Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Arturo's?"

From last week's "Who Goes There?" column on Eater. Wish their pizza was better. (People: better quality tomatoes and a pinch of basil and salt in your sauce, and your problems are solved!) But I have no complaints about the ambiance.

Who Goes There? Arturo's

Among New York City's long-playing pizzerias, Arturo's stands out in a few ways. Its founder, Arturo Giunta (who died in 2006), was in no way connected to the famous Lombardi's pizza family tree that begat Totonno's, Patsy's, and John's, among others. Compared to those storied joints, it's rarely written up, or places in the regularly published top ten lists of New York pie palaces. And it doesn't feel like a tourist trap, the way other pizza destinations can.

Moreover, Arturo's—still on the same corner (Houston and Sullivan) where it flung open its doors in 1957—retains a raffish, scruffy charm that most of Greenwich Village lost long ago. It's not just that the ceilings are tin and battered; that there are countless signed celebrity head shots on the walls; that bad oil paintings by amateur artist Arturo occupy the spaces not taken up by actor photos; that nobody can remember who painted the large fading murals, or what scene they're supposed to depict; or that they used to perform plays in the back room in the '70s. It's more that, in very Old School Villagey style, Arturo's still has live jazz music every day. It's that the staff all seem to be ancient or bohemian or somebody's underperforming relative. This is a classic New York staff, and they're part of the place the way ivy's part of a wall. The young waitress wears cat-eye glasses and a leather skirt. The manager looks like a librarian at an alternative-reading library. When the genial greeter in the baseball cap introduced me to the owner, she sized me up and said, "Who is this?" A customer, the greeter said. "Oh, mystery man!"

Arturo's doesn't hurt for business. I arrived at opening time one weekend day, and there were already people there. A half hour in, the place was packed. "This is nothing," my waiter said. "You should see us on Saturday night. Line down the block." Who comes? "Everybody." Tourists? "Yeah, lots of tourists. Celebrities." Locals. "Lots of locals. Been coming for years." Most of the diners I saw were locals. Some spoke foreign tongues, but even they seemed used to the place.

The pizza? Well, it's fine. The crust is a bit thick, the sauce a bit bland. I put a lot of crushed red pepper and Parmesan on mine to give it a kick of flavor. I'd be fine with the level of quality if the prices weren't so high. Plain pies begin at $17 for a small; $20 for a large. Extra toppings are four dollars and up. Those are close to Lucali prices. And Lucali's a lot better. Also, Arturo's seemingly has no excuse for the pricy tariff; the family owns the building and are presumedly not under the pressure of making the rent.

But, you know, so what? Lucali doesn't have this atmosphere, this old Village charm, this family atmosphere, this joyous corner vista past which windows—on which are painted fading letters that tempt you, tantalizingly, with "Air-Conditioning"—all of New York seems to pass. Even nearby John's, a slice of potent Village ambience itself, can't quite compare to the transporting Arturo's mise-en-scene. If you're fond of that romantic version of New York many of us hold in our fuzzy, nostalgic-addled heads, it's a happy-making space.

—Brooks of Sheffield

St. Clair, Smith Street's Oldest Tenant, Gone for Good

When the St. Clair diner, at the corner of Smith and Atlantic, underwent a renovation a few years back, the owners uncovered an old metal sign beneath the newer signage. They didn't tear down the old sign, just covered it up with the even newer signage. At the time, I wondered when I'd ever seen the hidden original sign again.

Well, I didn't have to wait long. The new signage has been taken down, and the inside gutted. Signs in the window say the St. Clair is being renovated again. But in three months, I've never seen any work going on inside. The diner is gone for good. The space was bought by Joe Sitt of Thor Equities, the guy who destroyed Coney Island. It's supposed to reopen as a retail outlet.

This is a shame. Though it never looked like much, the St. Clair is one of the oldest businesses in South Brooklyn. It opened 92 years ago. Almost nothing in the immediately area (maybe Staubitz Butchers) comes close. Jonathan Letham, the novelist who grew up nearby, has paid tribute to it. "The St. Clair restaurant has been here forever," he said in a 2003 New York Times article. "It's a very, very typical New York diner. People will say, 'Oh, we don't have a Greek diner.' They don't realize this is here. It's been here so long that it's totally invisible; no one sees it. So then a new Greek diner opens up down the street and it's exactly the same and all the hipsters go there for cheap eggs."

While there's been a diner here since 1920, it seems it was called the St. Clair only since 1967. It was run by the Costa family from that year until 2007, when Spiro Katehis bought it and gave it an overhaul.

Knowing Sitt, I expect this time he will rip down the old sign and toss it in the trash.

New Look for Red Rose

Carroll Gardens mainstay, the Red Rose, got a new awning this week, just in time for its 30th anniversary. I don't hate it. It's red, anyway. To see how the Red Rose looked when it opening, see here. To see it's more recent look, here.

Rat-Squirrel House Today, Rat-Squirrel House Forever

If been more than five years since I spotted, and blogged about, what I thought was a rat (and turned out to be a squirrel) lounging on the upper windowsill of the tumbledown mess that was the landmarked Cobble Hill building at 149 Kane Street. After many a drama, and a few media circuses, the building's on the road to better health. But, to my amusement and, I must admit, delight, the rapidly improving brick house is still referred to as the Rat-Squirrel House.

Is it time to stop using that name, in light of recent renovations? A commenter over at Brownstoner wonders:

At a certain point, are we going to stop referring to this place as "Rat Squirrel House"? Probably not. I almost feel bad for the person who eventually pays a gazillion dollars for this house and everyone still points to it and declares: "Can you believe so-and-so paid that much for the Rat Squirrel House?" Of course, Grey Gardens was just as bad and no one calls it the "Crazy Cat Pee Raccoon House," today. Too bad Jackie O. didn't have another crazy cousin or aunt in Cobble Hill.

This made me smile. However, since I do not feel bad for people who spend a "gazillion dollars" on houses in Brownstone Brooklyn and drive up housing prices, making it harder for folks like me to live in this City, I say: tough. It's Rat-Squirrel House and it will stay Rat-Squirrel House. Anyway, it's famous as such. The new owners should be proud they own such a landmark!

The Laundromat With the Butcher's Sign

I was walking down Smith Street past the Red Rose restaurant, the old red-sauce joint for forty years standing, when a photograph in the window caught my eye. I'd never seen it before. It was a black-and-photo of the eatery from the '70s. The sign and and storefront were different back then. And there was a vertical "Pizza" above the restaurant, betraying the joint's now-forgotten heritage as a pizza place.

But that's not what interested me. I noticed the business to the north of the Red Rose, Martino Bros. Prime Meat Market. Long gone, of course, but the pale, metal sign looked oddly familiar.

So I walked about ten feet down the street and took a good look at the laundromat that had taken the place of Martino Bros. The sign was big, pale yellow and metal. Could it be it was the same damn sign the butcher had used?

I looked more closely. Sure enough. The owners of Smith Laundromat has just painted over the Martino Bros' letter and painted on their own name. Only they hadn't done so fantastic a job, so you can still see the outlines of some of the Martino letters, like "S," seen above.

Rat-Squirrel House Gets Windows

The once infamous Rat-Squirrel House of Cobble Hill is close to looking like a structural citizen. The plywood that has covered the windows for a couple years has been replace by actual windows—sure the first set of new windows that once-scandalous building has received since it was built more than a century ago. Now it just needs a new door and a paint job on the first level, and its like its former life as a squatter's, trash-strewn haunted house never happened.

Lost City Asks, "Who Goes to El Charro?"

El Charro, in Greenwich Village, is the definition of a hidden gem. So hidden that I didn't even know it existed until someone at El Parador—the city's oldest Mexican restaurant—told me or a family connection between the two old restaurants. The small, basement place is so quiet and secluded, I recommend it as an escape from reality any time you've had a bad day. Here's my column:

Who Goes There? El Charro

I had a moment of déjà vu as I walked down the few steps into the restaurant tucked into 4 Charles St. Quiet Village street; basement space; tiny room; low ceilings; small bar to the left. Was I in Fedora? The real Fedora, I mean, not the impostor currently sailing under that name on West 4th Street.

Of course, I wasn't Fedora has gone the way of other fine New York institutions who have discovered the hard way that the brutal economics of 21st-century New York have no place for them. But El Charro Español is that kind of place. It's what pops into your mind when you picture the typical, side-street Greenwich Village eatery of old: cozy, slightly hidden, tradition-bound, attentive to its regulars, and offering the diner not a raucous jolt of energy but a relaxing respite from the world. 

El Charro's exact age is hard to determine, but it's probably been here for about 60 years, gathering minimal press attention, but a faithful clientele that it made almost entirely of locals. This is a neighborhood joint. It began as a Mexican restaurant, a culinary rarity in those post-WWII days. It was run by Maria Garcia. (Her daughter married Carlos Jacott, who went on to found El Parador on East 34th Street, which still stands and is today the city's oldest Mexican restaurant.) El Charro remained a Mexican place at least into the '80s, but today, under its current owners, it is a Spanish restaurant, and a good one.I ordered a sangria when I saw that the bartender was mixing them separately, constructing each in the glass, rather than pouring the potion out of a pitcher. The Shrimp Ajillo, sauteed in olive oil, garlic and hot pepper, was beautifully done: simple, tender and subtly spicy. For my entree (which came with one of those comforting—but not necessarily good — side salads slathered in French dressing) I had Pollo Villaroy, two breasts of chicken coated with bechamel sauce and bread crumbs and deep fried. It was tasty, but perhaps too filling. Though I liked it, I could have done with a half order.

The restaurant seems to have been recently spruced up; the exterior is in picturesque, pristine condition and the signage is small and classy. But the room's age is betrayed in the details: the old cash register; the old-fashioned punch clock for employees; and the thin, narrow staircase to the tiny bathroom. (Please take note of the oil painting of a sad clown as you pass.)

The ratio of staff to patron was about one to two the night I was there. So it's no surprise that service was attentive. Or maybe I should not take that for granted. I've been in plenty of contemporary restaurants stuffed with waiters and still had a hard time getting anyone's attention. Old friends were catching up at one table, a mother and a daughter at a second. Making the most noise were two men having a convivial business meeting, the larger, older one a longtime regular feeling very at home, the younger, thinner one a newcomer who seemed to want to be in a steak house. He ordered a filet mignon ("Can you butterfly that?") and called out for A-1 Sauce. "Are you complaining about this place?" his hefty friend asked in comic disbelief. "Are you COMPLAINING about this place."

I was sympathetic. I mean, seriously, dude, are you complaining about this place?

—Brooks of Sheffield