Furniture on Fifth

The Hutwelker Building is a handsome, simple, red-brick, four-story structure on Fifth Avenue and 19th Street in the South Slope. You'll see it's odd name—and that it was erected in 1896—if you crane your neck and look up to the cornice. And, if your eye is sharp, you spy what sort of business it used to hold from a darkened, barely noticeable, vertical sign running down the corner edge: Furniture.

Charles Hutwelker was not in the furniture business, but the wholesale grocery business. He started a meat packing business in Brooklyn in 1884 and was prosperous enough to build a couple large cold storage buildings up on Hall Street in 1909 and 1919. Hutwelker died in 1924. At some point after that the building became a furniture store. Apparently, this stretch of Fifth was once a furniture mecca of sorts; another one-time huge furniture store sits right across the street.

The building was renovated about a decade ago. It's now filled with smarmy, expensive loft apartments. 

A Taste of Bay Ridge in Park Slope

I was surprised the other day, walking down Fifth Avenue in the South Slope, to spot a familiar blue and yellow awning I had been used to seeing in Bay Ridge. It was unmistakably Leske's Bakery, a Swedish icon from the southern edges of Brooklyn which, after briefly closing in 2011, was bought by new owners and reopened. Now, it seems, the owners are intent on expanding. This new outpost is the first of what a clerk told me the owners hope will be a few new Leske's around the city. It's a nice turnaround for a classic Brooklyn business that very recently was on the brink of extinction.

The layout inside is very similar to that of the Bay Ridge store, with the counter and shelves of delicacies to the left as you walk in. I had a black and white cookie, and an almond danish, both of which were fresh and delicious. (I'm not a fan of the iconic black and white city, but I will agree with what others have said, that this is the best example in the city.) I had been unaware of the Leske's tradition of serving free coffee from 5 a.m. to 7 a.m. every day, but apparently this is so.

After 128 Years, Block Drugs Expanding

You can always depend on Block Drugs. No matter how much the East Village changes, no matter how many stores come and go and Second Avenue, the 128-year-old corner druggist with the huge neon sign is always there at the southwest corner of Second and 6th Street.

Until now. No, Block isn't going away. It's actually expanding. A sign behind the roller shutter of the building beside it tells us "Block's Vision Care" is "Coming Soon." What a pleasant surprise that one of the city's oldest small businesses is thriving and growing, rather than shrinking and disappearing.

The drug store is currently owned by Carmine Palermo, whose father bought the business in 1962. According to a past article, the business was supposed to open in April. Obviously, it's taking a little more time.

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

It seems I've spent a lot of time in recent years waiting patiently for Totonno's to reopen following various disasters, and then making a trip to the Coney Island pizzeria to make certain nothing had changed. I hope no more catastrophes befall the culinary institution. I don't know if the owners could withstand another financial setback after the recent fire and flood. Here's my latest "Who Goes There?" column from Eater:

Who Goes There? Totonno's

Totonno's isn't really an appropriate candidate for this column. It's not dusty and forgotten, or even slightly neglected. Who goes there? Everyone, all the time. Locals and folks from all over the five borough, Jersey and Long Island. Tourists visiting Coney Island, Food Network devotees and pizza fanatics making pilgrimages.

But Totonno's has had a hard time of it lately. First a fire knocked it out for a time in 2009. Then Sandy put it out of commission for five months. The place is a phoenix, though, and the Balzano-Ciminieri clan—descendants of found Anthony Pero, who was trained at Lombardi's in Manhattan—reopened again in March. So I figured they need all the ink they can get. But maybe not. The young man who brought me my pie said they have been busy ever since reopening. "Memorial Day weekend was packed."

A recent visit found the place looking like it always does—spare, spic and span, an elemental, nostalgic vision in white and black. The walls are still adorned with coathooks, oval mirrors and dozens of framed press clippings, seemingly half of them from the Daily News. The owners must have spent a lot of money on frames over the years. There's a large standing fan, and a ceiling fan. The tile floor is apparently new, but looks old. So are the red table tops, but they blend in. The restroom is still small, and you have to wash your hands in an industrial sink in an alcove nearby.

The pizza, too, hasn't changed: the crust thin, yet sturdy, and delicious on its own; the subtle sauce and fresh cheese existing in perfect harmony. It's my favorite pie in New York. It's a pizza, however, best eaten hot and, since it cools quickly, should be finished within 10 minutes of hitting the table. A cold Totonno's slice eaten on the subway back home is still tasty, but the magic is gone.

The formidable Cookie Ciminieri still waits on, and clears, tables. The recent calamities seem to have aged her, but she still possesses enough spunk to rush out onto Neptune Avenue and wave some European backpackers back when she thinks they're shortchanged her. First-timers are easy to spot at Totonno's. They take pictures and spend a lot of time reading the articles on the walls. The truly unschooled will walk up to the aluminum, art deco counter in back, thinking that's where you place your order. One young couple actually asked Cookie what the pizzeria's wifi password was. (I was stunned to find out that the place actually has one.) Everyone was drinking little glass bottles of Coke, little glass bottles of Sprite, little glass bottles of wine.

To get a sense of the pizzeria's regulars, you have to go for lunch on a weekday. Locals will declare themselves by casually walking in, giving Cookie a quick wave, and seating themselves wherever. Very often, these are older men. Gold necklaces are not uncommon. One such twosome order a couple of pies between them, a margherita and a white pie. The white pie is not on Totonno's bare bones menu, which hangs at the back of the pizzeria. You have to know about it, and some regulars think it's the best thing the kitchen does. Certainly the two men did. I'd never had the white pie myself. As I was getting ready to go, I asked them whether they thought of it. "The BEST!" said one, barely looking up. "Have a slice," said the other. Really? Really. I thanked them, grabbed a slice and left. It was good.

—Brooks of Sheffield 

Blarney Cove Latest Manhattan Dive Bar to Shutter

They're dropping like flies, the old-school Manhattan dives. The Mars Bar, the Holiday Cocktail Lounge, the Emerald Inn. And now the Blarney Cove, a narrow slice of drunken darkness on 14th Street and Avenue A.

The property has been leased to another company, and the bar has posted a closing date of June 30. The bar has for some time been surrounded by vacant storefronts. Apparently, the whole stretch of street is now earmarked for developed. Lovely.

No idea on the age of this place. My guess, judging by the decor, is a birthdate sometime in the 1970s. But the space has probably been home to a bar far longer than that.

Long Island Restaurant Signs Removed

A tipster tells Lost City that, over the weekend, the classic art deco neon signs that adorn the Long Island Restaurant on Atlantic Avenue have been taken down. (I'll take a photo later today.)

The long-dormant inside—the interior of which is a perfectly preserved 1950s-era bar and diner—had been undergoing a renovation for the past few months. I have no first-hand information on the undertaking, but my understanding is that the new proprietors intend to preserve the look of the place, including the signs. (Indeed, one of the stipulations of the Alperin family, which has long owned the building, and used to run the restaurant, is that anyone who occupied the space wouldn't be allowed to change a thing about the decor. This led to may would-be tenants being shot down over the past five years.) That said, I suspect the signs have been taken down for restoration. Maybe we'll be the first generation in decades to see that cursive neon lit!

UPDATE: As I suspected, the neon is being restored—according to a reader—at Let There Be Neon. Also, I walked by yesterday, and apparently the signs had been so long a part of the building that, when they were removed, chunks of plaster crumbled and fell to the sidewalk.

Lost City Asks, "Who Goes to DeNino's Pizzeria and Tavern?"

New York foodies aren't are adventurous as they think.

They'll go to Flushing to check out a secret Vietnamese hole in the wall, or Red Hook to source a cart serving a particular Ecuadorian treat. But mention Staten Island—an entire borough belonging to the City—and they'll make with the trite "That's not really New York" and "There's nothing good there" remarks. Happens every time on Eater when I venture to Staten Island for my "Who Goes There?" column. So provincial. But I'll keep going, because so far the island to the south has shown me it can give me this and this and this. I'm sure there's more where that came from.

Who Goes There? DeNino's Pizzeria and Tavern

It's called DeNino's Pizzeria and Tavern. And it's just that. You walk into the fairly nondescript, one-story building on Port Richmond Boulevard, past the elaborate mural that tells the history of the 76-year-old Staten Island institution, take a quick left, and you're given a choice. You can veer left and take a seat at the bar, or hang right and snag a wooden table or booth for a repast of pizza pie, with maybe some garlic bread, fried calamari or buffalo wings to start. Though people talk mainly of DeNino's way with a pizza, you get the feeling that both arms of the business are given equal weight by locals. They are certainly given equal real estate. This may have something to do with the fact that the place was a bar long before it was a pizzeria. John DeNino opened the business as a saloon in 1937; pizza was introduced by his son, Carlo, in 1951. A third generation of DeNinos now runs the restaurant.

DeNino's feels like the kind of neighborhood place you might find anywhere in the country, the sort of local institution where families go on a Friday night without even thinking about it. Because, of course you'd go to DeNino's! Where else? The less-than-thrilling slogan, after all, is "Casual Family Dining Since 1937." (How's that to get your pulse racing?)

The dining room is plain, the lighting functional, the ceiling low. If it weren't for the old wooden booths, it could be the basement of a church. It's peopled by locals. This is Staten Island, after all. Although DeNino's enjoys a citywide reputation, most of the patrons come from the borough and have eaten here many, many times, and come for special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, meeting the in-laws, etc. The dinner hour is always busy, but the lunch trade is brisk, too. Pitchers of Bud abound.

I ordered a sausage pie, because the waitress told me that, while all the toppings were good (though the mushrooms are canned), the sausage was "out of this world." It was good sausage, the lump kind—as opposed to sliced—that you rarely see around New York. The crust was not quite as Neapolitan-light as that at Gotham's other vaunted pizzas, such as Totonno's or Patsy's, but not quite as heavy as the doughy stuff you find in a run-of-the-mill slice joint. It was somewhere in the middle. A good, solid, satisfying pizza, overall. The kind of above-average pie that causes a local to love their neighborhood joint, and cry out to anyone who will listen that it has the best pizza around.

Me? Of the Staten Island iconic pizzerias, I like Joe & Pat's product more. In all of NYC, I probably prefer Totonno's of Coney Island. For a single slice, Di Fara's in Midwood. But on a Friday night, with some friends or family members, I don't think I'd rather be at any other pizzeria than DeNino's.

—Brooks of Sheffield