Grease Is the Word

Yesterday, I encountered a seasoned subway panhandler, a woman, though, whom I hadn’t seen in quite a while—since the start of the pandemic at least. I'm happy to report that she was in fine form, her art as sharp as ever. Everything she does is spot-on, beginning with her delivery, which is loud enough for passengers in the entire subway car to hear. The lady also carries a sizeable receptacle for contributions and always has. This measure is win-win and especially critical in the present COVID-19 times in which we live. Methodically, she works the train from end-to-end—that’s ten cars and ten spiels. 

I don’t know her true story—mental illness no doubt plays a big part in it—but I always give her a dollar or two. She says that she is HIV positive and two months pregnant and rarely goes off script. Two months pregnant is carved in stone. The fur or faux fur coat she was wearing was a new twist. Life in the land down under is always unpredictable and never dull. And there are countless men and women who roam the recesses with tales to tell—real and imagined—many of them very unhappy ones.

And now for a little life in the bright light of day. There was a big street fair on Sixth Avenue this past weekend—and last weekend for that matter—with a diverse group of vendors. One participant’s tent sign read “Interesting Items.” I thought that a unique form of fair branding, which covered considerable ground. I got the impression—a feeling—that the interesting items were somehow a euphemism for junk, but I could have been wrong. There were numerous people perusing the interesting items. In retrospect, I was remiss in not checking them out.

My outing’s last act found me in a pizzeria. One, in fact, that I had passed countless times through the years, but never patronized. It always appeared grungy from the outside. Its awning sign didn’t exactly draw you into the place. But then it’s been said time and again that we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, nor a pizza shop by its facade. To my pleasant surprise, I had the best slice I’ve had in a long time. In what has been a sea of mediocrity—some better than others—this pepperoni pizza hit the spot. Despite it being a risky undertaking—and a potential indigestion nightmare—the allure of pepperoni remains strong. My latest pizza experience was perfect: a fresh, thin slice with the pepperoni grease saturating the dough. There is good grease and bad grease in the world of pizza. This was unquestionably the former. And when the stars align in the pizza chase: Grease is the word.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Questions, Comments, Observations

I had a college history professor who would periodically query his students during lectures. “Any questions, comments, observations?” he would ask. Invariably, there would be none. Despite it being an interesting course, “Great Issues in European History,” the class consisted of mostly engineering, business, and other non-history majors enrolled in it as an elective. It didn’t matter that the prof had stellar teaching credentials and a background that complemented the subject matter, the get-togethers had a zombie-like feel to them. My outwardly indifferent peers always seemed to be somewhere else. Come to think of it, there were more than few classes like that.

I don’t, though, remember any of the glassy-eyed therein being “triggered” by something said during the history lectures. And speaking for myself only, I never felt “unsafe.” The school had a Campus Ministry, which served, I suppose, as a 1980s version of a “safe space”—safe space lite. I never dropped by in my four years of higher education.

I’m glad that I grew up in a time without the Internet, social media, and smartphones. Men and women are now losing their jobs and having their reputations ruined because of something somebody dug up in their all-encompassing virtual trail. It’s pathetic and scary at the same time. People are wielding power with these big reveals. God forbid you tweeted something five years ago, sent a private e-mail, or liked a Facebook post that offends someone who could do you harm. You could be toast in a New York minute. Guess what? Nobody’s perfect and everybody’s a hypocrite at one time or another. It’s human nature. And now for some further questions, comments, and observations…

What is it with McDonald's now-you-see-it, now-you-don't McRib sandwiches? Perhaps the chain appreciates that we always need something to look forward to in life.

Believe or not, there are even reports of employee shortages in the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA). This would have been unheard of several years ago when waiting lists were the rule.

Canada geese heading from a blue state to a red state for the winter?

I saw this on a subway car floor last week. A "punk" is what we called them in my youth. We bought them in local candy stores.

May I say right now that it is not your grandfather's subway car advertising anymore...

Definitely not!

In this age of branding, subway car advertising often features one or two products or services in the entire car. This uplifting product ads took up half a car.

In these tough times for the hospitality industry, I sincerely hope this restaurant has found someone to man its phone, a trying, stress-filled position no doubt.

I read this lengthy article  featuring former restaurant employees explaining why they left the industry. One recurring theme was how poorly they were treated by the customers. The consensus was that things got increasingly ugly as the pandemic took hold. This doesn't speak well for the public at large. Seems to me that these folks deserved a better fate.

I've eaten inside multiple pizzerias in New York City this past month. Only one time was I asked to show my vaccination card.

There are outstanding pizza places in the city, but the vast majority of them are mediocre at best. This slice fit the bill, but because it was fresh out of the oven wasn't half bad.

Par for the course near Penn Station. But for tired and hungry tourists...who knows?

It could conceivably be a slice to remember.

Every now and then I encounter something on the sidewalk with a story to tell. Seems that whoever purchased, or stole, these Memory Foam Boot Slippers couldn't wait to put them on and discard her old footwear. Right then and there!

The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) is now arguing that the First Amendment's free speech clause has been interpreted "too broadly" by courts. It's not your grandfather's ACLU anymore, an organization I used to have the utmost regard for.  

Atlas is more than shrugging at that news. He's also unmasked as Rockefeller Center readies for the holiday season.

I know that New York City's considerable rat population suffered during the worst of the pandemic. How did the local seagulls fare?

In my last visit to a favorite diner, I noticed that the coffee mugs were smaller. It's the sign of the times. Inflation, shortages, and general nuttiness. Regardless of the size of the coffee cup, I say, "God bless the servers." 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro.)

The Green, Green Grass of Home

When I was growing up, it is always seemed unfair to me that the only house on the block with a sizeable green lawn—a lot in and of itself—went unused by its inhabitants. Utterly! The family who lived there were brainiacs—father, mother, daughter, and son—whose intellectual pursuits, livelihoods, and hobbies didn’t include gardening, barbecuing, or playing Wiffle ball. From my youthful perspective—and adult one, too—this rare residential green space in the neighborhood merited a better fate.

The house in question was for sale in 1946 when my paternal grandfather—an iceman until refrigeration downsized him to a milk factory line worker—shopped in the area for a piece of real estate to call his own. He loved the property because of the lawn, which he saw as prime garden space. But, alas, my grandfather required a home with a rent-paying tenant or two to assist with the mortgage. Relatively speaking, houses were affordable in those days for lower middle-class families, but not affordable enough to go it alone. And so, my grandfather had to pass on the house with the enviable lawn and settle for a three-family dwelling with a concrete backyard down the block. Fortunately, in those days, empty lots existed in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge and my grandfather planted considerable gardens in a couple of them.

My first paying job, as a matter of fact, found me cutting that coveted lawn with a primitive electric mower. Powered via an extensive cord, we mowers dragged it up and down and then down and up the lawn. My friend Johnny accidentally ran over the thing during a mowing. Embarrassed and concerned of the consequences, he neglected to inform his employer of the incident. Quietly returned to the garage, the mower with the gnarled cord eventually was discovered and a lecture ensued. “Johnny, you done me dirt last week,” said the aggrieved party as he pointed to exhibit A. He then proceeded to explain how important it was to own up to one’s mistakes. Given a second chance, Johnny also learned a valuable life lesson in the process.

In my nearly six decades of living, the lawn has remained a reassuring albeit somewhat lonely constant. No wafting aromas of grilled hot dogs and hamburgers ever originated from it. No fun and games were ever recorded there. No tomato plants sprouted up from its earth. A fence on its north side has long sported grape vines that—surprisingly—annually yield grapes, which we kids sampled once upon a time. If memory serves, they were better suited for the local bird population. Gracing the lawn for years were also several small cherry and pear trees, which clearly were there before the brainiacs assumed ownership of the property. They reliably bore fruit that were, again, humanly edible but only barely. The cherries were invariably sour, and the pears were always hard and more suitable for baking—if even that. Still, as wide-eyed youths, we enjoyed picking grapes, cherries, and pears—and eating them. Sometimes we snuck into the yard and made off with our bounty. As far as we could tell, the owners never harvested the fruits of their lawn.

One day, as I recall, my friend Johnny and I rang the front doorbell. The youngest son—who would have been in his twenties then—answered. We politely asked him for permission to “pick some pears.” He said that we could but added rather robotically, “You have five minutes!” And, lo and behold, the man with the off-the-charts IQ timed us to the second and came charging out of the house loudly bellowing: “Your time is up! Your time is up! Your time is up!”

Fast forward a half a century and the youngest son—now a septuagenarian—is the last one standing in the house with the super green lawn. In fact, it’s greener than ever. New sod was recently laid, and a sprinkler waters it daily. Through the years, the pear trees died of natural causes. The last remaining cherry tree and a miscellaneous tree were cut down a few years ago, leaving just the forlorn lawn.

Well. everything must end in this thing we call life. The news is out that the Bronx house with the ample lawn alongside it is up for sale. The last of the brainiacs is moving on to greener pastures, or less greener pastures, as it were. And considering the present climate in New York City, I suspect whoever buys the property will not regard the green lawn in the same detached way, nor in the way I’ve looked at it for all these years. Bet your bottom dollar that the green lawn will be seen exclusively through a green lens, and something bigger than a lawn in the Bronx will be lost because of it.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

Return to Semi-Normalcy

The return to semi-normalcy is underway. The Rockettes are raring and ready to go for Radio City Music Hall’s annual Christmas Spectacular, which was cancelled last year courtesy of the pandemic. It commences on November 5th. But don't forget, the proof-of-vaccination check is the law of the land here in New York City for entry into a variety of venues. Recently, though, I patronized a couple of pizzerias in Manhattan, ate my slices inside, and was not proofed. And I believe these businesses fell under the vaccination-before-service umbrella. Honestly, I can understand the proofing thing for some establishments more than others. Crowded theaters like Radio City Music Hall—of course—but mom-and-pop eateries? I’d cut them a little slack. It’s been a rough year and half for them no matter how you slice it.

Best pizza in New York?

That's what the Food Network says. Just sayin', but I think its reviewers need to get out and about a little more.

Again, not the "best pizza" in New York, but better than the "Best Pizza in NY," in my humble opinion.

"World Famous" and "Gourmet Pizza" that was okay but nothing to write home about.

Now, here's a pizza pie that I must try one of these days. Joe's Pizza boxes are literally all over the streets of Greenwich Village. By the looks of things, the place has very little space for indoor dining.

For years now, I've passed this eatery with its "Best Chinese Food" sign in the window. While the interior always appeared quite dingy to me, I understood that—in the taste game—one should never judge a book by its cover, particularly a Chinese take-out joint.

Well, the sign's powerful allure at long last drew me in for a chicken and broccoli to-go this past weekend. The cavernous inside was indeed dingy but the dish was edible enough. Still, I suspect if you traveled the world over, you could find better tasting Chinese food, maybe even on the next block.

There is nothing quite like a New York City bagel.

Okay, you can't judge a book by its cover or restaurant by its front signage. But, personally, I'd invest in a power washing.

It's been an especially tough year and then some for barkeeps...

But the signs abound that it's high time to return to some semblance of normal.

The annual Tunnel to Towers 5K Run and Walk was back this year after falling prey to COVID-19 in 2020. The event raises money for the families of First Responders who lost their lives on 9/11.

How can you not feel safe with this member of New York City Police Department's anti-terrorism on the scene...

I saw this Starbucks employee sweeping out a mess of water-logged garbage from inside onto the front sidewalk. A Department of Sanitation inspector car pulled up to a traffic light in front of the place. He stared out the window at the trash and moved on when the light turned green. 

Outdoor dining on Minetta Lane in Greenwich Village: no vaccination check required. Many of the outdoor dining sheds, in fact, in Manhattan were teeming with customers and packed to capacity during the past weekends. Outdoors, yes, but sardine cans in practical reality.

The journeys into the belly of the beast began here in the Bronx. Masks are required on mass transit regardless of vaccination status. And, I'm happy to report, compliance is generally the rule.

Arizona in the Bronx. Once upon a time there were Dairylea orange drinks in cardboard containers that cost fifteen cents in Pat Mitchell's Irish Food Center. Simpler times...

I'd recommend visiting the environs of Battery Park for a variety of reasons. Not the least of which is that it's got more bathrooms per capita in New York City than any other locale, including this incredibly clean public restroom in Battery Park City. They don't come any better than this.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Catch of the Day on Life Support

(Originally published on 9/3/2012)

With the 2012 summer season effectively in the dustbin of history, I can add a further nail into the “having a catch in the backyard” coffin. Once upon a time in this neck of the woods—the Northwest Bronx—baseball mitts rested in countless front hallways and were called into action regularly during the spring, summer, and autumnal months. Playing largely on concrete, though, our gloves’ neat leatherwork and lacing took a beating, eventually beyond repair.

When we utilized bona fide baseballs on fields that weren’t green, their stitches and coverings took a licking. It wasn’t uncommon to see us playing with hardballs wrapped in black electrical tape to extend their lives. Eventually, the rubber hardball came along, which supplied us with the ideal orb to have a catch and play games of “errors” and “pitcher and catcher” in our concrete backyards. Sure, the concrete is still there today—albeit a cheesier, monochrome variety—but very few kids are having catches atop it.

Actually, outside of seeing today’s youth staring into iPhones on the mean streets, I didn’t notice much else going on throughout this urban summer. Walking about while simultaneously staring into these technological gizmos paints a rather depressing picture to me. It conjures up images of tacky horror films from yesteryear with human automatons bloodlessly roaming the highways and byways. If we were becoming a smarter and more interesting people, perhaps a winning case could made for walking around while texting, tweeting, and talking on the cell—and not looking where one is going—but that ain't exactly happening.

So, the backyard catch is no longer the catch of the day. And on life support, too, in the big city—it should be noted—are clothes hanging out on clotheslines. Well…longstanding as this old tradition may be, its demise just might not be a bad thing. Progress…yes...let's embrace it.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Proof Is in the Pudding

In my travels this morning, I noticed that the local McDonald’s was now hiring—all shifts the outdoor sign said. If my eyes weren’t deceiving me, the franchise had also shuttered its indoor dining again—round three if memory serves. Why? Because it’s the law that restaurants and other indoor venues in New York City must check their patrons’ vaccination status. I’m guessing that this McDonald’s—and other fast-food chains in the area—just don’t think it is worth the trouble. That is, having an employee or employees policing their sit-down dining rooms all day long.

Speaking of trouble, have you seen the video clip of a Manhattan restaurant hostess getting physically assaulted by three women from Texas, including a mother and a daughter? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Almost too good to be true from the media's perspective: the antagonists were tourists from the Lone Star State. Except for one thing, they were African-American and not central casting rednecks. The hostess’s crime: asking for proof of vaccination before seating them. The attackers, however, say she hurled a racist epithet and was aggressive toward them. The owner of the eatery—Carmine’s on the Upper West Side—made it abundantly clear: They could have been accommodated in outdoor seating without a fuss. But these are times we live in—people are extra nutty, more narrow-minded, and prone to violence at the drop of a hat.

Despite three million inhabitants still unvaccinated in New York City—an overcrowded, increasingly dirty pressure cooker—it’s worth noting that COVID-19 positivity rates here are the lowest in the state. That said: Enforcing proof of vaccination in business establishments will no doubt inspire more incidents like the Texas Tourist Trio fistfight in the heart of old Manhattan.

Anyway, I’ve got no problem displaying my vaccination card when required, just as I have no issue with presenting my ID when I deposit $50 cash in my own bank account, or visit a patient in a hospital, or purchase a bottle of NyQuil in the drugstore when I have a touch of the flu. Reality check: Nowadays, every American adult needs a picture ID to access everything and anything.

Considering that the New York City 2021 budget was a record-breaker and the adopted budget for fiscal year 2022 establishes another one, I can’t understand why the mayor and company haven’t restored the cuts to the Department of Sanitation. Sidewalk litter baskets are overflowing with garbage all the time and all over town. And how about bringing back organic recycling as promised? The powers-that-be are too busy to see the mess, I guess. They are, primarily, woke and concerned more about offensive statues, intersectionality, and schools for smart kids with too many smart kids in them.

While on the subject of youth, I vividly remember as a kid this ubiquitous New York City ad campaign. It was during the filthy1970s and ran concurrently with Iron Eyes Cody canoeing around polluted waterways with tears running down his cheeks. Each one of the commercials concluded with this punchline: “Don’t dump on New York!” Well, today, the dumpers are back with a vengeance. Countless residents are discarding their disposable facemasks on the streets and sidewalks. I find this act especially appalling because you can just place the thing in your pocket and dump it in the trash at home. You could even do the next best thing and toss it into a public garbage can, which—in many instances—is not much better than throwing it on the ground. But at least your heart would be in the right place.

Footnote: Microsoft Word editor has just added “Inclusiveness” to its recommendations. It seems that my use of the word “hostess” was not a “gender-neutral term.” “Host” was recommended. Also, my use of the term “rednecks” was language that “may imply cultural bias.” So, this is where we are: at a crossroads for creative sorts, who must now navigate waters more precarious than what Iron Eyes Cody encountered. Happily, the software permitted me to ignore the recommendations—but for how long?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Autumn in New York

(Originally published on 9/25/18)

When the Rite Aid drug store chain not only has its Halloween candy, decorations, and costumes taking up multiple aisles, but hints of Christmas decor around as well, it can mean only one thing: It's autumn in New York! Actually, two things: Christmas music will be playing on radio stations in approximately five weeks. What's not to love about fall? There's so much going on and so much to live for:

Nowadays it's called "branding." In this instance "bad branding."

The little house with the big name...

I was a "happy child" on a school bus when homeward bound, never—as I recall—the other way around.

Does New York still love Tropicana? Or is it Bai-Bai orange juice?

You know you are in a tony part of town when the public bathrooms have ceiling fans.

Recently, a taxi driver from out of town wanted to know the whereabouts of "The Statue." Since we were both in Battery Park City at the time, I pointed in the general direction of Liberty Island. With several antsy passengers in his vehicle, the cabbie desired more specific directions than that. He wondered, too, if there would be available parking when he got there. I didn't take pleasure in bursting his balloon, but I informed him that he had to take a boat. Sorry, no cars. The guy didn't believe me. Happily, he didn't ask me: "How do I get to Carnegie Hall?" Because, again, the man wouldn't have liked my answer: "Practice." Happy Motoring!

Flag flying over the Kingsbridge Station post office, where almost anything goes.

Flag flying over my former elementary school, St. John's, on Godwin Terrace in the Bronx. The building is currently being leased to the public school system, which no doubt pays a pretty penny for the privilege. From the Catholic Church perspective, however, every little bit helps in paying off its victims.

This is one of the boats that could have taken the cab driver's fare to Liberty Island. Hope he didn't make a wrong turn.

There is nothing quite like pizza, but I fear we are being inundated in these parts with options. So much so that many pizza makers will find out—sooner rather than later—that they just can't make enough dough to survive.

Watch out for trains...

 Danger...trains...

Man watching out for dangerous trains...

I wish I could say that the New York City subway system has gone to the dogs, but I can't just yet.

How many men does it take to change a light bulb in a flashing "Don't Walk" sign? Only one.

Stand clear!

"It is everything you dreamed of. It is nothing you expect."

Many times I have felt like a prisoner while riding on the subway. Who is Number One?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)