What the Hecht?

I've never been sure quite what to make of the Hecht Sewing Machine and Motor Company, a tiny throwback of a shop in the Garment District on 304 W. 38th Street, but I've always loved their little window display, filled with obselete tools of the trade, ancient products and bits of old advertising.

The store dates from the turn of the century, though I haven't been able to ascertain the exact year, and seems to operate year after year under the radar. Some old New York businesses are celebrated by the papers from time to time. This ain't one of them. Maybe sewing machine parts and services aren't sexy enough for the City Desk. Some fabric professionals don't seem to know about it either. I once met a Broadway costume designer who worked out of a loft in the same building, and she told me she had never even entered Hecht's.

You can't take your old Singer in to be fixed here. Hecht's caters to the surrounding garment trade and their industrial machines. They also seem to have a soft spot for antiques. A man in the store told me they take in old machines from time to time when they become available. Not old, like 1950s. Old, like 19th century.

So That's What That Is

Thanks to Curbed.com for identifying for me the mysterious building that sits lonely and sad at the southeast corner of Third Avenue and Third Street. It was apparently—and oddly—the New York and Lhttp://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifong Island Coignet Stone Company. "Whassat?" you say. Well, it was a company that manufactured Coignet for all of New York City and all of Long Island. "Manufatured what now?" Coignet was a type of concrete invented by Francois Coignet in Paris in the 1850s. The building was just one small part of what was a five-acre industrial complex. From what I understand, Coignet was produced there only from 1872, when the structure was built, until 1882.

Why did they need an lovely, elegant, Italianate, two-story buidling replete with graceful columns and cornices to do this work (even if the thing is actually made entirely of concrete)? Good question. But I'm glad they decided theirs was a lofty pursuit deserving of a grand building. I've stared in wonder at Third Avenue's lone post of architectural beauty countless times while taking the B71 from Park Slope to Carroll Gardens, and hoped against hope that it wouldn't be torn down. Well, Curbed tells me it won't: it was landmarked last year. (I know I'm behind on this story.)

More people than those who ride the B71 will see the Coignet in the future, since Whole Foods is buidling its Gowanus outlet right next door. In fact, Whole Foods owns the building. They better be nice to it.

City Sidewalks...

Old Man Winter finally got his act together Feb. 14—about two months too late. Fashionably late, I guess. The scene lent an appropriate background—distinctly lacking last December—to this lingering Christmas display, still on view in a window of a building just north of Madison Square. Smile while you can, elf.

Angels Over Soho

I've often noticed these incongruous caryatids looking down on the hoards of Soho shoppers from number 542-544 Broadway. Building was erected back in 1864. Hard to know what the architect or owner had in mind. Perhaps the preservation of the then war-torn union. Nice to have them up there, though. Also, it's fun to say "caryatids."

Miracle on W. 46th Street

Is the TGI Friday restaurant corporation secretly a lover of history and architecture?

I ask this only because I could never fathom how the wonderful facade of the I. Miller Building on the northeast corner of 46th Street and Seventh Avenue just off Times Square has survived all these years, and not been covered over by the red-and-white billboard of TGIF, which occupied the ground floor space of the buidling.

Passersby who occasionally look up may know this building better as the former vainglorious shoe emporium which proclaimed in carved words still visible: "The Show Folks Shoe Shop Dedicated to Beauty in Footwear." Now there's a slogan. Below this motto stand four inset statues, all great women of the performing arts in their separate disciplines. They are, from left to right: Mary Pickford as Little Lord Fauntleroy; Rosa Ponselle in "Norma"; Ethel Barrymore as Ophelia; and Marilyn Miller in the title role in the musical "Sunny."




I doubt most of the swarming tourists eating their super nachos in TGIF know who any of these once-great stars are, with the possible exception of Ethel (that's her above), since Drew Barrymore has kept the name of that acting clan alive. (Actually, the "Ethel" in her name IS blocked by the TGIF sign, so folks might think that is Drew up there.) And silent film buffs will remember Pickford. Ponselle and Miller have suffered the greatest fall-off in fame. Miller (below) was once the preeminent musical theatre star of her day. She scored a hit with "Sunny" just four years before this statue was unveiled; she died seven years later.



It's a lovely and poignant frieze to gaze upon, a testimony to the fleeting fame of the performers that have tried their luck in the adjoining streets over the past 100 or so years. And a quick check in the AIA Guide reveals why it's survived. Apparently, the exterior was landmarked in 1999. (How is suffered through the Times Square boom years leading up until then is another question.) This is probably because the statues were all sculpted by A. Stirling Calder, Alexander's pa, and the same guy who carved George Washington under the Washington Arch. They date from 1929. So we'll be able to enjoy the visages of these four women for years to come. If only the landlord would polish them up a bit.

P.S.—Another weird fact: I. Miller hired Andy Warhol as its chief illustrator in the mid-1950s.

CVS Wins

Not sure when this happened, but the Pricewise Discount pharmacy that operated out of a subterranean space on Bleecker Street near Thompson seems to have closed for good. The signage proclaims a North Fork Bank branch is coming soon.

Pricewise was a peculiar, tumble-down drug store with friendly help and a riot of goods spread over two unruly rooms. It had true Village character. It fought a fierce fight when CVS opened up directly next door some years ago, but the endless proliferation of corporate chains appears to have done it in once and for all. CVS remains standing. Hurrah for free enterprise.

Vesuvio's Second Life

I stopped by the landmark Vesuvio Bakery on Prince Street in Soho the other day. I'm ashamed to say this is the first time I've visited since longtime owne and community activist Tony Dapolito died in July 2003. Prior to then, I saw the place quite often as I had a pal who lived in a sublet in the same building. Dapolito used to accept packages for him. I remember the sparten glory of the place. From outside, windows filled with bread; from inside, shelves filled with bread. No decor. The business was bread and Vesuvio was all business.

It's not a bakery anymore, though I gather they still make bread and some of it is displayed in the window. Christine Gigante and her sister-in-law, Lisa Gigante, bought it from Tony just before he died. I believe they're still in charge. It's now a cafe, with four tables lining the left-hand wall and a counter on the right. Panini, cannoli, coffee and tea are available. It's pleasant enough and free of Soho hauteur, mainly due to no-frills, no-nonsense help in the form of a loud, short blonde woman of obvious Italian, working-class stock. Hearing her recite at the top of her lungs the types of available teas to a woman on the other side of the room was hilarious: "Earl Grey! Mint! Lemon Zinger!"

Another plus is you get to linger in a space where, in the past, a transaction typically took 30 seconds. The cafe trades heavily on the memory of Dapolito and Vesuvio's past. Old photographs of the Dapolito family are everywhere. Postcards of the shop are available for purchase. The menu proclaims Vesuvio has been in business since 1920. And, of course, the windows still advertise "Italian Bread & Biscuits" in gold leaf, and the storefront is as green as ever. It's all very nice. But, nonetheless, I wish it was still only a bakery.

A Good Sign: Rocco's

Rocco's is a holdover from the Middle Village's Italian heritage. It's on Thompson just above Houston. Around 80 years old. It serves that thing that can be wonderful or God awful: traditional Italian. But the sign's forgives all. Here it is off at night, Monday night, when Rocco is closed.

Of Turtles and Wolfes

Once you leave Brooklyn Heights, literary landmarks in the Borough of Kings are hard to come by. Miller, Whitman, Capote, Crane, Betty Smith—the Heights seems to have them all. That's why I've always cherished tiny Cobble Hill Park, which packs two little-known literary connections—one direct and one indirect.

The indirect connection is to poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. His brother, Samuel Longfellow, was pastor at the church that used to occupy the site. Called the Second Unitarian Church, it was better known as "The Church of the Holy Turtle" because of its concave, shell-like roof. It was abandoned in the 1950s and a supermarket was planned. Community outcry led to a park being built instead. (Sigh. Community outcry.)

The direct connection is to squat, little No. 40, the smallest building on Verandah Place, on the south side of the park. Here, in the dank, dark basement space, novelist Thomas Wolfe once housed his massive frame for a few miserable months in his youth. He wrote of the apartment, "in winter the place is cold and dark, and sweats with clammy water, in the summer you do all the sweating yourself." Peer through the narrow basement windows and you can imagine his predicament.

Verandah Place sure looks lovely these days. But, then, its not darkened by the shadow of a tortoise-like church anymore, but breaths fresh park air every day.



P.S.—If anyone out there knows of any other obscure Brooklyn literary landmarks outside the Heights (no living authors—Lethem, Auster—please), please clue me in.

Not Yet Renovated in Brooklyn

This former barbershop is in Williamsburg. Whoever owns it is patriotic and not big on dusting the blinds. There's a sneaky little quasi-Venetian alley to the right which leads back to a hidden building, equally dilapidated. Must looks great on Halloween.