A Good Sign: Parkside Lounge

The Parkside Lounge has been lending beauty, grit and integrity to the corner of E. Houston and Attorney Streets for decades. How they stay in business in this climate, I do not know. The owners must one the one-story building.

Who is Louis Zuflacht?

Louis Zuflacht. What a name. Hard to forget. Especially when it's in large metal letters (formerly lit by neon), in an ostentatious font, on the side of a building.

That's the name that has graced the building at the corner of Suffolk and Stanton Streets for many decades now. A clothier, Zuflacht hasn't done business out of this storefront in a generation or two. But subsequent occupants of the address—either out of deference to the lovely signage, or out of laziness—have left Louis' name up there, ensuring that the former proprietor has not entirely passed from public memory.

I've passed by the sign dozens of times and never bothered to look up his story, though I've always been intrigued. It seems the right time to correct that error since the shop is unoccupied at present (after being everything from an art gallery to a video gamer hangout), so, it could be argued, 154 Stanton Street belongs to Louis Zuflacht more now than in has in many years.

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The Windows of Ben Freedman Gent's Furnishing

When voices like mine bemoan an old business going down, we don't always mourn the event for the same reasons. Some businesses are missed because they are classic purveyors of their type (the Stage Deli, for instance). Some because they are part of the fabric of a particularly neighborhood (the Hat restaurant, or Milady's). Some because they did one special thing better than everyone else (Joe's Superette, with their prosciutto balls). Some because they perform a bygone task that nobody else does anymore (typewriter report, for one). And some just because they are remarkably old (Manganaro Groceria Italiano).

Take Ben Freedman Gent's Furnish, one of the last old-school garment hawkers left on the Lower East Side. It's been there on Orchard since 1927, which makes it pretty old. But it's not a classic. The name Ben Freedman is not normally on the lips of everyday New Yorkers. It is not a famous store, and it does not carry the best clothes in town.

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A Memory of Levy's Pizza

Levy's stood at the northeast corner of Delancey and Essex in Manhattan, where Roma Pizza now is, and sold frankfurters, hamburgers, custard and pizza. You could buy a (non-kosher) hot dog and a glass mug of root beer for ten cents. Though the pizza doesn't get the biggest play on the sign, apparently it was something else. A reader recently wrote in:

Levy's pizza was something special, ironic in that a purveyor of a very ordinary pie (Roma) now occupies that location. The Levy pizza was unique in its composition of very thin crust, slightly tangy sauce and relatively light quantity of mozarella. I'd classify it as highly addictive. I lived in the neighborhood but had a friend "hooked on the pizza" who would often travel from midtown to partake of several slices. From my recollection, they served that same recipe from as far back as the '60s into the early '80s at which point they switched over to a more conventional product. Apparently, the Levy slice is something that must remain but a fond memory. 

The Mystery of Jade Fountain Liquor Corporation

The Lower East Side has lost a great many of its mercantile landmarks over the past 20 years of gentrification. And I'm not suggested that Jade Fountain Liquor Corporation—a grungy little booze shop on Delancey east of Essex—can replace the likes of Ratner's or Gertel's. But, hey, it is nearly a hundred years old!

Maybe.

According to the patchwork sign—which says, among many things, "As Old As Hills"—the store was was found in 1920-something. (I can't tell what the last number, now fallen off, was.) Which is, of course, absolute nonsense. No liquor store in the U.S. was founding in 1920-anything, because Prohibition was in effect from 1920 to 1933. Nor is it likely that the shop has existed all that time as Jade Fountain. Not in this location, which was solidly Jewish until the 1960s or so. Chinatown didn't start to encroach on Delancey and Essex until the late 1980s

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Lost City Asks, "Who Goes to El Sombrero (The Hat)?"

Who goes to The Hat? Well, I do, that's who. Or, I did. Often. I lived on Eldridge Street from 1988 to 1994, when the area was still pretty scruffy. I soon learned of The Hat and it's cheap, hot, nourishing food and inexpensive Mexican beers. Mexican cuisine wasn't as common back then as it is now, and The Hat's kitchen work passed muster. At least with a not-especially-savvy twentysomething, anyway.

Over the years I've seen all of the things I associate with Ludlow Street back then disappear: Todo Con Nada, The Pink Pony, Max Fish, Ludlow Street Cafe. The Hat will be the last man to fall. (Aside from Katz's, of course, which I place in a separate, 19th-century category.)

Here's my Who Goes There? column:

Who Goes There? El Sombrero Restaurant (The Hat)

El Sombrero Restaurant—known to one and all simply as "The Hat"—is the last bit of the old Lower East Side to grace the northernmost block of Ludlow Street. Not the old, OLD Lower East Side; that neighborhood is still represented by Katz's Delicatessen, which still anchors the street after 125 years. I mean the old Lower East Side, the gritty, pre-gentrification neighborhood, when the streets at night were still forbidding and empty.

At the time it opened, in 1983, The Hat was a necessary outpost of cheap, decent food, a place where both locals and the various young people who had moved to the Lower East Side for the cheap rents (can you imagine such a time?) could fill up for very little money. Because of that, and its highly visible location and late hours, it became an instant hit among downtown denizens. Today, it looks quite quite of place, surrounded as it is with trendy bars and restaurants that outclass it in both food and price. You can see the swanky Stanton Social down the street through The Hat's long double wall of windows. So, it wasn't much of a shock, then, when it was announced that the place would close. (A waitress told me it might hang on until January.) I'm surprised it actually lasted this long in the current economic environment.

I used to go to The Hat quite a bit, but roughly 15 years had passed since my last visit. I was a bit stunned to see that almost nothing had changed about the joint. The dining room was still a collection of utilitarian tables, some designed for large parties, many covered in plastic. A few sombreros and bad painting adorned the walls. The not-terribly-potent frozen margaritas were still flowing. The menu of Mexican-American standards was the same, and I'll be damned, but I think the prices were, too. (Taco and enchilada and beans and salad: $9.) The food, I have to say, was not as good as I remember it. I never thought it was fantastic Mexican cuisine, but I did find it satisfying in a humble sort of way. Maybe the quality's gone down over the years. Or maybe I was just hungrier back then.

Also the same, roughly, is the crowd. The Hat still attracts young people, as it did in the '80s and early '90s. Back then the neighborhood was brimming with scruffy, upstart theater companies like Nada and The Piano Store, and indie boutiques, and the talk at the tables was often about creative matters. That's no longer the case. It's just plain, vacuous, table talk now. On the television was the World Series. But, when the customers weren't watching, the staff would change the channel to a Dominican baseball game.

Sibling owners Josephina Diaz and Palmerio Fabian's decision to close their restaurant down is their own. Apparently, they've had enough. (They bought the business in 1990 from their uncle, Jose Suriel, who founded it.) El Sombrero will be replaced by a branch of the Artichoke Pizza chain, which softens the blow a bit. At least it's a local chain. The Hat may not have been a great restaurant—apart from its excellent name—but for a long time it was a necessary one. It was a place where a poor twentysomething with $40 in his pocket could eat and drink like a king on a Friday night, and, for one hour, not think too badly of the way New York was treating him.

—Brooks of Sheffield

A Memory of Old Ludlow Street

Found among the comments on an item I wrote about the changes on Ludlow Street back in 2008, from the actual owner of the once-popular Ludlow Street Cafe:

I owned The Ludlow Street Cafe and The Piano Store. I lived on Ludlow St. since 1967 and Jack Forster worked for me (Hi Jack) and was right about the guns and that it was NOT a job for a guy just out of college! (Hey Gaby we NEVER sold a piano? We sold lots of pianos!) Before gentrification got out of control it was fun. The block is now unbearable--not then. We had 3 bands a night 7 nights a week. The food was good and it was cheap. Girls would bend over garbage cans--we kept the backyard dark. Drug dealers provided something wanted--if they sold in the bathrooms they were fine. We had no C of O--our legal limit was 74. Fri/Sat night we'd have well over 200 people. They never bothered us for it but clocked us $1,500 for selling a beer to a cop who looked 30. The brunch was first-rate. It was all fun and firsts and I feel responsible for bailing when I did--if it had kept it's rough edges Ludlow St. might have survived. We NEEDED the bodegas selling bags of dope 8-Balls of coke on 

The Death of Henry Rothkopf

116 Suffolk Street on the Lower East Side still bear the big, bold name of it's former occupant: S. Rothkopf & Sons. Rothkopf was a maker of children's nightwear, as well as "trimming, buttons and veilings."

It's funny how these inadvertently preserved signs in the city often open the door on a forgotten tragedy or scandal. In 1895, Henry Rothkopf, the senior partner in the firm (and son of Simon Rothkopf, the founder), committed suicide. He did the dead in his office, at 9:30 a.m., by shooting himself in the head. He was 33.

On the day of his death, Henry's behavior was perfectly normal and business-like. He drew out some money from the cashier, went out for a bit, returned, signed some papers and handed them to the cashier. Then, he shot himself. Henry had no business troubles, but he was lame and in ill health, and officials thought this was what drove him to suicide. It was surmised that he purchased the pistol with the money he withdrew that very morning. The gun was new.

Lower East Side Survivor to Close

By some miracle, the age-old Crawford Fine Gold Jewelry has quietly held down the busy corner of Canal and Forsyth for years, surviving the neighborhood's transformations from immigrant mecca to neglected slum to hipster haven. I've passed by the store many a time while on my way to the East Broadway F line stop after a night of Chinatown dining, always admiring the old neon clock that sits in the window. I never saw it operating during the daylight hours, and always wondered who patronized the sad little relic.

Yesterday, I passed by the address and saw that the shop had finally thrown in the towel. "Everything Must Go" read a sign in the door. The store is closing.

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The Felonious Tale of Garfunkel and Tauster

I was walking down the lower stretch of Clinton Street on the Lower East Side when I gave 67 Clinton a once over and noticed its interesting cornice pronouncement: Garfunkel & Tauster Building. Who they?

They were private bankers, and Garfunkel & Tauster—not the most euphonious business name on record—was a banking firm. Max Garfunkel and Marcus Tauster were their principals. They went into business in 1919. By 1924, they were bankrupts, criminals and fugitives.

Garfunkel and Tauster were indicted for making false statements to the State Superintendent of banks before the failure of their bank. Garfunkel pleaded guilty and took a term of six months to three years. Tauster, however, fled with his wife and kids. He was found in October 1924 in North Bay, Ontario, posing as drygoods salesman Max Bauman. He was extradited and sentenced to two to four years in Sing Sing.

The real estate company that now owns 67 Clinton has cheekily taken on the building's name, calling itself the Garfunkel & Tauster Corp. I wonder if they are aware of their predecessors' business legacy.

Rkov Didn't Close the Gate

Witnessed this scene on Grand Street on the Lower East Side the other night. Ventured closer to the Kosher Bagel place to eyeball the sign taped to the door. "Rkov! Close the gate please." (I am probably getting the name wrong. Looks like a backward R to me. But I've never heard of the name Rkov.) The roller shutter was up at 1 AM. Looks like Rkov forgot.

A Good Sign: Parkside Bar

On E. Houston Street, the Lower East Side.

Nice Decorative Hole in the Wall You've Got There

At the northeast corner of Avenue C and E. 7th is the finest hole in the wall in Alphabet City.

Obviously, this beauteous piece of terra cotta work once surrounded a lovely clock. The clock was provided by the Public National Bank Building. This bank branch was erected in 1923 by architect Eugene Schoen. Schoen's work around the clock was inspired by Josef Hoffman, a founder of the Viennese Secession. The building was sold in 1954; Public National was bought out a year later. It was a nursing home for a while. Now it's a residence. It was declared a landmark in 2008. But what time is it?

Always a Bar

The Local 269, a bar at the corner of E. Houston and Suffolk Streets, hasn't been around for that long. But, hey, that "Bar" sign hanging on the edge of the building—that's been through a life or two.

By its battered look, the sign's been around for a half century. So which bar left it behind? Hard to say. There have been so many bars at this corner. Before Local 269, this was the Vasmay Lounge. Prior to that, this was the address of the famous lesbian club Meow Mix. (That's still how I think of this corner.) Before that, it was a bar called The Far Side. Beyond that, I lose the thread. But surely there are some other taverns in the space's past. Anyone out there know?

LES Laboratorio Del Gelato Really Looks Like Laboratory

I was walking down E. Houston Street when I passed by this white, well-lit place. I thought the neighborhood had gotten a new free clinic.

But, no, it was actually a new storefront for Laboratorio Del Gelato and Cafe Grumpy, the makers of yummy ice cream and espresso. And it actually looks like a laboratory. Sanitized. Everything just so.

You know, I really like Laboratorio Del Gelato's gelato. It's great. And I like Cafe Grumpy's coffee. But, come on guys. This is ridiculous. Get a sense of humor about what you do. Just make the ice cream. Make the coffee. Don't pretend you work as NASA. Old Italian immigrants did the same thing you're doing in the Lower East Side 100 years ago. And they didn't act like they were handling radioactive materials.

I started to read one of these informational posters. There are three of them. One about the espresso bar, one about production. Or, I mean, Produzione. And this one. Next thing I knew, a beat cop was nudging me with his night stick, rousing me from my sleep and telling me to "Move along."

A Hell of a Rotten Idea

There is, of course, no limit to the number of stupid, city-soul-killing ideas that arise in Bloomberg's dystopian New York. But even among the most bonebrained notions, the removal of the Essex Street Market from the Lower East Side stands out in its wrongheadedness.

The Daily News reported earlier this month that Community Board 3 is considering whether the Essex Street Market should move when the city starts developing something called the Seward Park Urban Renewal Area. Community Board 3 passed guidelines in late January for the development of a stretch of parking lots along Delancey Street, and the renewal project includes the plot where the market stands and the guidelines suggest a possible move.

Why the removal of this beautiful and wonderful market, built in 1940, would constitute "renewal" for the area, no one suggests. Nor does anyone explain how the multifarious market, full of food merchants both historic and new, is dragging down the neighborhood. Anyone who visits the Essex Street Market regularly—or has stumbled upon it be accident—know was a flavorful experience a stroll through its stalls can be, and how much character and authenticity and neighborhood feeling it lends to an area that is increasingly plastic.

There is now a "Save The Essex Street Market" petition, so go check it out and sign before CB3 can act any further on this idiotic idea.  

Apparently, the Hunts Point wholesale produce market in the South Bronx might also decamp, perhaps to New Jersey. Because, you know, New York doesn't need any kind of industry or anything like that. We're good the way we are. As long as we keep the Yankees, Mets, the New York Stock Exchange, new chain franchises and plenty of condo developments. We're good. 

A Kind of Landmark

When I first moved to New York 23 years ago, I lived a couple blocks from this Stop One deli on the corner of Allen and Stanton. I visited it from time to time, and I can tell you that it was a kind of beacon in what was then a stick foreboding and dangerous area at night. There was little else around it that stayed open late into the evening.

With all the changes the LES has gone through in the past decade, I'm surprised it's still there. It looks better now, slicker. The sign was clumsier in the early 1990s and the windows forever filthy. And it sure was calling itself a "gourmet deli." I like that it hasn't been shoved out yet by the onslaught of clubs, boutiques and bars. I showed there's still room for a shabby little New Yawky business on the Lower East Side yet.

While we're on the subject, what is the deal with the Stop One delis? You find them scattered across the city, though not many of them. And they're usually in the most ramshackle neighborhoods. Is this a chain? Are these franchises? They don't seem to be related in any way, but they bear the same name and sometimes the same signs. They're sort of the Ray's Pizza or Blarney Stones of the deli demi-monde.

Before Beauty & Essex

There's been a lot of buzz about the new LES hot spot Beauty & Essex recently. I've been inside. Nero never knew such gaudy opulence.

The space is huge. Which should come as no surprise, as the space was for many years a furniture store. M. Katz & Sons Fine Furniture to be specific. Above and below are before and after shots of the exterior. Beauty & Essex retained the shadow of the former letters, as well as the vertical "Katz Furniture" sign. Nothing of the interior remains, aside from some brick walls.

Katz is a family-owned business. It was founded in 1906 by Meilich Katz, beginning on Stanton Street before moving to Essex. In the 1930s, Meilich was joined by his three sons, Irving, Pincus and Joseph. In the late 1960s, Irving's sons Maurice and Arthur entered the firm. It may come as a surprise to some to know that the business still exits. It has relocated to 20 Orchard Street. It's currently run by the fifth generation of Katzes.

Quote of the Week

Regarding the closing of Max Fish, The Pink Pony and Mars Bar:

"The Lower East Side felt like it was over a while ago, but [Max Fish] is a very symbolic closing," said author Richard Price, who used the neighborhood as a backdrop to his best seller "Lush Life." "There are no neighborhoods in Manhattan anymore. South of Harlem, it feels like a bunch of districts where rich people can crash."

Goodbye, LES Youth

I spent my early years in New York on the Lower East Side, specifically Eldridge Street between Houston and Stanton. So the news this week just about stomped my 20s into the ground. Max Fish, the 21-year-old bar on Ludlow Street below Houston announced it would close for good in two months  owing to skyrocketing rent, courtesy of one Mordechai Weiss. Soon after, Max Fish neighbor The Pink Pony also said it was heading for the door.

I wasn't a regular at either, but I did visit on occasion, and both businesses loomed large in my daily life back then. Both owners say they will relocate elsewhere. Don't count on it.

Bad week for the Lower East Side.

Must every landlord wake up one day and decide to double the rent? Where's a wooden stake when you need one?