doors could use some repair work. The upper floors seemed in better shape. The cornice and circular window up top are a sight to see. I didn't see any evidence that anyone lived in the building. But there are a few satellite dishes on the roof.

There are some real estate sites that list this property as having been built in 1930. Which is absurd, for the building is obviously much older than that. It was commissioned by a Guernsey Street family and built in 1887 by Theobald Mark Engelhardt, a prominent member of the Brooklyn German population and a man who built many buildings in Greenpoint, Bushwick and Williamsburg. The way it is situated on the block, I have to think it once stood alone, with no other houses around it. As the years fell away, it became surrounded and boxed in by architectural midgets.

The beautiful brick edifice began its life as the Greenpoint Home for the Aged. By 1894, it had fallen into the hands of the government, and the City was looking to unload it. I have also read that it has functioned over the years as an orphanage, a convent, a home for unwed mothers and a cathouse frequented by sailors. (This may sound odd, but I have encountered other Brooklyn buildings that have had similar histories. Houses of high repute often end up as houses of ill repute.) But it has most recently functioned at an SRO (Single Room Occupancy), home to thirteen aged male tenants. 

There was an attempt to sell the place in 2008, but the residents were determined not to budge. That would explain the property's neglected state; very likely the landlord has not made any recent repairs. According to one report, the residents appear to be dying one by one. Who knows how many are left now. 

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Frankie & Johnnie's?"

It's really hard for me to forgive Frankie & Johnnie's for what they did to the great old second floor bar. But if it helped keep the old Times Square steakhouse open, I guess the desecration can be understood. And I'd rather eat here more than just about any other place in the area before seeing a Broadway show. Here's my "Who Goes There?" column:

Who Goes There? Frankie & Johnnie's Steakhouse

After Sardi's, Frankie & Johnnie's ranks as the oldest surviving eatery in the Theatre District. It was founded in 1926 and has seen a lot of flops and hits, and the actors who starred in them. It was a speakeasy in its early years, according to lore. A few years ago, the place was almost lost to the city when the Shuberts, who own the property, began tearing down every building around it in hopes of erecting a hotel on the plot. But the economy tanked before the theatre owners could get to Frankie's, and the steakhouse won a last-minute reprieve. (Ironically, the Shubert execs loved Frankie's. They often ate and held meetings at the restaurant. Never trust a landlord.)

Despite having dodged the wrecking ball, the owners of Frankie's nonetheless found a way to wreck the joint themselves. Soon after being saved, they ripped out the old hidden bar upstairs—a wonderful, ramshackle little getaway if you knew how to find it, where Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lanskey once drank alongside John O'Hara and Frank Sinatra, and Jason Robards Jr. pilloried Richard Nixon to his face. They then installed a faceless, blah bar on the ground floor, and scrubbed up and widened the entrance to the old staircase that winds it way up to the tidy, second-floor dining area.

These renovations were mistakes, and noticeably decreased the seedy charm of the place. Still, Frankie & Johnnie's retains more charm than most. Tucked away 15 feet above Eighth Avenue, its small windows shaded, it still feels like a speakeasy, the most Runyonesque of Times Square eateries. The bill of fare remains avowedly old school. "I haven't seen calves liver on a menu in years!" said my brother during a recent dinner. (He doesn't get to many New York steakhouses.) He could have said the same about the creamed spinach, clams casino, mushroom caps or any number of long-standing F&J specialties.

The steaks here aren't the best in New York, but they're not the worst. I always have the petit filet mignon and I always enjoy it. And the creamed spinach rocks. So do the ridiculous number (eight) of potato side dishes. If you can't find a potato preparation you like here, you just don't like potatoes. Eating ain't cheap. Meat entrees start in the 20s and head up to the 50s. And you can't escape by ordering pasta. Somehow, penne with chicken merits a $26 pricetag.

There was a Frankie and a Johnnie at one time. Ownership passed down through the Johnnie line until waiter Peter Chimos bought the joint in 1985. Some of the present waiters are as old as Chimos. The hands of mine shook as he placed down my steak, but he was otherwise polite and attentive. He told me that the restaurant's many regulars stretch well beyond the Theatre District, or New York, or even the tri-state area. There are loyalists in every state, and when they come to New York, this is where they eat. And, of course, they still get their share of stage celebrities and politicians.

The Shuberts still own the building. Don't get me wrong, but I hope the economy doesn't improve too much. 

—Brooks of Sheffield