Jeffrey's Meats, in Essex Street Market, Closes

Seems like just yesterday we were reading a lovely story about how Jeffrey Ruhalter, a fourth generation butcher in the Essex Street Market, and one of the last indy butchers in the area, had found a way to stay open. Now we're reading that Jeffrey's Meats has been forced to close, owning to a 29% rent hike by his bastard landlord, in this case the Economic Development Corp.

Isn't there a single landlord in the City who thinks beyond his or her bank account, beyond the next paycheck, ever thinks about the greater good? What does the EDC think it's going to put in that space? A mini Rite Aid?

THE UNION STREET PROJECT: 124 Union Street

This is the fourth post of "The Union Street Project," in which I unearth the history of every building along the once bustling Brooklyn commercial strips of Union Street between Hicks and Van Brunt, and Columbia Street between Sackett and Carroll.

The first three entries of the series, I tackled three successive edifices on the north side of Union Street, each right next to the other. I'm now temporarily skipping over the south side, mainly because the next few addresses on the north side—137, 139, 141 and 143—are proving to be stubborn characters, revealing little if any of their history.

About 124 Union, meanwhile, I learned plenty. The fairly unremarkable, three-story, red brick building is home today of a Stop One deli, known to everyone in the neighborhood as Mrs. Lee's. Mrs. Lee is the chatty, friendly, charitable woman who runs the store with her husband, Mr. Lee. Mrs. Lee is a big presence on the block, and well appreciated. If you're a little short of cash, she'll wave a dime or two, or just round down the amount. And if you need to pay tomorrow, that's OK, too.

Before Mr. and Mrs. Lee arrived, this was Joseph Pizzimenti's fruit and vegetable store.

On Jan. 2, 1959, the building was at the center of a bizarre kidnapping scheme in which a "stout blonde widow," Jean Iavarone, took a newborn from St. Peter's hospital. She committed this rash act in order to trap Pizzimenti, with whom she had been living, into marrying her. Iavarone had had bad luck with men. Her first husband divorced her, and her second had died. She had four children by each marriage, and was forced to give up the children to orphanages and foster homes. She couldn't get them back until she was settled. Her crazy scheme was to drag Pizzimenti to the altar by insisted the stolen baby was in fact him.

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Old Ad Disappearing Right Now

A distraught reader wrote in to say, "This is happening right now on west 29th street. These guys are sand blasting the old advertising on the side of the building, erasing history in the process."

No doubt to make room for a newer, prettier ad.

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Hinsch's?"

This is my first Bay Ridge "Who Goes There?" column and it's long overdue. I thank photographer Daniel Krieger, who took the above shot, for suggesting the place.

Who Goes There? Hinsch's

The neon signage outside Hinsch's in Bay Ridge is a bit on the grandiose side, given what lies inside. This is, after all, a simple luncheonette, with a side line in homemade candy and ice cream. But 62 years in business ought to buy you something in terms of respect. So the frontage is arguably warranted.

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Lost City: Pittsburgh Edition: Primanti Bros.

Primanti Bros., a singular sandwich joint, is a now a local Pittsburgh chain. But the original still stands on 18th Street in the Strip District, an industrial neighborhood where businesses once went to buy their produce and other goods.

It was founded in 1933 by Joe Primanti and his several brothers. There clientele were the truckers that serviced the Strip District. In the early days, the interior was a bar only; sandwiches were served outside on the sidewalk. The patrons were very busy and had little time for lunch. The story goes that one day a trucker, in a hurry, suggested that the Primantis speed things up by just dumping his french fries and cole slaw on top of the sandwich he ordered. Thus was born Primanti Bros.' signature item, an, over-the-top, all-in-one sandwich.

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A Good Sign: Bay Ridge Bakery

The vertical sign says "American. European." at the bottom. The bakery has been on Fifth Avenue in Bay Ridge since 1972. The sign looks older though, doesn't it? It's owned by the Nikolopoulos family.

What's Under the Block Drugs Sign

The East Village's Block Drugs sign is familiar to all, a beautiful gleaming beacon of old-world, indy authenticity.

Those who have looked up before they entered may have noticed this engraving to above the door (Second Avenue Chemists is apparently the official name of the shop, Block Drugs being its dba)...

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The Wondrous Awfulness of the Fourth Avenue Subway Stop

I've cooled my heels plenty of times at the Fourth Avenue stop on the F line. Its infinite ugliness has never escaped me. But in the past I just cringed, shuddered, despaired and shielded my eyes. Was there even one square inch of it that wasn't desiccated, decrepit, peeling away or falling down? But lately I've come to actually marvel at the completeness of its horrid state. Some things are so appalling that they take on a certain grandeur. The Fourth Avenue subway stop may be one of them.

Apparently, this stop is one of three the MTA has committed to restoring by 2012. It's needed repair, but it almost makes me sad.

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Lost City: Pittsburgh Edition: Gooski's vs. Poldolski's

Pittsburgh is a home to a wealth of dive bars and working men's taverns, many of which are barely distinguishable from the homes that stand on either side of them. And the neighborhood of Polish Hill is no exception.

The wonderfully named Gooski's and Poldoski's sit almost directly opposite each other on Brereton Street, a road that steeply slopes down toward the the hulking Immaculate Heart of May Church, and looks of perilous as an hilly lane in San Francisco.

Gooski's, the foundation of which stands at a slant, is something of a legend as one of the ultimate Pittsburgh bars. It's dark as hell inside, with some pool tables in the back, graffiti-strewn bathroom, an old fireplace and a big curving black banquette near the front.

By the look of it, I thought Poldolski's was a longstanding and worthy rival of Gooski's. But looks deceive. Turns out, three years ago a movie shot on this street and used the building, a former VFW hall, as a set, slapping the fictitious bar sign on the front. The owner liked the sign so much, he kept it there. It's an architect's office now.

So Gooski's rules the street supreme.

Lost City: Pittsburgh Edition: Max's Allegheny Tavern

I visited Pittsburgh for the first time recently. I had a suspicion that I'd like this city, with its interesting topography (bridges, hills and rives aplenty) and rough and tumble history. And I was right. The post-industrial town has retained a lot of its hardscrabble character and blue collar individuality. Longstanding neighborhoods such as the South Side and Polish Hill are still sharply drawn and teeming with local flavor. The Pittsburghers have even held onto their local linguistic peculiarities, such as eschewing the verb "to be" (i.e. "My car needs washed."), calling Downtown "Dahn Tahn," saying "slippy" instead of "slippery" and condemning folks they don't approve of as "jagoffs" and "yohos."

My first night there, I went to Max's Allegheny Tavern in the North Side ("Nah' Si'") neighborhood. The area was once it's own entity, Allegheny City, and filled with Scotch, Irish, English and Germans. Max's is a remnant of the German segment. It began as a hotel founded by George Rahn, and the room layout and interior architecture is still reminiscent of that former function. Formerly called the Farmers and Drovers Hotel, it was a popular stop for drivers bringing their wares to town for sale. Rahn built a new building, called the Hotel Rahn, at the corner of Middle Street and Second, Max's present location. The bar, above, was brought in from the St. Louis Exhibition.

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