Old neighborhoods that are rich with independent, longstanding businesses are also often rich with wonderful signage. The Bensonhurst stretch of 18th Avenue in the 60s and 70s is one such stretch. Da Vinci Pizza has been around since 1966; the Silver Rod Pharmacy (odd name) since 1927; Trovato Liquor since 1933 (when Prohibition ended); Kersner Furs in 1927.
The "Who Goes There?" column for Sammy's Roumanian Steak House was a not a case of finding out if anyone goes there—obviously people do, it's often crowded—but, truly, who goes there, because it's just as obviously not your typical, tend-following Manhattan foodirati set. They are also the most eager-to-be-photographed patrons in the history of this column.
Not many restaurants keep a pitcher of chicken fat on every table as a condiment. If fact, none do, as far as I know, but Sammy's Roumanian Steak House, the singularly odd Lower East Side holdout of Jewish cuisine that nightly enlivens lower Chrystie Street with schmaltz of both the entertainment and culinary varieties.
The fat doesn't sit idle. It's repeatedly poured in ample amounts into a bowl containing minced meat, raw and carmelized onions, radish and cracklings (chicken skin) to make the joint's signature chopped liver, which is prepared tableside ("It's the Jewish Caesar salad" said my waiter. It is also absolutely delicious.). It is ordered by just about everybody. The dish—as well as the egg creams, also made at the table—adds a bit of additional theatre to a basement space that doesn't lack for it. The owners make up for a low-ceilinged room not much different (or cleaner) than the average 1970s suburban rec room by papering the walls and ceilings with photographs (there's Anthony Bourdoin!), business cards, neckties, paper streamers and "Happy Birthday" and "Happy Hanukkah" signs.
The birthday signs are always in season. Sammy's ties a balloon to every table just in case, and half the time they're right. On the night I went, one table was celebrating one birthday, and another—pictures a-flashing—was commemorating three! Also on every table: a working, old-fashioned bottle of seltzer and a souvenir guide to Yiddish that you can take with you.
Two waiters claimed to have been in service since 1975. That would be the year Sammy Friedman took over the space, which was previously the home of two other Roumanian-Jewish restaurants. Friedman has a claim to the place only in name, however; he flopped out of the gate, so the landlord, retaining the name, leased the space to Stan Zimmerman. (Son Dave now runs things.) Weirdly enough, to look at the place, Sammy's was once the darling of the New York Times. Mimi Sheraton reviewed it on three occasions and loved its skirt steaks, which snake up and over the edges of the plates, every time.
"I've seen four generations of the same family come here," the waiter told me. No doubt. But, surely, many of those families have long ago moved to Jersey and the Island; despite the stray hipster slumming it, and an occasional celebrity, the Sammy's crowd of tourists and bridge-and-tunnel revelers is decidedly unfabulous (in a nice way). Every group seems to be competing to be crowned most raucous table at the bar mitzvah. They're more than happy to noisily soak in the raffish atmosphere, the Square One vodka frozen in a block of ice, and the often-on-break keyboardist's renditions of "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" and "Oh, What a Night." Their credit cards, meanwhile, soak up the sky-high prices. (Vodka shots are priced, with peculiar specificity, at $9.95.)
Such casual license to enjoy oneself leads to Sammy's being frequently packed on the weekend. Even so, it's a miracle the place has survived the Lower East Side transformation into an agora of chic nightlife, particularly since the proprietors don't own the building. A waiter would only credit a "long and very friendly relationship with the landlord."
— Brooks of Sheffield
My remedy for what to do with all the Bloomberg for Mayor mailings that keep getting stuffed in my mailbox is to immediately deposit them in the circular file before I can catch a glimpse of Megalomaniac Mike's turtle face and blue work shirt. Restless—or, rather, Restless in the guise of Festus T. Tennessee, Esq., PhP, DoD—has a more satirically satisfying solution: wallpaper. Read:
Thank you MIKE for all the big sturdy campaign ads I keep gettin' in the mail!
In between me, my 5 cats, 3 dogs, my surrogate taxpayer rabbit Mr. Chuckles, and the "Dirty Dozen" rats I been trainin' to pull the miniature Santa sled I found in a dumpster -- all of us registered to vote -- we been gettin' 20 mailers a day!
Soon I will have enough to paper the walls, ceilin' and floor of my tar paper shack down here by the crick, near where Kings County meets the Queens. (I don't want to tell nobody which crick, 'cause then they'd all be movin' down here!)
Thank you, thank you, thank you! Thank your ad people for usin' such good lookin' models, and thank your momma for bequeathin' you such a nice soft pleasin' face yourself -- since I'm gonna be lookin' at all y'all for the next 10 years at least!
In fact, since I hear there is no way you can lose, might I suggest you just get elected every 8 years? 'Cause these things is that sturdy -- sturdy as a country girl who can churn butter before breakfast, plow the field all day, and birth a baby in between supper and singin' the chickens to sleep!
Loquaciously Yours,
Festus T. Tennessee, Esq., PhP, DoD
Eating lunch at Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop always fills me with a particularly New Yorky sense of well-being. Everyone around me seems to be content and chipper as well. I thought about this recently as I sat at the counter and munched my BLT. Here are some of the reasons why I think this is:
*Eisenberg's has remarkably high ceilings. The place is airy. With the roof not crushing down upon you, your head (and mind) feels free and unburdened.
*Eisenberg's is always packed. This contributes to a happy metropolitan buzz about the place. It's not a din, because you can easily talk above it. It's the buzz of urban worker bees.
*The owner is always there, hovering near the cash register. Thus, you feel he cares. Every diner wants to feel cares for.
*The counter staff always takes your order right away, and part of that order (the drink, the soup, the fries) usually arrives within 60 seconds.
*It's a narrow place, and therefore, democratic. You can see everyone and everyone can see you. No one's sitting at the best table, because there is no best table.
*It's cheap. You do not part with too much money.
*No one is wearing the wrong thing here. Jeans. A suit and tie. It all works.
*The staff allows you to tell the cashier what you had, as opposed to presenting you with a check that proves what you had. Thus, you feel trusted and ever-so-slightly empowered.
A reader the Flickr contribution recently sent the above picture. I recognized it as a familiar stretch of small indy businesses along the south side of 23rd Street near Fifth. I was sad to see the old signs go.
I passed by the location today and saw the replacement signage. Shiny. Clean. New-looking. An improvement? I don't know. Some might say so, I guess. I thankful the businesses didn't change, anyway. Live long, Luz!
Yesterday, I was extracting money from a Chase ATM at the corner of Madison Avenue and 58th. It was a large amount of money—$260; I had to go and pay a bill nearby. I counted my $20 bills after the machine spat them out. 1, 2, 3—10! Only 10! $200! I had been robbed, the machine had given me the wrong amount. I checked my balance on the machine—sure enough, it recorded a debit of $260.
I went to the Chase's customer service desk to explain my plight. The agent listening carefully, and then called over a manager. While we waited for the manager to come, I showed the agent the cash I had just received. Only 10 bills, see? 1, 2, 3....Wait a minute. Two of the bills were $50s, not $20s. The machine did give me $260.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I thought they were $20s. I'm not used to getting $50 bills from an ATM."
She smiled a knowing smile. "Yeah, we put $50s in there all the time. In this neighborhood, we should put $100s."
How can you tell that the seemingly contemporary Brooklyn Chinese restaurant Silver Star is older than it looks?
Look up and see the old, partially obscured sign for "Chow Mein." It's a rare Chinese eatery that touts that delicacy anymore.
THIS JUST IN FROM A READER: "This place is well over 50 years old... Interestingly, Silver Star is owned by the same family for all that time, and the only reason they are still there is because they have long owned the building. Going here is like stepping back in time. The place is kept up, but not modernized . The booths are covered in sparkling green glossy vinyl. They have not changed the menu in many years and cook a particular style of old school Chinese American food."
Some inspired pictorial satire from Restless:
Top to bottom:
1) Inspiration.
2) Placement.
3) Make it sexy!
I like this vertical sign outside Henry's Fish Market on 18th Avenue in Brooklyn.
The place is closed now. And if you're looking for Tony, be advised:
Looks like someone was assigned with the task of scraping off the painted letters in the window of this former game shop on Macdougal, but got tired after chipping away the "mmon."
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