Gawdy Fawty-Second Street

I do my best to remind myself that not everything new in the City is God awful. I do. I really do. I do, do, do, do!! Like the other night, when I was standing in the middle of 42nd Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, loathing the garish vulgarity of the Disney/Giuliani-built canyon, despising the bumptious bumpkins milling their thick, doltish way down the street, obvious to everything outside their gawky, picture-taking, mall-pace-walking bubbles. I stopped in one place and forced myself to look around myself, to gaze up and eyeball the scene with care.

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Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Toledo?"

Now, Toledo really is a hidden mainstay, even by the terms of "Who Goes There?" It's 36 years old, but I've never met anyone who's went there, and never seen it written up. There's not one mention of it in the New York Times archive. Yet, there it sits, unworried, charging $50 for lobster tail. I can't afford this place. Maybe, if I'm feeling flush, I'll return, because I really liked the fish. But, really, it's a restaurant I want my boss, or rich uncle, to take me to and pick up the check.

Here's my Eater column:

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The Tile on the Bakery Floor

I've been meaning to go and check out Roma Pizza, the business that took over the former Zito's Bakery space on Bleecker Street, for some time now. Mainly to check out how much of the iconic bakery remained. Turns out, all that remains is just the old tiled floor, in all its broken, chipped, aged glory. Those tiles have known the tread of many old, tired Italian feet.

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Not Everything Changes

A lot of space on this blog is devoted to bemoaning things that change, and not for the better. But, I must keep reminding myself, not everything changes. Some things—even some nondescript, ahistorical things—endure. Even in a hip, ever-morphing neighborhood like the East Village.

Take the block of First Avenue between 1st and 2nd. I used to live around here 20 years ago. This Laundry Center has been on the corner of 1st since then.

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Chumley's Looking Like It Might Actually Return Someday

I kinda, sorta, secretly gave up on the idea of Chumley's rebirth sometime in early 2010. The collapse of the historic, wonderful old speakeasy in 2007 tore my heart in two, and the subsequent indifference of the City and the utter perfidy of the scurrilous landlord killed me. Then the 19th-century brick building was torn down and a horrid pile of cinder blocks started rising from the ground in fits and starts. We were supposed to pretend this pretender was Chumley's back from the grave? I didn't even believe the ugly facsimile would ever see the dawn of day. Chumley's was gone. That was that.

Still, I have to admit I was surprised and hopeful when I turned the corner at Bedford Street and found this. It looks rather like a building, doesn't it? The cornice is plastic and crappy, the windows no great shakes, and it's half way to disguising itself as a brownstone. But it's something; enough to make me partly believe that a functioning building will actually one day soon stand on the site where Chumley's was. It still won't be Chumley's, even if they stuff the joint full with the original booths and pictures and bric-a-brac that used to make up the interior of the original bar. It will be a fake. But it will no longer be a complete failure, a despair-inducing hole in the ground.

I noticed something else cheering while I was checking out Chumley's. The building to the right of it—which was also in bad shape after the collapse, and under construction for a long time—now seems to be up and running. There's a light in the window, a newly refurbished doorway (albeit padlocked and covered in plastic), a fresh look to the old bricks. It's been brought back from the dead.

Up on the Rooftop

My eyes were gliding over the charisma-free face of upper Broadway between Columbia Circle and Lincoln Square—a blank, spirit-robbing wall of glass and metal—when they fell on this bit of skyline. The old Empire Hotel, roof signs intact.

The city used to have hundreds of these sort of simple, skyward advertisements. (Another classic, surviving example is the Essex House on Central Park South, below. Picture courtesy of Restless.) I suppose that, sometime around the start of the last century, they were considered vulgar. But, today I think their charm is quite clear. They puncture the blandness of the straight, cold cityscape, add a bit of variety and visual excitement. Signs such as this are both simple and grand. I wonder why hotels don't make use of this sort of option anymore. Too expensive, perhaps. Or maybe they mistakenly think them to be too old-fashioned. Or maybe nobody knows how to make these kind of signs anymore; the craftsmen are dead.

Can anyone out there think of any others that survive besides the Essex and Empire?

Wooden Phone Booth Update: 347 Madison Avenue

OK. They're not wooden. But there are four of them. And—unlike many of the wooden phone books left in the City these days—they all have phones in them, and the phone all work! Hallaluah for that! And the bank of booths looks real sleek, too. Very "Mad Men."

This building is occupied by the MTA. It's very 1950s. In addition to the phone booths, there's an in-lobby newsstand and a lunch counter.

Lucali Having Problem With BYOB Boozers

Apparently, some patrons at Lucali are taking the BYOB policy at the famous Carroll Gardens pizzeria a little too far. This hilarious (and frankly unclear) sign recently appeared in the window. I guess Lucali has had trouble enough over the past six months—what with the owner having knife fights on the street and all—to have to worry about drunkards opening a bottle of wine per slice.

But I think this sign is just going to confuse matters more. What does it mean, "limited to 1, 2, and 3 bottles per table." Is it 1 bottle, 2 or 3? And bottles of wine, or bottles of beer? And is the limit the same for a table of 2 as it is for a table of 8? Guess the hostess has the details.

The Neon We've Lost

The way the City is run under Herr Bloomberg, we've gotten used to old, timeless, irreplaceable mom-and-pop businesses disappeared at a rapid rate.

Lately however, the City has suffered a string of lost businesses that take their glorious neon with them, leaving the burg all the more visually bereft. Hinsch's, the Bay Ridge soda fountain, was only the latest. It had one of the greatest, and oldest, neon signs in the town (photos courtesy of Project Neon). Here are a few more.

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Hinsch's, Classic Bay Ridge Soda Fountain, Closes

Hinsch's, the 63-year-old soda fountain and luncheonette that was one of the oldest and best things about Bay Ridge, has abruptly closed. It was the owner's choice—partially. "Basically my lease is up and that’s all," owner John Logue told Brooklyn Paper. Logue posted a sign announcing the closure on the store’s window on Thursday.

However, a sign outside the Fifth Avenue shop—which I profiled in "Who Goes There?" only last March—said "Current economic conditions, customers changing eating patterns, and our desire to retire early have led us to this decision."

Also, a greedy landlord, as usual, takes some blame here. "Anna Tesoriero said that she was seeking rent of more than $10,000 a month from Logue or a deep-pocketed corporate client to take over the space —up from the $7,500 a month Hinsch’s was paying." And so you trade in a steady tenant and six decades of history for a temporary windfall. Ripping the heart of a community is worth that, right? Right?

UPDATE: Someone has contacted me who wants to save Hinsch's great neon signage. Does anyone know how to get ahold of owner John Logue? Please contact me at lostcitybrooks@gmail.com.