You Can’t Go Home Again

A week ago Sunday, I stopped at a street food cart in Battery Park City. It is one that I had passed by multiple times and often contemplated patronizing. In the end, though, I always concluded that I didn’t particularly like what was on the menu. Still, there was this curious and powerful pull at work—a byproduct of my boyhood, I think, when those hot dogs and crinkle-cut French fries had unmistakable allure. 

The cart in question serves up Nathan’s famous frankfurters, since 1916, and their very deep fried potatoes. When I was a youth, there was a big Nathan’s restaurant on Central Park Avenue in Yonkers. It was about a fifteen-minute drive from my front door in the Bronx. I fondly remember consuming their dogs and fries on an outside picnic table. My kid-friendly stomach never failed to appreciate franks and fried anything by the side of the road. It is not the case anymore.

Anyway, I threw caution to the wind last week and purchased two hot dogs—plain—and an order of crinkle-cut fries. I don’t use any condiments, except ketchup occasionally on my French fries. That’s something that has remained constant in my life. The picture menu on the outside of the cart included numerous condiment possibilities for the wieners, including sauerkraut, cheese, and chili. The crinkle-cuts, too, could be topped with melted cheese, bacon bits, or chili. Suffice it to say, my contemporary stomach couldn’t stomach any such additions.

Interestingly, I never really liked Nathan’s packaged hot dogs from the supermarket. I found they had a disagreeable crunch and left a strong garlicky aftertaste. But I boiled them at home. That’s not quite the same as putting them on a griddle en masse, where they commingle with one another and tan an appealing black-brown. The frankfurter, for me, was a thing I relished in the fresh air at baseball games, cookouts, and from street wagons. Home cooking of them was—more often than not—a strikeout.

I guess I hoped to reclaim a glimmer of my youthful appreciation of things no longer appreciated. Mission accomplished? Not quite. The franks tasted very, very salty, but the crunch didn’t turn me off as they typically did in the cozy confines of home. It was the crinkle-cut French fries that pushed me over the limit, I believe, reminding me once more that you can’t go home again. The squirrels and sparrows, who got the lion’s share of them, enjoyed the greasy potatoes a lot more than me. The bottle of lukewarm water that I washed them down with proved to be my only salvation.

Next time, I vowed to call on a smoothie seller, which are now competing in earnest with the hot dog and pretzel mob. But less than a week later—on Saturday—when I passed by a fellow selling every imaginable smoothie drink, I didn’t stop. I had skipped breakfast and was too hungry to settle for a mysterious fruit cocktail. For some inexplicable reason, though, I couldn’t get past the previous week’s salty hot dog experience. They were on my mind as I wondered what eating a couple of them would be like sans the unnecessary complication of uber-greasy French fries. And so I got up for Round Two. My conclusion: I’d eat Nathan’s franks in the future. They are certainly a giant step above their main competitor on the street: Sabrett. But I fully accept that Nathan’s famous fare will never taste like it did forty years ago on that picnic table down wind of a heavily trafficked thoroughfare.

(Photographs from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Harvey Is a Funny Name

Fifteen years ago this past May, I was in the same room with Harvey Weinstein. Nothing untoward happened—at least not to me. Weinstein was presiding over BookExpo America’s festive opening night at the Jacob K. Javits Center in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen, which—take my word for it—isn’t your grandfather’s Hell’s Kitchen anymore. His Miramax publishing imprint had recently landed a really, really big fish, Rudy Giuliani, who was under contract to write a book called Leadership. Still sporting his well-earned 9/11 halo, Rudy was something of a rock star at the time.

In late May 2002, Giuliani had been out of office for nearly five months. He was, though, still looked upon as “America’s Mayor,” an elected official who somehow transcended petty partisan politics. It was a distinctive but very fleeting snapshot in time that sadly didn’t have legs. That night at the Javits Center, incredible good will reigned supreme along with the heavy security presence of the post-9/11 world we now lived in. Weinstein heaped praise on Rudy for bringing people together in the most horrific of circumstances. The rotund Hollywood mogul also made clear that he was a liberal Democrat in good standing—but one who nonetheless revered Rudy Giuliani for his leadership in the wake of the 9/11 attacks.

Ah, but that was then and this is now. What I remember most about then was how exciting the BookExpo was. I had received a complimentary “Exhibitor Author” pass from my very first publisher—Adam’s Media—to attend the extravaganza, which included the aforementioned opening night followed by four full days of fun, frolic, and freebies. My friend—a fellow Adams Media author—and I attended all four days of the affair, including commingling with the big shots at Weinstein’s shindig. After Rudy Giuliani’s inspirational address to the assembled that evening, free-flowing wine, beer, and hors d’oeuvres was ours for the taking. Long lines quickly materialized around the fare, however, and I wasn’t one to fight tooth and nail to get at it, even if it was on the house.

In those days of yore, publishers were a whole lot more generous than they are today. My free pass—as the author of The Everything Collectibles Book—meant I could attend the publisher’s booth party on day three of the BookExpo. Free wine, beer, and munchies—again—but this time I didn’t have to cross swords for a swallow. But all good things come with a price attached to them. In the party’s aftermath—on my subway trip back home—I found myself contemplating things I’d never contemplated before, like relieving myself between cars or actually getting off and using a station’s facilities. Most New York City subway stations, by the way, have no public restrooms, or they are locked up for good reason. So, the facilities I had in mind meant taking a page out of—as the British might say—the “rough sleepers” handbook.

The happy ending is that I made it home without resorting to a nuclear option. No such happy endings for the other protagonists in this tale of mine: Harvey and Rudy. In fact, the latter did everything he could do to destroy his non-partisan sheen during a subsequent run for the Republican presidential nomination and—more recently—in his bug-eyed, foaming-at-the-mouth shilling for Donald Trump, the Ernest T. Bass man-child elected president. I sincerely wish Rudy would have gone out on a 9/11 high note, but super-ambitious politicians like him never can rest on their laurels.

As for Harvey Weinstein, it’s impossible for me to understand his kind of mindset. How could he act like he did for so long and get away with it? Enablers! It would appear they come in all stripes and all political ideologies. Weinstein had his sanctimonious left-wing Hollywood elite overlooking his beastly behaviors, just as conservative Bill O’Reilly, who was always looking out “for the folks,” had his right-wing family values crowd giving him a pass. It is said that character is destiny. Hopefully, these pathetic excuses for men—and their ilk—have not lived in vain and there will be fewer of them to contend with in the future.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Picture Book to Remember Her By, Second Edition

An eclectic hodgepodge of October to October snapshots, Part II:

Ordering home fries is akin to ordering minestrone soup. You just never know what's coming.

Old meets new on the New York City subway.

There are Sicilians like Don Corleone and Sicilians like Broadway Joe's.

One of the better behaved passengers that I have encountered in my underground travels.

I've dined with a man who actually puts salt on his corned beef hash.

Hope typically springs eternal, but didn't this year.

Skimping on the sausage...

No review forthcoming: pizza from a street vendor.

A two-seater...

Forty years ago, "Vanny" was the place to "hit some out."

I see these "Foodliner" trucks all the time and wonder what they're carrying and where they're headed.

Life metaphor: It's one way to the end of the line.

This station was completely under water in the aftermath of Superstorm Sandy.

"Diffrent" strokes for the "Any Time is The Food time" crowd.

The breakfast of high blood pressure champions.

Give me Liberty Halal Food or give me death...not.

Police story...

Go South, young flagman...

My eyes first thought they saw a car leaking gas and not a fire hydrant spewing water.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Picture Book to Remember Her By

On the shelves of my local Rite Aid drug store were Christmas items. This sighting got me thinking how time is accelerating. And so, I reached into my treasure trove of photos and compiled an eclectic hodgepodge of October to October snapshots. What follows is Part I:

A pizza flag that is no more points the way to a pizza shop that is no more. Actually, there is a pizza and deli combo joint in its stead.

Dugi's: Rest in Pizza. The place served a quality slice!

Autumn in Van Cortlandt Park. This particular spot was a badly-in-need-of-repair asphalt softball field in my youth. And for good measure, strewn with lots of broken glass.

What could be more American than McDonald's and McDonald's apple pie...

Pigeon catbird seat with a bird's-eye view of the comings and goings of the Number 1 train.

A long time ago, an aunt took me on field trips to this very perch overlooking the Number 1 train service yard. The cars were graffiti-laden in those days.

"And he waved goodbye saying: 'Don't you cry. I'll be back again someday.'" And I suspect he will.

Christmas 2016 weather was rather mundane, but a whole lot better than the seventy degrees of the previous year.

In early 2017, I discovered GrubHub and never looked back.

Who said Lucille Ball was dead...

Wintertime on Broadway. This particular Burger King has somehow managed to survive in the Smoothie Age.

How these many expired Metro Cards got here, I cannot say.

If waiter-extraordinaire Pete is wearing his pea jacket, it's wintertime on Riverdale Avenue.

Jerry Seinfeld savored a cup of coffee here and now it's in the history books.

A sixty-degree no service day for the Number 1 train...in February.

Sadly, there are all too many slobs where I call home.

No service with a smile.

How exactly did this happen?

Recipe for trouble: a texting track worker.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

George Washington and Crossing the Delaware

A week ago today, I crossed the Delaware—twice as a matter of fact. Despite being an automobile passenger, I couldn’t help but think of General George Washington. The first time I replicated the Father of Our Country’s feat was on the last leg of a Bronx, New York-to-Bangor, Pennsylvania expedition. I traversed the Delaware over the Portland-Columbia toll bridge. Eureka: one minute I was in Columbia, New Jersey and the next, Portland, Pennsylvania. One doesn’t have to travel very far from New York City to be in what amounts to another world entirely. On the trip’s flip side, I crossed the Delaware once more, traveling over a short two-lane span—the Riverton-Belvidere Bridge—in thirty seconds. The Delaware River is quite narrow there.

The Bronx-to-Bangor journey was completed in an hour-and-a-half. It necessitated crossing a decidedly grander and more heavily traveled bridge than the previously mentioned. I’m speaking of the George Washington Bridge, a.k.a the GWB, which spans the Hudson River. It was a Sunday and the traffic leaving the city moved right along. There are no tollbooths on the New York to New Jersey route. However, the piper is paid in full on the return.

Fortunately, the Chris Christie administration wasn’t conducting a traffic study across the bridge in Fort Lee. But one isn’t needed to create an ugly logjam on its tollbooth approach. It was smooth sailing on the return from Bangor to the Bronx. That is, until all roads pointed to the George Washington Bridge. The several miles leading up to the GWB added two hours to the—sans traffic—hour-and-a-half trip. Something to keep in mind: Sunday night isn’t a good time to be coming into New York. Saturday night isn’t too good, either. And, of course, weekdays have their rush hours.

The George Washington Bridge nonetheless played a memorable role in my youth. It was an imposing portal leading to the promised land of summer vacations on the Jersey Shore and visits with the grandparents in bucolic Bangor. It was also the road home, which when crossed to the Manhattan side meant that I was ever-so-close—fifteen minutes from my front door—to home. Vacations and good times ending with the crossing of the GWB were invariably melancholic, because “be it ever so crumble, there’s no place like home.” Major Charles Emerson Winchester actually said that when he came upon the friendly confines of the M*A*S*H 4077 after being hopelessly lost—or so he thought—in the dangerous wilds of war-torn Korea.

While the congestion at the bridge is nothing new, it’s definitely worse than ever. I wonder what George Washington would think if he found himself in contemporary Fort Lee, New Jersey. The town, after all, was an American war fort, directly across the Hudson from Fort Washington. It is home now to a lengthy toll plaza and a perpetual stream of gas-guzzling cars, belching trucks, and jockeying buses. Being a toll taker there has got to take a toll on the taker’s health. Fortunately, most of the lanes are non-cash E-Zpass lanes. I can’t imagine what the traffic would be like without them.

The George Washington Bridge as a gateway toys with one’s emotions—it always has. Looking heavenward, it’s a majestic sight—and the view from the bridge in every direction is spectacular. Still, when one draws near the GWB and lands smack dab in the middle of a recurrent traffic nightmare, it gives one pause. Thoughts of moving far, far away—once and for all—from the George Washington Bridge and its perpetual gridlock take center stage. Horace Greeley once said, “Go West, young man, go West.” Map Quest informs me that crossing the GWB is the best way to get there.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)