The Lisle Inn Has Burned Down

Last September, while driving back from a trip to the Finger Lakes district in upstate New York, I passed through a downtrodden, sad, little, one-street town called Lisle. It intrigued me in its utter forlornness—there was barely a building that didn't look as if it has weathered a hurricane and decades of neglect—so I stopped to take a few photos. I then posted an item titled "What Happened to Lisle?," because I was really curious as to what could bring a village to such a lowly state.

I had done some research, and found out a few things. Lisle boasted a population of 4,393 back in 1830, but a legislative enactment divided the town into four parts, each constituting a new township. After that, the residents number only 1,558. Still, much better than today's 286. In 1835, it possessed three grist mills, twenty saw mills, one oil cloth mill, three fulling mills, three carding mills, one trip hammer or forging mill, three tanneries and two places where potash was made. It even had its own newspaper, the wonderfully named Lisle Gleaner.

In the year or so since my post, I've received a surprising amount of responses on the matter, many of them so heartfelt that they nearly made me cry. Lisle had indeed had something happen to it. Many things, in fact. Wrote one reader, "This village used to be booming as was mentioned. The floods of 1935 and 1936 devastated it. We came back and Lisle was a beautiful village to travel through in the 50's and 60's until a blight destroyed the canopy of trees lining route 79. There are lot of reasons for the current decay and it is very sad to see Lisle continue to deteriorate."

Another said Lisle used to be a bedroom community for people who worked in bigger cities, but "As the big employers decided that doing business in NY was too restrictive and too expensive and moved south, so went the majority of higher-than-average income people who lived in Lisle. These were replaced by a group of families who live "on the dole" and have nothing extra to put back into the community. Small farms were abandoned. Houses and buildings were left to age and deteriorate and most of the little local businesses were closed, as they could not compete with the larger enterprises in Binghamton."

And yesterday I learned the sad news that what had been my favorite old building in Lisle, the Lisle Inn—which, despite its sad state, obviously dated back at least 100 years—had burned down this past week. Wrote the reader plaintively, "I've been trying to find a report of the fire in Binghamton, Ithaca, and any regional newspaper, but it seems that even a major fire and the destruction of a landmark tavern isn't news when it happens in Lisle."

Red Apple Rest Rests

On a recent trip upstate, while cruising up old Hwy. 17, I passed by the haunted, silent hull of the Red Apple Rest.

A icon of long past era of vacationing, the Red Apple was a fabled stopover for New Yorkers on their way to resorts, summer homes and families in the Catskills. In the 1950's, it boasted a million customers a year and served 350,000 hot dogs. The enormous asphalt field of the parking lot would be filled with cars and buses. Traffic along 17 (this was before the New York State Thruway was built) would often be so slow that family members could get out of their moving cars, use the bathroom, make a phone call and order some food before their ride has passed the Red Apple. Every one stopped there. The Borscht Belt comedians knew it well. It was the Stuckey's of the New York set, with a legendary vegetable soup, not a pecan log, as its iconic menu item.

The Red Apple was started by Reuben Freed, a refugee from Russia. He bought a combination gas station-refreshment stand in 1931 on Hwy. 17 and called it the Red Apple, after his chef, a red-haired man named Red Appel. The restaurant hit its stride after WWII. It stayed open 24 hours a day. Freed almost never went home. The Thruway dealt it a slow death, as did the lessening popularity of the Catskill resorts, which eventually closed one by one. Freed died in 1980. In 1985, Freed's son Herbert sold the place to Peter Kourakos.

The Red Apple mysteriously closed in September 2006. Signs in the window and a telephone answering machine message, said "We went away for a graduation and vacation." The restaurant never reopened. It was condemned on Jan. 23, 2007, due to roof damage. It has sat there ever since.

Inside, not much has been touched. Tables and chairs still sit, waiting for customers that will never come. A menu board still hangs above the counter listed very reasonable prices. It even trumpets specials, mostly like posted back in 2006. ("Egg Salad Platter.") A cruel sign on the side mocks "Bus Parking Only!" An old phone booth is neither taking or receiving calls. In the window is a sampler reading "No matter where I serve my guests, they seem to like my kitchen best." My mother had one just like that.

What Happened to Lisle?

While driving back to the City from upstate recently, I passed through a hamlet called Lisle. It's on route 79 right before you reach interstate 81. It's an old, compact Main Street-type town, founded in 1791. Some such villages are well kept up, picture perfect Americana. Some are sad and down on their luck. Lisle was not just sad. It was inconsolable.

Rarely have I seen a town so forlorn, so resigned to the forces of age and gravity. Not a building on the main drag, commercial or residential, was even in what you'd call decent condition. Lisle must be the peeling paint capital of New York State. One haunted house after another.

Some of the houses did appear to be lived in; others were boarded up. I could not ascertain whether any of the few businesses were actually in operation, though I did see some men loading furniture out of a used furniture shop. An "Arcade" obviously hadn't entertained a teenager in a decade or more. The Lisle Inn, possibly once the single hot spot in town, wasn't taking any comers. (The absolutely succinct sign, however, still hung outside. Nice image of a frosty mug.) Something called Miss Cathy's School of Dance seemed wildly incongruous in the circumstances. A dance studio in Lisle? What this town needs is an industrious hardware store.

I did some research. Lisle boasted a population of 4,393 back in 1830, but a legislative enactment divided the town into four parts, each constituting a new township. After that, the residents number only 1,558. Still, much better than today's 286. In 1835, it possessed three grist mills, twenty saw mills, one oil cloth mill, three fulling mills, three carding mills, one trip hammer or forging mill, three tanneries and two places where potash was made. It even had its own newspaper, the wonderfully named Lisle Gleaner.

The median household income in 2005 was $34,500, a good $15,000 less than the NYS average. One would think Lisle would be more prosperous that it is. It's two minutes from the interstate. A river runs nearby. The railroad crosses the town at three different points. So it's not exactly isolated. What happened to Lisle? The Depression? The flight of younger generations? That railroad stopped running? All of the above?

Lost City: Ithaca Edition: The Chanticleer

The Chanticleer saloon has long reigned at the corner of W. State and S. Cayuga in downtown Ithaca. It's one of those no-nonsense, down-and-dirty bars that, despite being situated in plain sight, seems clandestine and somewhat anonymous.

Well, as anonymous as a bar with a big neon chicken outside it can be. There are chickens inside to: pictures, statuettes, wallpaper. There's also a long bar, a red pool table, a jukebox and a wooden phone booth. They don't serve food of any kind; just hard drink. According to some, the neon chicken is actually landmarked. Dates from 1947. Whoever founded this place must have loved him some roosters.

The place is actually called the Chanticleer Lounge, for the record. But lounge seems pretty high-falutin' for this dive.

Lost City: Albany Edition: K.W. Savory

K.W. Savory deli on James Street in downtown Albany has been closed since 2002, at least, but the mint-green neon sign is still there, and it has to count as one of my all-time favorites. The color, first of all, is unusual. So is the name, which I imagine is made up and is not someone's name. The purposefully misspelled "Redi Lunches" is intriguing, as it the enticement of "Homemade Ice Cream." Finally, the swooping tail on the "Y."

Lost City: Troy, NY, Edition: Pork Store Closes

Above is one of the last pictures taken of Troy, New York's famous Troy Pork Store open for business. It was taken in July. I've learned recently that the century-old shop closed its doors in early August without explanation. Nobody knows why because the owners aren't saying, but people point to the rising cost of meat and energy. It was owned since 2004 by former Price Chopper butchers Carmen Amedio and John Mesko.

The Troy Pork Store was founded in 1918 by Charles Komerz. It made its own sausage, pepperoni, liverwurst, salami—anything you could think of—and served local families and businesses, as well as those throughout the Capital District. But its greatest fame came, perhaps, from creating the tiny hot dogs distinctive to the Troy-Albany area. The mini-dogs were bought and sold by classic local restaurants such as the nearby Famous Lunch, which always bought its dogs from the Troy Pork Store. Don't know where they're going to get them now.

What's happening in New York City is happening everywhere, folks. Our heritage, our individualism, our craftmanship are getting wiped out by corporate chains, feckless capitalism, and the governments that support them. Goodbye Troy Pork Shop, Hello Price Chopper!

Lost City: Albany Edition: Jack's Oyster House

On a recent trip to Upstate New York, I was talking to a local businessman and asked him if there were any old bars or restaurants in Albany that captured the city's past, the world of William Kennedy's novels. I was crestfallen when he shook his head and said, "All of that is gone." Then he remembered one place: Jack's Oyster House.

You can tell from just the name that Jack's is old. It still serves oysters, just to keep up tradition. I imagine in the old days the bivalves played a much bigger role. It was founded in 1913 by Jack Rosenstein, a former oyster shucker who actually hated oysters. The restaurant was on Beaver Street. In 1937, it moved to its present location on State Street, just a stone's throw from the Capital Building.

Now you know no restaurant is going to survive that long in Albany without the patronage of politicians. And Jack's gets them in droves. During a recent August lunch visit, the place was pretty barren except for a gigantic telemarketer jawing nonstop to his parents about all the tricks of his trade. He sure looked like a politician; the back-room, cigar-chomping kind. Otherwise, nobody. Albany goes on vacation in August, like everyone else. The waitress pointed out a large booth in the back, however, as being the Governor's Booth.


Jack's is still run by the Rosenstein family, the third generation. It survived the Depression and the awful "urban renewal" years of the '60s and '70s. It never closes. Not even on Christmas Day.

The Menu includes a few things that supposedly have been there since 1913, including the Manhattan Chowder, which I tried. They also boast a Bloody Mary using a "1913 recipe," which I didn't try, and which I'm going to publicly dispute here as bullshit. Most drink experts credit Fernand Petiot, an American bartender at Harry's New York Bar in Paris during the 1920s, as inventing the Bloody Mary. It didn't arrive on these shores until the 1930s and didn't become widely popular until after WWII. If Jack's made a Bloody Mary in 1913, they're saying they invented the cocktail. And I doubt they're saying that.

Nonetheless, Jack's is a pretty swell place. Old booths, wooden walls, mirrored back wall, checked floor, bentwood chairs, chandeliers. Albany lawmakers deserve a place like this to scheme and unwind.

Below is a picture of the Jack's building before it became Jack's. Hm. When's the last time you went to an Oriental Occidental Restaurant?

Lost City: Ithaca Edition: Ithaca Diner

Ithaca's got Cornell, where Nabokov once taught. It's got Ithaca College, where Rod Serling once taught. It's got Gimme Coffee, which is yummy stuff. And there's a lot of physical beauty surrounding it. But otherwise this small Finger Lakes city is a pretty forlorn place, with many boarded-up businesses and a hangdog air about the downtown.

A case in point is the dejected atmosphere of the perfectly preserved Ithaca Diner, which has sat on State Street "forever," according to the waitress. Seventy years is more like it. The current owner, a friendly Greek fry cook, is the third in the diner's history. He, the salty waitress, and a burly fellow in back made up the staff. The clientele, scruffy and unhurried and all over 60, lingered over their coffees and omelettes, passing the breeze with the workers, or sometimes just sitting there. One got the impression that they had left the world behind long ago, or the world had left them behind.

It's a narrow place. A counter with a row of stools and a row of booths opposite. Orange vinyl upholstery. Coat hooks. Signs notifying diners that only cash was accepted and that they should keep their feet on the floor when they belong. I ordered the last Diet Coke of the day ("Let me see if we still have any") and a bacon cheeseburger and fries. The food came quickly on small plates.

The waitress complained that they couldn't get any good help. "A city full of people out of work, and they laugh in my face." Prices are cheap, but it didn't look like the diner—which closes after lunch—was particularly profitable. A sign in the window said it was for sale.

It would be a shame if it passes into history. The owner said old Cornell alumni still come in and talk about how they and their future spouse went on their first date at the Ithaca Diner.

Lost City: Troy, NY, Edition: Jimmy's Lunch

Jimmy's Lunch. In lonely old Troy, NY, which once processed the nation's steel, shirt collars, bells and liquor, and guided its tugboats up the Erie Canal. Borders Congress Street and an alley, giving it a shady, marginal category. The neon "Open" sign is placed at an angle, as if to beckon would-be customers down on busy nearby 4th Avenue, blocked only by the American flag. Inside, it is on the dark side. No light is wasted. The air seems to be akin to syrup, so slowly do people move. You can hear the dust settle. No rat race here. Just cheap lunch plates. Breakfast for $1.95. Jimmy's "Fine Food," as the sign says.

A Good Sign: Grand Hotel

This Grand Hotel is on Main Street in tiny downtown Nassau, NY, a pretty white clapboard community in Rensselaer County. The Grand Hotel is all of two stories tall, and probably contains four rooms. You won't find Greta Garbo in this place. The hotel is no longer in operation. Nor is the restaurant (see below). All that remains is an attached liquor store. But the store and building are still owned by the family that owned the hotel, and they hope to reopen the lodging and dining arms of the business soon.

A lovely sign. Check on the curving arrow that bears the word "Bar."

Lost City: Troy, NY, Edition: South End Cafe

One of the most intimidating old-school bars I've ever encountered rests on a desolate, curving stretch of Burden Avenue in South Troy, New York. Maybe it's the spare tan facade. Maybe it's the boarded-up, depressed feel of the surrounding neighborhood. Maybe it's the "Ladies Entrance" neon sign, almost as big as the main sign, that still defiantly hangs outside the building, despite the fact that ladies entrances in bars gasped their last gasp in the 1970s. Maybe it's the fact that rough-looking men were already inside at 11 AM, drinking in near darkness. Maybe it's all these things.

The place, known locally as Marty Burke's, after its founder, opened in 1934. It serviced the steel mill workers who once populated the area. (It's right near Mill Street.) A sign in the window promised "Steamers are Back!" Otherwise, the food is what you expect.

And the "Ladies Entrance" sign? Back in the 1970s, there were calls for it to be taken down, that it was sexist. Ironic, since the original owner hung it up because he wanted to serve women—a thing that a lot of bars at the time did not do. Anyway, the Troy City Council saved the sign by declaring it a historical landmark. Good councilmembers and true.

Lost City: Troy, NY, Edition: Tiny Hot Dogs

Localized culinary traditions drive me mad with excitement. In these days of rapid globalization and homogeneity, they're a sign of continued life and individuality; provincialism in the best sense.

Troy, New York, a mid-sized city on the Hudson River, just north of Albany, has a lot to interest the curious traveler who's not too put off by the drab trappings of a down-on-its-luck, has-been industrial center. There's the famed Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, the oldest technological university in the English-speaking world. It was home to the W. & L. E. Gurley, Co., which for more than a century made precision instruments that were used to survey much of the American West after the Civil War (it's building is now a national landmark). Also here was the Meneely Bell Company, which made, yes, bells, that went all over the country and the world. The Erie Canal begins just north of here. For the literary-minded, "A Visit from St. Nicholas" was first published in the Troy Sentinel, and Kurt Vonnegut set a couple of his novels here. For the Mob-obsessed, Legs Diamond did business here during the bad-old Prohibition days, when liquor flowed down from Canada through Troy. And, perhaps most significantly, the notion of "Uncle Sam" began here when butcher Sam Wilson supplied the Union troops in the Civil War with meat. Soldiers equated the U.S. stamped on the barrels with "Uncle Sam" Wilson.

All this intrigues me, but what got me jumping up and down when I recently visited Troy were the tiny hot dogs. Yes, tiny hot dogs. For whatever reason, Troy, Albany and the surrounding area take their frankfurters in bite-size portions. Three-inch franks are served on three-inch buns, and people typically order a bunch of them, the way folks get a sack of small burgers from White Castle. No one could explain to me why this is, only that it's been this way for some time.

No place in Troy dolls out these delicacies with more notoriety than Famous Lunch on Congress Street right in the downtown. The luncheonette has been there since 1932 and has been run by three generations of the Vasil family. It used to be called Quick Lunch before, well, it became famous—supposedly because some Troy marine stationed in Moscow got a hankering for the dogs and had some flown over. Since then, it's Famous Lunch.



Troy used to teem with mills, and thus teemed with mill workers, and Famous Lunch still looks like a place suited to them. There are no airs. There are blond wooden booths along the right wall, a counter with low stools along the left, checkered tile floor, a stainless steel grill on the other side of the counter, and a wooden phone booth at the back. Ur-luncheonette.

Prices are cheap. I took the owner's advice and got the "special": four hot dogs with the works and a drink. "The works" includes "Zippy sauce" (a special concoction) chopped onions, mustard and a dark beanless chili. Literally hundreds of these dogs are cooking on a grill near the front window and the counter guys fix them up quickly. One tattooed gentleman next to me order a dozen, all piled up on a plate. Made me feel like a lightweight. The mini dogs are garlicky and strong, and probably a good recipe for heartburn, but I ate them with no protest. There's something called Zippy Fries on the menu, and supposedly the famous rice pudding is served with half and half, but I didn't try these.



The wieners have always been made by the same German butcher, the Troy Pork Store, just a couple blocks away. It's been around since 1918. It's another gem of Troy authenticity.



And I found a 12-pack of miniature hot dog buns at this Troy bakery, ready to the taking home, in case you need some small franks in the comfort of your four walls. All of Troy, you see, is in on the local lunch legacy.