I have a friend, no longer living in the city, who was Italian, a native New Yorker and lived near Little Italy. I recall once early in our friendship asking for suggestions for an Italian restaurant on Mulberry Street. He replied that categorically, he would never eat Italian there. He cited mediocre quality and that he refused to pay to eat Italian food in a restaurant when he could make it much better himself. His wife concurred that he made a mean red sauce.

Of course restaurant patrons know that being able to make it yourself is no reason to be eating home. Many New Yorkers eat every meal out – not surprising given the affluence here and the staggering number of restaurants.
If you are inclined to eat on the legendary Mulberry Street in the heart of Little Italy, forget being able to peruse menus unfettered. Here, you will be accosted by aggressive hawkers, making promises, offering deals and assuring you that the food inside is excellent and that you will not be disappointed.

Recently, a friend wanted to celebrate her birthday by taking a trip down memory lane by dining at SPQR, a place she had not frequented in many many years. SPQR is an institution, massive and well known. It never occurred to us to call before visiting to inquire if it was still in business. As luck would have it, when we arrived at 133 Mulberry, we found the place had closed and only recently in early 2013 after being in business over 30 years. As we stood dismayed by our misfortune, we were immediately approached by a staff member of an establishment directly across the street who assured us that much of the staff of SPQR had migrated to their kitchen, the food was excellent, blah, blah, blah.
A bit put off by the predatory behavior, we strolled the street, settling on a place some short distance away. Dinner was acceptable, if not memorable.

To heal the wounds of our unsuccessful initial mission, I suggested we have desert at Caffe Roma, the only place in the neighborhood that my aforementioned friend approved of, albeit decades ago. I had visited once eons ago, so, not knowing what to expect, I suggested we lower our expectations. My dining companions were immediately pleased with Roma as we approached it, located at 385 Broome Street at the corner of Mulberry Street. The ambiance at Caffe Roma is decidedly olde New York – the place has been run by the same family and in the same location for over a century – since 1891.

Surprisingly, the place was quiet and we were fortunate to get prime real estate, a table in the front corner window. We shared a number of desserts and found the place a pleasant respite from an otherwise very touristy area. Nearby pastry shop Ferrara’s is a good example of an establishment that many avoid for that reason. Like so many eateries in New York City, reviews of Caffe Roma range the gamut, particularly regarding service. We found it very pleasant and if by choice or chance, you find yourself in Little Italy, and want to avoid feeling like prey, try Caffe Roma

Sometime in the early 1970s, I found myself in the unenviable position of being in New York City with no place to live. For a time, I lived, or, better said, crashed, with a number of people in a variety of scenarios, living out of a suitcase.

One brief stay was as the guest of four women, at least one of whom was clearly not a New Yorker. One evening, this girl was busy finishing her shower in the bathroom and overheard the Yiddish expression, Oy Vey iz mir, I’m chalishing (oh my, I’m fainting). Unfamiliar to her, we attempted to teach her how to say it. Her interpretation went something like: Ova schmear, allava hallashing. I wondered whether an ova schmear was some medical procedure unfamiliar to me. From the living room, we urged her to repeat it over and over. On each telling, she popped her head out of the bathroom and proudly volunteered, “Ova schmear, allava hallashing.”

As she retreated, we laughed hysterically and secretly, never revealing how severely crippled her mispronunciation was, perhaps the worst bastardization of Yiddish I have ever heard. The scene was hilarious and reminiscent of a sophomoric prank in Wayne’s World where Mike Myers and Dana Carvey trick their mother to repeatedly announce a phone call from a mythical “Mr. Sphincter.”

Some Yiddish is a rite of passage in New York City. Certainly a working knowledge of basic words and phrases is a necessity. The lack of familiarity is a dead giveaway that an individual is an out-of-towner. If you doubt how much Yiddish is part of the fabric of the city, note the sign on the Williamsburg Bridge which proclaims, Leaving Brooklyn, Oy Vey!, below which one finds the names of the Borough President, Marty Markowitz, and Mayor Michael Bloomberg, both Jewish. Williamsburg, Brooklyn, has the world’s largest enclave of Satmar Hasidic Jews, estimated at 60,000 of the world’s 150,000.
The sign leaves no doubt of where you are. You should know that iz mir bears no connection to a schmear, which is a thin coating of cream cheese on a bagel, and that ova are eggs. And if you don’t, we New Yorkers can only say in despair, Oy Vey!

Related Posts: Essen or Fressen?, Hakafot, Chutzpah, Bagels

The local news during the last several days could easily be called Ode to Joe’s Dairy as one publication after the next paid its respects to the passing of one of New York City’s icons. I felt so strongly about the importance of this small establishment that in February 2012, I made several visits, interviewed the owners, and made a short two-part video documentary – I have reposted them here.

Joe’s Dairy, located at 156 Sullivan Street in this Italian area of the South Village/SoHo, is the type of place that gives New York its unique character. The real deal, a place family owned for eons. Although I referred to it as “stability in a world of change,” I knew full well that it was just a matter of time. The owner had told me, during my visit, that closure was inevitable. It’s a scenario replayed many times. Even when there are children, few wish to follow in their parents’ footsteps.

The lure of money and everything NYC has to offer is much greater than spending long days making mozzarella. Often, parents want better for their children and discourage them from continuing the family business.

Sometimes a detour is made, where, after a college education and work in the corporate world, a family member will return to continue the legacy of the family. This was the case with Nom Wah Tea Parlor. But this is the exception, not the rule.

But let’s be fair. As Jill Eisenstadt so poignantly said, nostalgia is a heavy shovel. And, regardless of any romantic notions, who wants to slave over boiling vats trapped in a tiny kitchen, turning out over 1000 pounds of mozzarella, day after day? Watch my videos and tell me if you or anyone you know really wants to do this work. Nonetheless, as I passed by to photograph the shuttered storefront and read their letter of thanks posted on the window, I was saddened. It was, however briefly, a morning of mourning. Ironically, I had spoken to them only a year ago about the bells of St. Anthony’s across the street, how I had heard the sombre ringing for a funeral and had written a story, For Whom the Knell Tolled. And now, for Vincent and Anthony Campanelli, The Knell Tolls for Thee

New York Daily Photo is now over 7 years old. Since 2006, I have posted nearly 2000 stories with accompanying photos. As would be expected, the output varies. Some stories were quite elaborate and took considerable work, sometimes days or weeks, to complete. A number were written in two parts, with Part 1 as a deliberate teaser.

Over time, I wove more and more personal experience into the stories, drawing from everything in my life, both in New York City and where I grew up in New England. I made the story titles enigmatic to draw readers into the text to see how unlikely elements were connected. My greatest rewards were when my favorite stories resonated and became yours too.
However, all of these favorites, most viewed and most commented stories, are buried in archives. So, my biggest frustration is how to mine this content and bring the best to you. Today I am launching the first installment of my and your Favorites…

In Back To Our Main Feature, I wrote of how, in New York City, Mother Nature takes a back seat to the people and everything that people make and do. Certainly, no one lives in this city for nature’s splendor, nor do they visit as ecotourists. And at its extreme, I have heard remarks that champion its dirt and edge. During the battle over the renovation of Washington Square Park, some accused architect George Vellonakis as wanting to turn the park into a flower garden. Yes, it was an accusation, not praise – many of his opponents bristled at the thought of the park losing its edge by being beautified and, as they saw it, sanitized. In 2009, I wrote in Toronto:

But many defend the edginess and grit of New York City as important, defining characteristics. I remember reading an article years ago speaking to this. The article was defending the edginess and made a suggestion for those who did not see the grit’s charm: “There’s a place for you. It’s called Toronto.”

However, in small and large ways, there are many, many here who work to improve the quality of life through nature. There are community gardens, botanic gardens, flower shops, zoos, and parks, including some of the world’s most outstanding such as Central and Prospect Parks. Of course, nature’s cup does not runneth over in New York, and those seeking such things must look a little harder. For urban explorers willing to travel to New York’s hinterlands, one’s journey may be rewarded by beautiful places like Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge.

The efforts can be seen everywhere. Abutting a nondescript brick wall aired by a building’s exhaust, isolated and forgotten in a small patch roadside choked with car fumes, within a park surrounded by towering glass and steel, flanking a dog run and public toilets, or growing along side an electrical junction box in Staten Island – make no mistake. Here, as everywhere, the human spirit can and will, like flowers in spring, Blossom.

I am frustrated reading about fascinating places in New York City that are off-limits to the general public and seeing superb photo galleries from the brave and lucky souls who have visited. Places such as the abandoned City Hall subway station, inside the Domino Sugar Factory, North Brother Island, U Thant Island, and the top chamber in Washington Square Arch.

There are numerous guidebooks to NYC that purport to be not for tourists, offering an insider’s view or secrets of the city. But the aforementioned places are the REAL secrets of the city – places that are inaccessible, on private property that will require trespassing, or just very remote and little known, like Dead Horse Bay, The Hole, or Willets Point. Urban explorers daring and brazen enough to risk arrest or mishaps have visited all these spots, and their travails are documented on the handful of websites inclined to cover such as undercity.org, gothamist.com, and forgotten-ny.com.

One of the most intriguing to me is the ship graveyard in the Rossville section of Staten Island. The area is largely abandoned and sits quietly, secretly, and out of plain view behind a long strip of corrugated metal fence on Arthur Kill Road. From the New York Times in 1990:

As with the fabled elephants’ graveyard, ships go to die at Rossville on Staten Island.
For decades the Witte Marine Equipment Company, the lone remaining commercial marine-salvage yard in the city, has given mothballed, scuttled, abandoned and wrecked ships of all sizes a final port. Through the years it has become, an “accidental marine museum,” as a nautical magazine described it, with one of the world’s largest collections of historic ships.

After hearing about this place for the first time, I viewed numerous photo galleries online of those who had visited and documented the adventure. The images of decaying ships with weathering wood and rusting metal were beautifully striking and haunting. I immediately made a trip to the area. However, an impenetrable fence, a barking dog, stories of a mean man, and no obvious coastal access kept me from exploring.

On a recent visit to this area of Staten Island, I noted a patch of yard where some ships were visible – a teaser to the real shipyard. I respected the no trespassing sign and took a handful of photos from the roadside. My good behavior was rewarded – the owner of the property introduced himself as Tony and welcomed me to access his private property if I wanted to take photos of the famed tugboat/ship graveyard. He said many photographers had come before me, even that very day, and he was always happy to accommodate those who respected his property in advance. I was elated at the opportunity and told him that I would return soon when I had more time to make a full excursion. He pointed out his home nearby and told me to just knock. I have done my research as to where and how and examined maps and aerial views. Soon, courtesy of Tony, I will go back to explore for the first time and bring you those images here. And that’s No False Promise

I was persuaded, by my readings in my youth when a vegetarian, that goat’s milk was far superior to cow’s milk. That it was more digestible and better utilized by the human body. That its mineral composition was more compatible with human needs. And goats were certainly cuter than cows, so in a short time, I became fixated on all things goat. I sought out every variant of goat’s milk products. Perhaps the pinnacle of goat dairy products is French goat cheese, which I love to this day. This was quite apropos, being of French ancestry, and a friend had said that she envisioned me in retirement in France, raising goats and making cheese. The proposition did sound rather idyllic.

But alas, I was to learn that our hooved friends, although cute and often characterized in charming ways such as “crazy,” were not as innocent and benign as I had imagined. I once expressed my fondness for goats to an old college roommate and lifelong friend who had relocated to San Francisco. He was a nature lover – hiking, fishing, camping, canoeing, etc. – and much more savvy as to the real nature of barnyard animals. He had friends who had goats, and he suggested that I might want to reassess any dreams of goat ownership. Goats, he said, were VERY troublesome creatures to keep. They are intelligent, resourceful, and difficult to confine. They are quite destructive – there are many online video where goats can be seen standing on hind legs, stripping trees of leaves. If left unchecked, goats will strip trees of bark too, killing them.

Nonetheless, I still have a fondness for our feisty, four-legged friends, and perhaps even believing that in some ways, I am little bit goat-like myself. I always take the opportunity to pet goats when possible and seek them out in farms and zoos. So, recently, while traveling through the hinterlands of Staten Island, at 2355 Arthur Kill Road, I was very excited to see Crazy Goat Feeds. I was to learn, however, that the business is not a mecca for goat feeds, although it is a feed store. From Staten Island Live:

Over the last six years, an old volunteer firehouse in Rossville has become a magnet for Staten Island’s animal lovers. Crazy Goat Feeds – which looks as wild from the outside as its name would imply – is the borough’s lone remaining feed store and a one-stop-shop for local pet owners. With tin ceilings and wooden floors the building maintains its antiquated charm, but inside the gutted garage and upstairs loft, every amenity for four-legged friends is on display.

“We’ve got a little bit of everything here,” said owner Debbie Accurso, who took over the former CG Feeds in 1995 when it was based in Charleston. “But we really focus on organic and holistic foods for pets. It’s not the type of stuff that you see in the supermarket.”

Patronization from organizations like the Staten Island Zoo and the NYPD mounted police unit has allowed Crazy Goat Feeds – which was renamed by Ms. Accurso’s young nieces – to maintain a unique inventory that covers dogs, cats, rabbits, birds, fish and even horses.

The business arrangement with the Zoo is a long standing one. It’s been in place for years and carried over after the purchase of the shop from former owner Clark Gabel, who founded it in the 1960s. The horse-riding police have been a recent addition to the customer list.

I was a bit disappointed that Crazy Goat Feeds was not really a business built around goats, because deep down inside me, there’s a Crazy Kid

The big city, particularly New York City, conjures up images of shysters, swindlers, scammers, and hucksters. Growing up in New England, there was a particular aversion to New York, as opposed to let’s say, the more genteel society of Boston. New York was seen as a place defined by glamour, glitz, and money – like Las Vegas, but with more style, character, and culture.

A visit to New York City came with forewarnings from family and friends. Watch this and watch that, they said. Don’t do this and don’t go there. Be careful. In the 1970s, such admonitions were certainly prudent, however, being young and brazen, I heeded none of it, and luckily, I was never a victim of anything very serious.

There is truth to all of this. A big city where tourism is strong means lots of naive, innocent prey and a nice thick jungle for hunters to get lost in after scalping their victims.

Hurricane Sandy unleashed another storm in its aftermath – a flurry of flim-flam men. And a disaster of this magnitude is a big magnet for thieves – victims of the storm now had to contend with crooks not only from New York, but from out of town as well. Of course, opportunists in the wake of a disaster are nothing new. The day after 9-11, vendors were selling T-shirts in Chinatown: I Survived 9-11. Others were selling memorabilia at Ground Zero. Heinous and unconscionable. Fortunately, our mayor at the time was no-nonsense Rudy Giuliani, who decreed in seconds that such offenses would be SQUASHED immediately.

As regular readers of this website know, I have been closely involved with cleanup and rehab of a friend’s home in Staten Island. One of the most crucial steps in the aftermath of a flooded home is mold remediation and abatement. To be done properly, this is a long and technical process, best left to professionals. The home must be dried, using commercial dryers. There are chemical treatments and HEPA vacuuming. Mold left in walls can come back with a vengance. Many homeowners hasty to rebuild after Hurricane Sandy found themselves ripping newly installed walls open, only to find mold which required proper cleanup and additional construction.

But where to find someone reputable and honest in the sea of offerings in Sandy’s aftermath? I spoke to numerous established local businesses specializing in mold remediation. I also turned to Craigslist, where we found our final choice. In retrospect, Craigslist was perhaps not the wisest source for such a serious project, however, good fortune was with us, and we found one of the most thorough and scrupulous individuals I have ever worked with – Art Hull.

Art, like many who worked for victims of the storm, was from out of town – in this case, Ohio. Art was extremely knowledgeable and technical – more so than the many other local contractors we interviewed. He had previously worked in the Biotech industry in California and was well versed in mold and microbes. But what set him apart from the typical New Yorker was his level of service and honesty. He always went the extra mile and then some. He and his assistant spent over 3 weeks in a small home, never rushing the process or a procedure. Phone calls, of which there were many, were typically 30 minutes long, with every detail thoroughly gone over. He gave many extras – checking the roof, checking the attic, replacing the subfloor, checking this and checking that, often traveling and shopping for things needed that were not part of our contractual agreement. To this day, I still call Art in Ohio for advice on various aspects of the home rehab project.

All told, it was clear from the start that Art was not a native New Yorker. He started the job with a small deposit, willing to wait for an insurance settlement – in our case, he was only paid 4 months after his work was completed. Sadly, many of his other clients became greedy after insurance settlements and have contested his charges for work completed as per contract. Poor Art, now back in Ohio, has had to resort to expensive NYC legal counsel and is still attempting to collect his fees for many large jobs completed some time ago. I was very disappointed to find that the spirit of the swindler was alive and well, not just on the streets of the city, but like Sandy’s sewage, had permeated the walls of Homeowners Too

I just finished watching an episode of Barging Through France in the Ardeche, one of the wildest and most untouched regions of France. Here, villages with thatched roofs can still be found in a land that time forgot.
The program was reminiscent of a series I watched in the 1990s about barging through Europe. Each episode offered a dreamy, kaleidoscopic view of the remote reaches of Europe via its canals. The host and crew traveled by barge and lived in its quarters throughout the journey, making stops wherever and whenever whim and fancy inclined them to do so.
The imagery and music all conspired to give a romantic view of the idyllic countryside and small villages of Europe. Inspired, I did take one barge cruise through Paris and the outskirts. It was not an exploration of remote hinterlands, but, nonetheless, it was a barge, a canal, and Paris. I was accompanied that morning with a group of school children singing songs in French.
In the United States, however, canal typically connotes an image of a waterway and utility. In New York City, the word canal is synonymous with pollution. Perhaps the best example is the Gowanus Canal, once known as Lavender Lake for its technicolor surface. I had been through the area a few times (see here), but recently, I decided to explore the neighborhood of Gowanus, Brooklyn, more thoroughly. I did like the very low rise feel of  the area, although the architecture left much to be desired, reminiscent of the South Bronx.

As I crossed the bridge, I recognized the industrial building complex that housed the space that sponsored a fire performance I attended. For that evening, in a bizarre and unusual transformation, the metal working facility became the Gowanus Ballroom.

As I approached the end of the short block, I was welcomed by a wrecked tractor trailer, folded in half and now being used as a canvas for graffiti.

At the very end of street was an upright rowboat. A banner proclaimed:

Welcome to the Gowanus Canal

Brooklyn’s Coolest Superfund Site.

It was not immediately obvious that the entire area was a boat launch for the Gowanus. However, a poster mounted inside the boat, Canoeing & Superfund Tourism Map, indicated that, indeed, the Gowanus was a Superfund cleanup site (designated by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency) and this was the 2nd Street Canoe Dock. The map brimmed with enthusiasm and outlined 18 sites for the canoeist to explore.
Looming in the distance across the canal was an enigmatic deserted building. Later, after my visit, I learned that this was the infamous “Bat Cave”, a story in itself.

While exploring 4th Street, I passed a tiny, charming one-story house, perhaps a lone candidate in all Gowanus that could be called adorable.

A woman was in front, tending to various chores. I assumed she was the owner and asked. She affirmed. I complemented her on her cute, tidy dwelling and asked, “Is this area considered Gowanus?” “Yes” she said. I offered what I had heard for some time in the media: “This area has been referred to as the future Venice of New York.” She laughed and said, “They have been saying that for a long time.” I agreed and canvassed the area one last time, wondering if and when Gowanus and its canal would live up to its promise as Little Venice…

Related: No Pane at All, Europe?, Not Under the Gowanus, Part 1

On July 29, 2009, I wrote Urban Coral Atoll about auto break-ins on the streets of New York City, with the telltale signs of shards of glass on the street. Yesterday, however, while exploring Gowanus, Brooklyn, I spotted a break-in where detective work was unnecessary. The car itself was still parked at the scene of the crime. Not one but TWO windows were completely smashed in broad daylight on a beautiful, sunny spring day.
The auto was parked in front of Statewide Fireproof Door at 131 3rd Street – a moderately busy through street, even on a Sunday. The license plates were from New Jersey. The out-of-towners had yet to return and find themselves a nice cleaning job along with a breezy ride home and a repair job. And to learn the hard way, as every New Yorker knows, that to a thief, performing a Glass Act is No Pane at All