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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Manganaro Grosseria Italiana to Close

We seem to be in one of those periodic spells where the New York landmarks fall like dominos. Monte's Venetian Room definitely gone for good. O'Connor's Bar to be changed beyond recognition. Karl Ehmer leaves Ridgewood and its building becomes a storage facility. Carmine's gives up finally.

And now we hear that Manganaro's Grosseria Italiana, one of the bedrock institutions of Ninth Avenue in Midtown, with roots going back to the late 1800's, will close, and the owner will sell the building. The frozen-in-time place will shutter as soon as a deal is sealed. So hurry up. This is obviously not the usual circumstance of a rent hike, since the Manganaros own the building. Business has been slow, said owner Salvator Dell'Orto. I'll post more about this in the future. For now, read more here.

The shop began as a wine store in 1893 and expanded into hero sandwiches—they are said to be the inventors of the form by the way—and red sauce fare during the Prohibition, attracting garment workers, Italians in the neighborhood, and the patrons of the then Metropolitan Opera House. Business began to decline with the arrival of the Lincoln Tunnel (which forced the demolition of much of the neighborhood) and the more recent arrivals of places like Whole Foods and Zabar's. The notoriously surly attitudeof the waitstaff may not have helped.

THE UNION STREET PROJECT: 135 Union Street

This is the third 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.

I seem to proceeding east from Columbia toward Hicks on the north side of Union Street. This building is just to the right of the bank building I discussed last week. I found out a lot about that bank building. Not so here. I knew going into this that, with some buildings, I'd run into a brick wall (so to speak) and discover little. Some addresses leave a long paper trail. Others don't. Also, there are some buildings, I imagine, in which nothing terribly interesting ever happened. 135 Union Street appears to be one of those buildings.

The place is currently home to the Bluebird Midwifery. Before that, it held the Brooklyn General Store, a knitting supplies shop that moved to bigger quarters across the street a few years ago. Beyond that, I have heard from many sources that the bottom two floors were possessed by a small printing company. The building once had a long vertical sign running down the front that, I presume, advertised the place. It was taken down about seven years ago. Before the printing company? I have no idea. But the structure dates from at least 1855, when it is shown in a map of the time.

Not too exciting, I know. But I was told this by an old timer, however: "My friend Lucy lived at 135 Union St.. She married one of the owners of the original House of Pizza." The House of Pizza and Calzone is still there, across the street. I remember the two old men who used to own it. I wonder which one Lucy married.

PREVIOUS "UNION STREET PROJECT" ENTRIES

Jay & Lloyd's Kosher Deli

The genuine Jewish Kosher Deli is, as we all know, a dying New York institution. You can count on a couple hands the ones that remain. I thought I knew all the old delis, from Riverdale to Borough Park. So Jay & Lloyd's Kosher Deli on Avenue U in Sheepshead Bay came as a surprise when I passed it by the other day.

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Hickey's Bar Owner Dies After Death of Hickey's

While we're on the subject of New York's dive bar genocide, let's talk about Hickey's.

That this long-standing tavern on 33rd Street recently gave up the ghost has been already reported. But the story gets sadder. As owner Jim Hickey was preparing to turn in his keys to the bar he had run for 44 years, and close up for the last time last month, he collapsed and had to be rushed to the hospital. He died on Feb. 7. He was 75.

Hickey was forced to leave because the landlord had hiked up the rent, and the bar owner couldn't afford the new price.

According to DNAinfo: "'Everyone thought he collapsed because [losing the place] just overwhelmed him,' said James Donovan, 47, a long-time bartender at the Blarney Rock pub that had stood next door to Hickey's for more than 40 years. Friends and colleagues later learned that doctors found Hickey was suffering from late-stage colon cancer. Matty Burke, 58, who said he had stopped by Hickey’s nearly every day for the past 20 years, said that, for Hickey, losing the bar meant losing everything. 'That killed him,' said Burke, who has since relocated to the Blarney Rock along with a handful of other Hickey's regulars driven from the now-gutted space next door. 'It was his baby. That was his life,' Burke added."

The space is set to be taken over by Salt & Pepper, the take-out restaurant next door. Manager Mohammed Ilyas said he plans to expand his restaurant, which will re-open on March 1. A reader rells me the place has been gutted, and old bar (seen below) stripped away.

No comment from the landlord in the article. Natch.

Monte's Venetian Room Officially Dead and Gone

As long as Monte's Venetian Room just sat there being Monte's—albeit a shuttered, out-of-action version of itself—there was a whiff of hope that he century-old restaurant would overcome its never-sufficiently-explained difficulties and reopen. And, in the last few weeks, when there was construction activity and permits issued, there was more of a whiff.

Today, that hope died. The space will reopen as a restaurant, but not as Monte's. Brownstoner reported that "a recent stroll by confirms that a restaurant will definitely be coming to 451 Carroll. This permit came in at the end of January to renovate the existing eating establishment. And a liquor license for 'Dominick's of Carroll Street' was posted on the window."

An Italian restaurant, I'm guessing, given the name. But I'll be surprised if they keep the murals or booths. And how can a restaurant possibly attract diners to this remote location without the pull of a decades-old reputation?

Montemarano's never had but one owner: the Montemarano family. (The restaurant's name is a shortened version of their moniker.) It was founded in 1906 by Angelo and Filomena Montemarano, newly arrived from Naples. Why they called it "Venetian," I have no idea, unless it was a tongue-in-cheek reference to the nearby canal. During Prohibition, the joint remained open and made its own liquor. All seven of the Montemarano boys were born above the restaurant. All worked in it, but Nicholas went on to run it. He didn't accept credit cards until 1982. In 1978, he painted the nearby Carroll Street Bridge the colors of the Italian flag, very likely without City permission. The bridge was closed for repairs from 1985 to 1989, which hurt business. When the bridge reopened, Monte contributed a 100-foot hero sandwich that was only seven feet shorter than the bridge.

O'Connor's Bar to Be Ruined

I knew changes were afoot for O'Connor's, the wonderful old dive bar on Fifth Avenue at the edges of Park Slope. The last time I was there I heard the regulars grumbling about how the new owner was going to "improve" the place and make it more acceptable to the kind of people who like to rent bars for parties and receptions and such.

But I had no idea how devastating the changes would be. How, after they were done, O'Connor's wouldn't be O'Connor's any more, but something completely different and far blander.

The blog Here's Park Slope talked to owner Mike Maher, who bought the 80-year-old bar three years ago. He said the beautiful old bar will be expanded to at least three times' its original size (goodbye coziness!), with the addition of a huge back room, a kitchen serving the usual Irish far like fish and chips, burgers and such, and a second floor with an outdoor beer garden. There will also be a stage for live music (goodbye twilight-like, dive-bar silence).

"We're modernizing the room, but a priority is to keep the old look," Mayer told the blog. "We'll be saving the bar and the booths and as much of the room as we can, but the seats will be replaced, because they're falling apart. If we want to serve food, we have to bring it up to code." He added, "That O'Connor's brand, the O'Connor's feeling, that's not going anywhere."

Brand?

I'm doubtful. It sounds like O'Connor's is just going to become another run-of-the-mill Irish pub. Same kind of food, same "live music" program, same upstairs space for large parties, same, same, same. I supposed the great old bathrooms with be cleaned up, and the wooden telephone booth ripped out.  I loved that O'Connor's was just a bar, didn't have food besides those little bags of chips you could buy. I loved that it only had a jukebox, and a good one, too. I loved that it wasn't party central, but more an insulated retreat from the harsh world. 

This City has declared war on the dive bar.