Wooden Phone Booth Sighting: 473 Third Avenue

A sharp-eyed reader sent me a photo of this old wooden phone booth, spotted inside 473 Third Avenue, at 10th Street, in Brooklyn. The space is under construction, but the new owners seem to have retained the phone booth from the address' previous incarnation.

According to old newspaper records, this was the location of the Third Avenue Pub & Restaurant, at least until 1973. And it was a store of some sort going back to 1900. The property was purchased by someone last December. Plans unknown. Note the intact shelf on the side, used for perusing phone books. Remember phone books?

The History of P.J. Hanley's, (Maybe) Brooklyn's Oldest Bar

Since word on the street (and in the bar itself) is that P.J. Hanley's of Carroll Gardens is to close its doors on Sunday, March 17, it is time to drop some final knowledge on the joint and remember what we are losing.

It's current Irish name notwithstanding, Hanley's is a rare local landmark that harkens back to the once-huge, local Norwegian population that inhabited South Brooklyn in the late 19th century and early 20th. It is by some accounts 139 years old, though I haven't been able to confirm this. I would submit that it is, instead, 133 years old at most, as there was, by news accounts, a grocery in this location. That grocery went out of business in 1879.

The bar was founded by a Norwegian gentlemen, whose name I've never been able to discover. It went the Irish pub way in 1898 after Jack Ryan bought it. He ran it for 60 years. Ryan was from Limerick and even while he ran the bar, it still attracted a partly Norwegian clientele. Some bartenders during this period spoke passable Norwegian and would help out newly arrived immigrants for Scandinavia with introductions and such. Mr. P.J. Hanley entered the picture in 1956, and he sold it to his two nieces in the mid-90s.

The place stayed open during Prohibition, keeping its windows blackened. Supposedly Al Capone met his wife here. That sounds like a tall tale to me. But Capone DID get married at the church down the street.

I haven't been a huge fan of the current incarnation of Hanley's. I've always felt they didn't take sufficient advantage of their heritage or make the most of the classic back bar and interior. But I hate to see it close. I hope someone else will take up the torch.

The Inside of Cafiero's

For almost as many years as I've been writing this blog (seven and counting), I've been obsessively tracking the history of Cafiero's, a locally legendary Italian restaurant on President Street between Hicks and Columbia Streets. Once the haunt of judges, lawyers, mobsters and celebrities (including, Arthur Miller, Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe), it shut down in the 1970s when the owner, Sharkey Cafiero, decided it was time to retire. Sharkey remained in the house and would sometimes teasingly sit outside the restaurant, but steadfastly refused to sell the business or let anyone else take it over. (He had no children.) The building is still standing today, owned by artists who ripped out every trace of the restaurant save the bathroom.

Over the years, I've accrued quite a bit of information about Cafiero's. Some it is was gathered from locals who had memories to share; some from readers who had been to the place, or whose parents had. But the best information came from actual descendants of the Cafiero clan (various siblings and in-laws worked in the restaurant), who related memories or the clientele, the menu, the staff, and sometimes sent along photos. All of these photos were either of Sharkey and his wife, or of the exterior of the restaurant. But the Holy Grail for me (aside from a menu card, which I'm pretty sure doesn't exist; it wasn't a menu kind of place) was a picture of the interior. I figured I'd never find one, because it was a private joint; mobsters don't like to get their picture taken.

But finally, after six years of searching, I have one. It was sent to me by the grand-niece of Josephine Cafiero, who was married to Frank Cafiero, the restaurant's chef and Sharkey's brother. (The above exterior shot, from 1949, is also from her.) Here it is:

A thing of beauty and simplicity, is it not? Plenty of light, a great tile floor, soda parlor wire chairs. The white tablecloths were a surprise to me, since I've always heard the Cafiero's dining room was a no-frills affair.

Here's how a reader who had dined there described the interior to me years ago.

Sharkey would always greet the neighborwomen by saying hello Sophie dear, or hello Connie dear. He lived above the restaurant and his sister and her husband lived on the top floor. They only served lunch and one 6 PM sitting for dinner. There were 6 tables in the front, and you could walk back through the kitchen to the back room to find another 8 tables. 

That's about right, though I only see six tables in this picture, which is definitely of the back room. Love the mirror, the small radio, the large paned windows. And I'm pretty sure that's a pressed tin wall at the back.

Now, to find that menu card.

Lost City Asks, "Who Goes to Le Périgord?"

Little did I imagine the love that abides out there for the dusty French midtown mainstay Le Périgord. The comments on this particular "Who Goes There?" Eater column keep coming. (Mimi Sheraton: Whenever you comment on one of my WGT columns, my heart goes all a-flutter.) It's heartwarming that people appreciate such a time capsule. Long may it keep its silent vigil on E. 52nd Street. 

Who Goes There? Le Périgord

Something about the padded, sequestered interior of Le Périgord, the French haute cuisine holdout on east-east-east 52nd Street, turns people into librarians. Nobody at a typical lunch shift at this nearly 50-year-old restaurant talked much above a whisper. And yet the air—which smelled vaguely of your grandmother's living room—is so still (no music inside, no traffic outside) you could clearly hear conversations a few tables away.

"You go to this restaurant to feel like a human being," said a man to his friend. I pegged the speaker being in his late 50s, but later realized that he was a well-preserved septuagenarian. No one in the room, waiter or patron, was under 40. When a pair a twentysomethings came in later, they were so befuddled by the unfamiliar scene of relaxed gentility that they seated themselves, thinking that was OK. The maître d' soon resituated them.

Le Périgord is still owned by Georges Briguet, who bought the place from the original owner two years after the restaurant opened. Without too much mental effort, one can guess the sort of celebrity that came here once upon a time. Truman Capote, Henry Kissinger, Jackie Kennedy, etc. Plus, a regular salting of nearby UN officials. And, of course, your run-of-the-mill, blue-suited moneybags who thinks Kissinger wasn't so bad, and Capote was mean to write that stuff about Babe Paley in Answered Prayers.

My relatively talkative neighbor was certainly a regular—so regular that he asked whether a favored lamb dish that wasn't on the menu was available. It was. "Well, why don't you put it on the damn menu then?" he muttered as the waiter walked away. (Just because the customers look polished doesn't mean they are. My friend dropped an F bomb every other sentence, and talked with great relish about past trysts.) "I have some friends coming into town and they asked for restaurant recommendations," he told his more docile friend. "I thought of sending them here, but thought they might think it too dull. So I told them to go to Le Grenouille."

I took my neighbor's tip and ordered the wonderful Le Buffet Froid—a delicious selection of chilled asparagus, celery, cheese, pâté, cornichons, shrimp, tomato and other tidbits. Almost a meal in itself, it was sublimely satisfying. I followed that with Sole Meunière, grilled with a mustard sauce. Hey, if I'm in a place like this, I'm going to order a dish like that. It was worth the $45 just to watch the waiter expertly bone the fish tableside. Where does that happen anymore in Manhattan? Plus, the fillet was delectable; the veggies perfectly steamed. There was a dessert trolley—of course there was!—but I passed. The espresso was expert.

My neighbor had moved on to the topic of money. Actually, he seldom left it. Most conversations at Le Périgord are about money or old times. The two men reminisced about sitting on stoops in Brooklyn back in the days when they had no scratch. Recently, the guy's house was reappraised at a value of $4 million. He seemed to be in the art game. "25 years ago, I could have told anybody I knew how to get rich. You buy a Hopper etching for $500. Today, it would be worth $150,000." He laughed. "Why didn't I do that, and make myself rich?"

His friend paused briefly over his pâté. "But, you did," he replied.

—Brooks of Sheffield

The Popular Undertaker

A year or so again, I was inspired by an inscription outside the Most Precious Blood Church on Baxter near Canal to go on a hunt to find out more about undertaker Charles Bacigalupo. I discovered quite a bit during that afternoon, including finding the former (now hidden) location of his funeral home on Mulberry Street. You can read all about it here.

Anyway, a kind reader saw that post and sent me the above photo. It's of Columbus Park in the 1910s. You can't miss the Bacigalupo ad. "The popular undertaker of greater New York." (Are undertakers ever popular?) That Charles was sure a grandstander.

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to the Danish Athletic Club?"

I went to dine at one of my favorite places in New York City, the Danish Athletic Club in Bay Ridge, just before Christmas. I had heard it might close at the end of the year. But the lovably ornery woman who runs the restaurant, Reidun Thompson, assured me she was keeping it going, at least a couple years, and all the reports had been wrong. Here's my Eater report:

Who Goes There? Danish Athletic Club

People speaking Danish in a New York restaurant isn't such a rare thing. The city get tourists of all types, and they patronize our dining establishments plenty. But Danes sitting next to Danish-Americans is perhaps something you'll only see at the Danish Athletic Club in Bay Ridge.

Never heard of it? You're not alone. The club is a well-hidden remnant of Bay Ridge's powerful past as a Scandinavian stronghold. Next door to the DAC is the Swedish Football Club, and a few blocks away is the Norwegian Sporting Gjøa Club. Membership in each is small and dwindling. But the Danes' outfit has an advantage. It is the only one of the three that still has a working restaurant on the premises. Those who venture inside the low-slung, nondescript building on 65th Street will find some of the best (only?) Scandinavian comfort food in New York. Fish pudding, meat cakes (called Kjottkaker), pot roast, sweet and sour cabbage, perfectly boiled potatoes, cream of cauliflower soup, rice pudding. And lingonberries with everything. A bountiful, and very filling, meal can be had for under $20. In fact, it's impossible to spend more than $20, unless you order two dinners.

The dining room is either cozy or shabby, depending on your point of view. If you've ever eaten in a church basement, or a Midwestern supper club, you'll get the idea. A collection of square and round tables covered with red tablecloths; wood-paneled walls; some blue Royal Copenhagen plates on the wall; and a pillared wooden partition, dividing the dining room from the darkened bar, that is punctuated with wooden cutouts shaped like Viking ships. Out in the hall, you can wistfully examine many large, black-and-white photos depicting the grand dinners of DAC's more prosperous past. You host, Reidun Thompson, an energetic but no-nonsense women who moved to Brooklyn from Norway in the early '60s, is usually seated at a nearby table reading the paper or going through mail. She'll take your order and bring your food.

The Danish Athletic Club always seems to be on its last legs. Recently, there were some reports that it would close by the end of the year. Thompson strongly contradicted this news as pure rumor.

What Scandinavian population there is left in Bay Ridge is aging. So the diners you'll see here—almost entirely club members and locals—have some frost on the roof and a few extra notches on their belt. Most nights only a few tables are occupied, but I've been told that the place is packed from time to time. Those who do come seem to treat the place as their living room. Spouses will bicker and old friends will loudly converse and casually roam about the room. Lingering is not discouraged. One recent guest insisted on a bit of formality, asking for the check. "It's what it is for everybody," said Thompson from her chair. "$17.40." "What do you need a check for?" the guest's friend asked in disbelief. "It's not like we're at Hinsch's."

—Brooks of Sheffield

Harvey's Chelsea House Recalled By Former Waiter

Two weeks ago, I reminisced about the long gone Harvey's Chelsea House. One week ago, I published the reminiscences of a couple readers who remembers the bygone Chelsea landmark. Now I have a lengthy memory shared by a former Harvey's Chelsea House waiter! Here it is:

Thanks for covering one of the great NYC institutions of the 70's and 80's. I was a waiter at Harvey's from 1977 into the early 80's. Some more details that you might not be aware of - or might enjoy remembering:

Sandy Dennis did come into Harvey's regularly. In fact, I remember working a late lunch shift on one of those cloudy Manhattan days when the sky suddenly opens up and a wall of water descends suddenly and with very little warning. Sandy Dennis must've been in the neighborhood and totally got caught in the downpour. She came running into Harvey's practically drowned holding a newspaper (fast becoming paper mache) over her head. In her haste she practically ran into me and we both started laughing like school kids. I said "Honey, I am sorry, but you look just like you did in 'The Out-of-Towners.'"

We also had a number of other celebrity regulars in those days... I remember waiting on Rock Hudson, the late great Lynn Thigpen, Pamela Reed... the costume shop Brookes Van Horn was located around the corner. And a lot of those people ate lunch at Harvey's Norma "the bead lady," Academy Award-winning designer Ann Roth, designer Gary Jones. 

Dick Harvey was one of the best employers and restaurant owners I have ever met in my life. He was fair, generous and once you had proven yourself, you were part of his family. And that family was diverse—most of the waiters (all men) were gay, the kitchen was Chinese, the bartenders were straight and the busboys were Egyptian.

Oh, a bit of historical detail—I believe 108 W. 18th St., aka Harvey's, was one of the original Annhauser-Busch bars. The first floor was the original space, then Dick opened up the basement as a private event dining room (JFK Jr. came to a bachelor party held there one night). Dick loved historical detail—and there was a barbers' chair in that area that Louis B. Mayer had gotten his regular haircut in. (I think Dick also purchased Gloria Swanson's classic Rolls Royce which he drove and his wife would sit in the back). Dick also expanded onto the second and third floors of the building recreating the look and feel of the main floor—paneling to match the honduras mahoganny, brass fixtures and beveled mirrors. The second floor was regularly used for dining and the third floor was used mostly for private events. Dick had an elevator put in to expedite getting the food up to the third floor and to save the waiters' and busboys' backs.

Hope you've enjoyed this trip down memory lane your article inspired.

Peter L.