Two Notable Shoe Repair Shops

Shoe Repair Shops are rebels in a retail City that is fast falling into lockstep conformity.

They are always Mom & Pop operations; conglomerates don't seem to see much future in the trade. And these Moms & Pops don't seem to care what anyone thinks. If the store is ramshackle and disorganized, who cares? If it's dusty and outdated, so what? Will they do more business if they put in some sconces? Will people suddenly have more shoes to repair? These merchants seem to think not.

Shoe Repair shops don't need much room. They will fit in any hole in the wall. Very often, in Manhattan, they snatch up extremely narrow spaces. Or they'll be found in the shabbiest, out-of-the-way corner of a subway station. In the outer boroughs, they can take on even more peculiar personalities.

Take a look at Herman's Shoe Repair in Borough Park. The sign is small, and in English and Hebrew. (It's an observant shop; closed Saturdays.) Inside, the dust is busy settling. There are old shoe-repair-related tools and contraptions that belong in the Smithsonian. At some point, long ago, the folks at O'Sullivan Heels talked the owner into pasting stickers for the product all over the store. (Humphrey O'Sullivan was an Irish immigrant who received the first patent for a rubber heel for shoes in 1899.)




I did not ask more because the owner of the shop was dead asleep in his chair behind the counter.



Shoebiz gets even more idiosyncratic in nearby Ditmas Park. This business on Cortelyou Road is done out what can only be called a shack. A stand-alone shanty, barely there, surrounded by fine residential homes. Not only are shoes fixed in this cubby hole, but watches are repaired and keys made. From a cardboard box outside, you can nab a new pair of footwear for $5. Or a shirt or two. Or make a phone call. They also make custom shoes.

It's What Happens When You're Not Looking

You have to act quickly these days, or history will evaporate right before your eyes.

I encountered the above watering hole on Coney Island Avenue near Courtelyou not 18 days ago. I was entranced by the stark retro signage and the hard-bitten clientele. I meant to blog about it.

Then, tonight, I happened to pass by again and did a double take. New sign. Worse sign.

Apparently, the place, open since 1969, has just undergone a shift in ownership. It's a happy story in general. A longtime bartender, Billy Cain, along with his sister Margaret, and friends Kathleen and John recently, bought the bar from the old owner, Billy Windam. And they felt the need to spiff up the space. The inside looks pretty good. Not too slick. Homey. And there's a shot wheel; you spin it and drink what the needle points to.

But the sign's a mistake. I'm sure they think it's a cooler look. It's not. Nothing was cooler than that white-and-red job with the profile of a martini glass.

Welcome to Newkirk Plaza

A couple weeks ago I saw Newkirk Plaza for the first time.

What can I say? What a place. I couldn't have dreamed it up if I tried. I was just biking down Foster Avenue in Ditmas Park and, Bam!, there it was, this utterly peculiar open air retail mall of largely independent businesses, perched above the Newkirk subway station. Instead of facing outward toward a street, the two lines of stores stare at each other over a trying-desperately-not-look-sad-and-shabby pedestrian mall. Because of the presence of the subway below, the whole thing has a tenuous feel to it, as if it were balancing on air.


Newkirk Plaza isn't new. That's apparent from clapping eyes on the shops, which look like they probably did a brisk business in egg creams and hula-hoops once upon a time. It was built in 1913, though some say 1908 (which would mean that this is its 100th birthday). So, in the world of open-air malls, it was a trailblazer. It has a weird ownership set-up. The Transit Authority owns the deck and station and the Department of Transportation owns the bridge. Plus, the buildings on the Plaza are possessed by private owners. This division of property may partly explain why the place looks like such a time capsule; what are the chances that all three parties ever agree on anything, improvement-wise?


Newkirk Plaza was not a nice place up until recently. It's nickname was "Newcrack Plaza." It was frequented by drug dealers, muggers, prostitutes and their friends. Things have improved considerably in the last few years. Many dollars were thrown at the area. Fancy ironwork fences replaced some concrete walls and new light fixtures were installed. And yet, the plaza still looks like a place your grandma might take you for a shopping spree, or somewhere your uncle goes for his monthly haircut. And for that, I love it. I loved it at first sight. Every entryway has a kind of dejected look about it, none more so than the corrugated metal wall that reads "kir Plaza." Your heart goes out to that poor de-lettered sign.


There are some sweet little businesses in this mall. You can tell by their quirky, worn facades that most are family owned. Almac Hardware, there since 1914. Minar Food Market, and Asian and American grocery with a pink elephant ride kids can enjoy outside. Lins Market, a tumbledown oddity that will pierce your ears, change your watch band, fax your documents, take your passport photo and sell you a hat, hosiery, "toy's" or "varieties." Alex's Medical Supplies, which has a great shoe-shaped sign and appears to sell orthopedic shoes. Leon's Fancy Cut, a barber. Lo Duca Pizza, which looks pretty old. (Don't these seem like Ben "Julius Knipl" Katchor names to you? Almac, Minar, Lins, Lo Duca. Actually, Newkirk Plaza itself seems like Katchortown.)

In fact, you can get almost anything you might need on Newkirk Plaza. That is, if your tastes aren't to hoity-toity. And for those who must have the comfort of a familiar chain, there's a Dunkin' Donuts.

George's Restaurant

Sometimes neighborhood landmarks hide in plain view.

Nothing about the bulbous, shiny, red sign for George's Restaurant on Coney Island Avenue near Cortelyou told me it was anything special. But the obviously older sign hanging out over the street held hints that George's might have some deep Brooklyn roots. "Steaks. Chops. Sea Food."? That's a red flag that the joint's either pre- or post-World War II.


Sure enough, an orange-jacketed waiter told me the place was more than 50 years old. (It was founded in 1956.) And that it used to be bigger, stretching all the way to the corner (seen below). The owner now leases that extra space out to two other business. The interior has booths and a nicely untouched lunch counter with stools. It was possibly last decorated in the 1970s.

Eating here at 2 AM would, I think, be an experience.