Jay Dee, the Passover Palace

Necessity in the mother of discovery.

Recently, as Passover was approaching, my wife, who is Jewish, was crying out for Kosher for Passover grub to fill our fridge and cupboards. I work in the most non-Jewish part of Queens and dreaded the long trip into Manhattan to find the needed goods. So I boarded the V to blindly investigate Forest Hills, motivated by nothing more than the vague feeling that I’d heard somewhere sometime that there was Kosher food out there.

My instincts are good. There was Kosher food there, in spades. Restaurants, markets, pizzerias, sushi, butchers, a magnificent temple to eating called the Knish Nosh, and at least one bakery: the Jay Dee, as a circa-1950s sign about five feet high (and the biggest thing on the storefront) proclaimed proudly. Guess you’ve got to have a big sign to be seen across roomy Queens Boulevard.

Big sign, I thought. Old place, too. But Kosher? I ventured in. Shelves and racks and counters filled with pastries, cakes, cookies and bread. Nah, I decided, looks too tasty. None of these delicacies can be Kosher for Passover, a holiday renowned for engendering the worst excuses for dessert in the history of man. (The taste of sawdust comes to mind.) Nonetheless, I asked the somewhat fish-eyed young lady behind the counter if she had any treats suitable for holiday consumption. She wordlessly gestured to every single thing in the window.

An older man with whispy white hair came out from in back to tell me everything in the store was in fact Kosher for Passover. It was like some fantastical dream, like hearing that every course of the scrumptious meal you’ve just eaten was made from tofu. Meanwhile, through a small, square window in the back wall, an irascible old man barked out orders in Russian or Hungarian or something.

I chose a chocolate nut cake and something called a “cherry strip.” Really a strudel, but that’s a German term, and you can’t blame a Jewish bakery for preferring to say “strip.”

Fear Strikes Out

Last week, I mustered up the courage to enter and dine at the spooky Spanish restaurant on the corner of 38th Street and 7th Avenue, the one which I mentioned in my earlier posting “Follow the Pushcarts.” It’s one of those Manhattan places that seemed caked with the dust of time and is so decrepit and unpeopled one wonders how it stays in business year after year. (The West 50s and older parts of the Village are filled with these sorts of places; usually they are either French or Spanish, eternal cuisines not effected by culinary trends).

What had I been afraid of?

Turns out, the joint is called The Spanish Taverna, a rather linguistically confused piece of nomenclature. It’s creepy character is actually confined to just the outside, which is made out to resemble a cantina. Once inside, things are demonstrably cleaner. The small bar area is peculiarly twilit, and the barflies even more peculiar. But a few feet past that, one finds the largish dining area as neat as a pin and not at all in disrepair, though the lighting remains dim and the décor, including several indifferent oil paintings, drab.

But the food! The Spanish Taverna turns out to be one of the great Spanish restaurants in the city, a hidden gem. The menu is deep with classic dishes that go beyond the expected Paella. Seafood reigns, so I decided to order in that direction. The waiter—officious, friendly and knowledgeable, a waiter who actually cared about what he’s doing—steered me toward a medley of seafood bathed in a “salsa versa,” a green sauce of garlic, wine and parsley. It arrived in a pewter pot and was ladled by the waiter into my bowl (Service!). Absolutely delicious, with the shrimp and scallops fresh and firm.

This was preceded by stuff mushrooms so tender they reminding me of garlic-sautéed escargot, and refreshing homemade sangria. If only I had gotten food like this when I was actually in Spain, benighted land of heavy, gluttonous meals served at ungodly late hours.

The place was fairly empty, just a few regulars. Such a relief from the more crowded places nearer to Times Square. It’s not ancient: the waiter said it had been there 30 years. Why they don’t wash down the front, I don’t know. But then, more people would know about it and it would be spoiled.

The Sound of Silence Silenced

I was walking down Ninth Avenue between 45th and 44th Street yesterday when I discovered to my lasting regret that the Studio Coffee Shop had shuttered—has been for four months according to the doorman of the building that housed the restaurant.

Now, New York still has plenty of old-style coffee shops to please those who like an unpretentious lunch and the kind of coffee that’s brewed in a pot, but the Studio stood apart in its special brand of Edward Hopperesque timelessness. It was run by a Polish family that didn’t speak English much and didn’t go in for smiles. There was a long counter and the requisite booths. The menu wasn’t remarkable in any way, but the prices were good. All this is par for the course.

The main quality the Studio had that set it up as unique didn’t really hit you until you were sitting there for a good ten minutes. Incrementally, you’d start to feel strange. Why do all the regulars seem to be in high relief? Why do all the aged details of the kitchen and counter area keep catching your eye? Why do you feel like you’re in the middle of a play?

Because there’s no noise. No aural landscape. The Studio never turned on a television or a radio. No elevator music was piped in. Nothing. Just silence. Deathly silence. Dust-is-settling silence. The Studio was the quietest eatery I ever walked into, and both eerie and comforting for the lack of static. You could hear every word every person said, particularly the business going on back in the kitchen. The clink of your spoon in the coffee cup sounded like a crescendo.

I’ll miss a place that, in this day and age, chose peace, when all everyone else wants now is distraction.

Lost City: New Haven Edition, Part II

Continuing my travelogue of my daytrip to New Haven, the reason I trained it to the city in the first place was to pay a visit on Delmonico’s Hatters on Elm Street. The century-old hat shop is one of the last in the Northeast; headgear enthusiasts travel from all over New England to fill their hat needs. The place is on an intriguing little block—a high class, independent men’s wear emporium on the left, an ancient rubber stamp company on the right. The hat shop itself is quiet and unhurried—about 90 percent of their business is done over the internet now. Nonetheless, they have a full stock of felt and straw hats, caps, derbies, top hats, trilbies and berets. I purchased a fine straw panama with a black band and pinched front for the summer.

After that, I doubled back across the village green to the Anchor Restaurant, a classic bar with semi-circular red leather booths, wood-paneled walls and a great old neon sign outside. It’s a place for Martinis and Manhattans, where the guy in Frank Sinatra’s “One for My Baby” might roost to forget his troubles. A few old ladies were enjoying a midday lunch. The help was discussing their hangovers. It was cozy.
Next door was a tobacconist, equally ancient and untouched, called the Owl Shop. Apparently, it was once one of a chain of five, the first founded on Wall Street in 1934 by a Greek named Joseph St. John. The New Haven shop dates from 1937 and is the only one left. Apparently, when the Shubert Theatre down the street was a thriving out-of-town Broadway tryout stop, stage stars would stop in here to buy their cigars. Across the street is the Taft Hotel, now an apartment complex. This is the block of New Haven that mattered to theatre types during the last century, where a scene from “All About Eve” took place. Now, to keep up with the times, the Owl has opened a café in the back. Soon, hardware stores will have a café in the back.

I was too intimidated to go in, knowing that I, as a non-smoker, wouldn’t buy anything. On the train back, I read from A. J. Liebling’s boxing book “The Sweet Science.” He didn’t smoke either, but he would have gone into The Owl Shop. Too curious about life.

Lost City: New Haven Edition

Yes, I know this blogger’s job is to rail against the desecration and demolition of New York City’s cultural landmarks (and, on the odd occasion, raise a huzzah for the preservation of same), but yesterday I took a day trip to New Haven, a city that seems to cherish its ineffable culinary institutions in a way that should make Manhattan blush. So, here’s what I saw and know.

Of course, New Haven is home to “Apizza”—not “a pizza,” but the weirdo term they use up there for their superlative, brick-oven pies. Frank Pepe’s (founded 1925), Sally’s Apizza (founded 1938) and Modern Apizza (founded 1934) are the standard bearers. The former two are on Wooster Street in New Haven’s absolutely adorable little Little Italy. All are modest joints with few niceties (Sally’s seems stuck in 1974; the décor is so horrible you can’t look away) with lines of people snaking out the door at all times. Each is worth the wait, even if I could name a pizzeria or two in NYC that surpass them in taste.

But, I didn’t go there yesterday. I went to Louis’ Lunch, squat little brick oasis on Crown Street which purports to have invented the hamburger sandwich in 1895. (There are about five or so rival claims for this epoch-shaking invention.) Their idea of a hamburger, which apparently hasn’t changed in one hundred years, is a flame-grilled mound of meat served on lightly toasted white bread with cooked onions, chopped tomato and cheese. No condiments allowed.

This is a stubborn little place, the “Soup Nazi” of the burger world. Ask for ketchup and they might throw you out. A sign on the wall says “This is not Burger King. You do not get it your way, you get it my way or you don’t get the damned thing.” Another says “Of course, I don’t look busy. I did it right the first time.” Then there’s a picture of a ketchup bottle with a red line through it. Also a coke bottle similarly banned. (Shades of the Greek Coffee Shop skit on early Saturday Night Live: “No Coke—Pepsi.”) There are chips but no other side dishes to speak of, and sodas mainly hail from an obscure local maker in East Haven.

If you’re a first-timer, don’t expect much sympathy from the staff of two. Boston Red Sox fan “Joe”—who makes the burger in these ancient metal, Venus-fly-trap, vertical grills that, wherever they were made, that place sure don’t make ‘em anymore, if it’s around at all—doesn’t say anything. And the counter girl, a pretty Asian girl, is as tough a cookie as you’ll ever want to meet, and my choice for the next Bond vixen. No admission of weakness or human frailty from her. Just “chips are on top, drinks on the blackboard.”

The joint itself is a beaut. Old wood carved through with graffiti. The variety of seating in the tiny place is a wonder in itself. Wooden stools perched on metal piping around one side of the counter; leather-cushioned ottomans around the other side; a couple snug, old wooden booths with curved, wooden sides; a row of “single” booths lining one wall, with a wooden tray of sorts perched in front of each diner—a lot like those old school desks; and one large cast-iron table with a series of seats around it.

There are also a lot of guns on the wall. Not sure what that’s about.

Oh, and the burgers are fantastic. Unlike any you’ve ever had, incredibly juicy and fresh. I believe the heating devices, made in 1895, are the secret. And the ingredients are the right ones; ketchup would spoil the mix. $4.50 is the price of a burger, in case you don’t want to look dumb; it’s not posted anywhere.

Tomorrow, I’ll post Part Two of my New Haven tour.

The Best Bathroom in NYC

Bryant Park is not only the most elegant, best-kept part in New York City. It now has the town's best bathroom. A cool $200,000 helped pave the way to today's grand reopening of the park's Beaux Arts restroom, which has been closed for renovation since Jan. 15. How lavish is this public toilet? Get a load of this paragraph from the New York Times article:

"The new interior has grand 10-foot coffered ceilings, mosaic tiles, a crown molding of painted wood, illumination from brushed stainless-steel wall sconces, indirect cove lighting, a wainscoting of mosaic vines and floweres, mirrors framed in cherry wood and, yes, sinks and a baby-changing table capped with Bianco Verde marble from India."

Now, I don't know about you, but when I conjure up a description of my bathroom (or any bathroom), the words "coffered," "wainscoting" and "Bianco Verde marble" don't come to mind. That said, this is the kind of architectural decadence I approve of—the kind that benefits the public. Apparently, this WC is the most frequented in the entire NYC park system. And why not? With that decor, you exit feeling refreshed in two ways.

Follow the Garment Racks

Anyone seeking a taste of Manhattan before the money markets of the '80s and '90s polished its sidewalks and glass skyscrapers squeaky clean should leave the Disneyfied Tokyo known as Times Square and head a couple blocks to the south. Hell, just one block south will do. There are a few dirty, gargoyled buildings on the north side of 41st Street between Broadway and Sixth Avenue which seem from a city entirely apart from the one found just 30 seconds to the north.

This is the Garment District, an area between Ninth and Sixth Avenues and 42nd and 34th Street which has thus far stubbornly resisted to find space for hot new restaurants and outposts of Applebee's. (Duane Reades you can find.) Dart down any of the side streets and you'll find hole-in-the-wall (and probably illegal) Spanish bars, Kosher pizza joints, specialty fabric stores not the least bit concerned with their appearance and signage which probably hasn't been changed or given a spray of Windex in 40 years. Rolling racks filled with suits and dresses make up half the traffic, turning the streets and sidewalks into an obstacle course. Hot-dog-and-papaya joints are numerous, as well as no-frills barber shops. This neighborhood is also home to one of the last hat stores in Manhattan, Arnold's Hatters, on 8th near 35th, and some genuinly scary (Holland Bar, Bellevue) and scarily eccentric bars (The Distinguished Wakamba Cocktail Lounge—that's its full name. It has no listed phone number).

My particular favorite is 38th Street between 7th and 8th. Ben's delicatessen, a ridiculously oppulent Kosher eatery is on this block. So is Lazzara's, which makes exceedingly peculiar and delicious retangular pies, and, though it was founded in 1985, looks like it's about four times as old. To enter, you must walk up a black, metal staircase into what looks like (and was) the hallway of an old tenament, then turn right into someone's erstwhile living quarters. Aside from adding a lot of tables and chairs, Lazzara's has made no attempt to make the space look like anything else. No natural light enters this sanctum. They serve the food as if you're a guest in their living room, and, given the musty decor, you feel that that's where you are.

Downstairs, there used to be a cafeteria of Italian delicacies, also run by Lazzara's and frequented by Italian-speaking mobsters. Now its a Balkan (!) restaurant. Further on is a long, skinny Kosher pizzeria, where the Orthodox eyeball all goyem as they come in. The pizza isn't any good. Kosher pizza never is. (Flavor is apparently forbidden in the Torah.) But the place is a hoot. Finally, on the corner of Seventh Avenue is the Spanish Taverna. It is not of this world. Looking through the barred-windows, you feel the urge to wipe your glasses, so thick lies the haze of time on this antiquated place. It's never reviewed in Zagat's. It never will be. It doesn't care. Nor do its patrons care what's going on in the outside world, anymore than did the barflies in O'Neill's "Iceman Cometh." I have read that it actually serves excellent Spanish food, Sangria and stuffed mushrooms a specialty. One day I'll work up the courage to find out.

Blogger Babes

This posting is totally off-topic, so I will keep it short.

Has anyone noticed that the most celebrated females in the blogosphere are out-and-out cutiepies bordering on hotties? I thought one of the fine democratic principles of blogging was that any shut-in with talent could succeed in garnering an audience, regardless of their appearance. But look at Elizabeth Spiers (Dealbreaker), Jessica Coen (Gawker), Ana Marie Cox (formerly of Gawker, now an author), Stephanie Klein (Greek Tragedy), Jessica Cutler. A little mousy, all of them, but otherwise there's no reason why Tara Reid has a film career and they don't. Coincidence? Doubtful. It seems that the world of blogs works the same way the film, TV, theatre, radio, news and literature worlds do. Talent's great, but a pretty face will send you that extra mile. It will also look great on that book jacket.

Garage Sale

I've passed by the Tunnel Garage on the corner of Broome and Thompson streets many times and thought it a nice bit of Art Deco, about as architecturally interesting as a parking garage can be. Almost charming. Little did I, or anyone else, know that the best part of the building was hiding under a round "24 hr. Parking" sign perched at the top of the structure. That sign was removed recently because the building has been sold and is coming down. Hiding under it, as a March 28 New York Times article reports, was a beguiling terra-cotta medallion, showing the front end of a Model T. The garage was built in 1927, when Model Ts were still prevalent.

Local historians are trying to save the building, but seems to be settling for the more realistic goal of saving the medallion, which is certainly a one of a kind bit of decoration. The new owner seems inclined to help, though wonders if the cracked circle will survive the attempt.

My question is: Why was it covered with that worthless sign for decades in the first place? Or, more broadly, what the fuck is wrong with people? You own a kind-of-interesting building. Sure, you're in the parking biz, so aesthetic matters are not your strong suit. Maybe you're a barbarian, in fact. But, surely, upon seeing a multi-colored, terra-cotta doohicky on top of your garage, you'd ooh and ahh and be struck by its novelty and maybe even its beauty. Wouldn't you showcase it, let the world see it? Or, at least, keep your ratty, workaday "24 hr. Parking" sign the hell off of it? Why do businesses make their ugly buildings even uglier by wallpapering them with garish signs that scream "I'm an eyesore that blights the street, but I don't care as long as I sell one more wingnut!"

Another question: Why don't developers incorporate things like that medallion into their buildings anymore? Why doesn't it even occur to them to build a structure they'd be proud of, or at least that the public wouldn't cringe at? (Yes, I know the answer, and it's not good enough.)

One last thing. Guess what will replace the garage once it's gone? You have five seconds. If you didn't say apartment building, you're a dumb fuck who doesn't know that every building in Manhattan is being torn down one by one to make way for faceless, Soviet Bloc-like housing, housing, housing. Let's hope those next tenants don't own cars, 'cause there'll be no place to park 'em.

Days of Bread and Pastry Update

Strolled past Monte Leone's pastry shop (or, as they say, "shoppe") and discovered a few new wrinkles in the second coming of Cammerari's bakery. Seems the bakery was never actually, totally closed. Just closed in Carroll Gardens. There was still a branch in Bensonhurst—where Italian culture also thrives—churning out loaves for restaurants around the town. Also, an article in the window said Monte Leone's had been having cash flow problems and clashed with a health inspector. What? Didn't I buy enough mini eclairs and pignoli cookies to keep them in black?

So, contrary to my previous report, Cammerari's story wasn't as sad as all that, and Monte Leone wasn't exactly enjoying good times. I didn't say this blog was 100 percent fact-based. Just a smattering of fact, with a whole mess of opinion mixed in.

In that same article, one old-timer, excited about Cammerari coming back, said of its wares: "The bread was so crunchy!" Funny. "Crunchy" was just the word I kept coming up with when I conjured up memories about their bread. I didn't think the word was descriptive enough, but I guess it's dead on.