The Ghost of Sunview Luncheonette

As one of my regular objects of obsession, I have checked in on the Sunview Luncheonette at least once every year since the classic Greenpoint diner shut its doors in 2008, after an inspection from the Department of Health made things too cost prohibitive for the old Greek woman who ran it to reopen. The owner has left the interior untouched. I like to peer in and see how time is treating the old booth, telephone booths, stools, counter and menu board. But never once have I seen a flicker of life inside.

Last week, however, I was sitting on a bench opposite the diner, resting my feet, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a darkened figure slip in the front door of the diner and the screen door bang shut. I jumped to my feet and crossed the street. Maybe, if I asked nicely, I could gain access to the restaurant and ask a few questions about its future. I came to the window and peered in. No one was inside. I went to the door. It was locked. Strange.

I stood outside the diner for a good ten minutes. Whoever had gone in there was not making a sound or moving a muscle. I know I had seen someone. Had they slipped out the back? Or is the Sunview Luncheonette haunted?

Looking in on the Sunview Luncheonette

It's been more than two years since I checked in on the Sunview Luncheonette, the beautiful old Greenpoint diner that closed its doors in early 2008 after an inspection from the Department of Health made things too cost prohibitive for the old Greek woman who ran it to reopen. I wanted to see if it had been occupied, gutted or remained in a state of suspended animation. 

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Checking in With the Sunview Luncheonette

On a cold spring day Last April, I discovered the Sunview Luncheonette—too late. The almost-too-perfect Greenpoint diner, founded in 1963 at the corner of Russell and Nassau in Greenpoint, had been closed by the Department of Health some months prior to my visit. A little detective work uncovered that the old Greek woman who ran it was heartbroken, but had no plans to reopen. The place was famous among its patrons for its humble, friendly service, absolutely unchanging decor and ridiculously low prices. (Nothing seemed to cost more than $2.)

While in Greenpoint recently, I went out of my way to look in on the Sunview. Though I never had the pleasure of visiting, it has some mysterious claim on my heart.

It is just as it was. Nothing has changed in nine months. The same signs in the window, the same DOH notices, the interior untouched and apparently maintained to a certain extent (it didn't look overly dusty). The building still appears to be owned by the Greeks, according to city records. Perhaps they can't bear to part with it, or can't find a buyer in these hard times. For now, it's a living museum of luncheonette history, one you can't gain admission to.

The Germans Must Have a Word for It; or, Will the Sunview Rise Again

One of the hazards of writing a blog like this, forever trolling the City with an eye out for the worthwhile corners of New York that are on their way out or hanging on by their fingernails, is that some days you become so sodden with grief that you begin lamenting not only the places you knew and loved and are now gone forever, but also shops and stores that you never even knew in the first place, but discovered too late. Is there a word for missing something you never had? It's sort of like running to catch a train at Grand Central and getting there just as it's pulling out of the station. You'll never know, but you just have a feeling life would have been that much better if you had only made that train.

Which brings us to the Sunview Luncheonette. What's left of it stands at the corner of Russell and Nassau in Greenpoint. It was founded in 1963 by a Greek couple. The rusted sign says "Sunview" nowhere. It says only "Luncheonette" and then "Fountain." (Fountain!) It also says "Coca-Cola." I peered through the dirty windows of the Sunview for the first time only last weekend. I couldn't get in. It was closed by the Health Department last September. A health notice in the window is scrawled over with the message "The Greeks will be back!"




The scene inside made my heart ache. A classic long counter with a row of round, backless stools. A shining stainless steel prep area. Old Pepsi menu boards hanging from the wall, listing the the menu's items and low, low prices. (Burgers are a buck fifty or something.) A tin ceiling. A ceiling fan. On the right wall a line of booths. And—Holy Sweet Jesus!—two wooden phone booths side by side in perfect condition. It was peerless. It was perfect.


How could it be that I could not enter? How could I have found out about this place only after the DOH made it a victim of its face-saving crusade in the wake of the KFC-Taco Bell-rat fiasco?

Surveying the internet, I found people had only good things to say about the diner and it's owners, Lou and Dimitria, who for some reason is known to patrons at Bea. I found a phone number for the Sunview and, even though the place was clearly closed, called. I guess I wanted to determine if the line was in service. If it was, there was still hope.

I was shocked when someone picked up—an old woman with a soft, frail voice. After a few moments, I realized this was Bea herself. And though I had disturbed her, and brought up a sore subject ("Will the diner reopen?"), she was in a talking mood. She said the place may open up again one day, but "not by me." At first, I thought that meant she was through with the business and the Sunview would never see another dawn. Then I understood that she was looking for a new person to run the restaurant. And then I uncovered that that someone had come along and was actually planning to the start up engines once more. Who? When? I don't know. It was a sad conversation and I didn't want to keep her.

I told her my desire to visit the Sunview just one time. She said she hoped I would very soon. So do I.