Michael Styles, Austin of NYU, and Bad New York Pizza

(Originally published 9/7/13)

New York City has a reputation for serving tasty pizza—a distinction that's rarely duplicated in other parts of the country and indeed the world. But with its many first-rate pizzerias and pizza restaurants come countless ill-tasting, stomach-churning losers as well. The sheer quantity of pizza places in New York ensures many “bad slice" experiences, and today I had one.

The extraordinarily lame pizza I stumbled upon was in the vicinity of New York University and Washington Square Park. From the outside the shop had a peculiar appeal and appeared a place that might serve high-quality pizza. Patrons had to walk down a few steps to enter, which added to its allure. But the compelling ambiance ended abruptly when you physically entered the joint.

A blackboard outside trumpeted its $1.00 slice—impressive considering the going rate is $2.50 and more nowadays. However, once inside, another sign—call it the fine print—said there was a $1.00 tax on the $1.00 slice. Did the mayor and the city council impose this tax under the cover of darkness? While I know they get their jollies doing stuff like that, I really didn't think there was a specific pizza tax. Rather, this was a little pizza parlor legerdemain—clumsy, sleazy, and illegal. And even at $2.00 a slice—still cheaper than the norm—it did not rise to the level of real New York City pizza. Not even close. Beware of the $1.00 slice, even the ones without a $1.00 tax attached to them!

Fortunately, there were more uplifting and interesting events in my life today than bad pizza and unscrupulous pizza makers. I was witness to an NYU student acting as a tour guide for incoming students and their families. His name was Austin, and he told the assembled it was his boyhood dream to attend the university because of his favorite show, Friends, which featured Dr. Ross Geller, a professor at NYU, played by David Schwimmer. Why did I want to go to my alma mater? Maybe because I could walk there?

Today’s busy day commenced with me riding the subterranean A train into Manhattan, instead of the Number 1 train (track work, what else?), my usual, brighter mode of transportation. I have always found that A train rides feature much more entertainment and homeless standup than on 1 train excursions. I wanted to give a particular homeless man a buck or two this morning, because his importuning was simultaneously eloquent and poignant, but found it too difficult to get into my wallet while sandwiched between two bodies. On my return trip, three spry youths took advantage of the A train's captive audience between its extended express stops—59th Street and 125th Street—to break dance, or whatever it was they were doing. They were remarkably agile in twirling around the subway floor, standing on their heads, swinging on the poles, and contorting their bodies into frog-like and pretzel postures. I would have given them a dollar or two, too, but again concluded that reaching into my wallet was more trouble than it was worth.

Finally, I met Michael Styles today, a Manhattan conman and philosopher with an opinion on everything. What did I learn about Michael in the brief moments we spent together? Well, he wanted to be an actor and appeared in a few commercials at some earlier point in his life. He is a hair stylist now but cannot find enough work to make ends meet. So, if I got it right, Michael is a homeless hairstylist. By his own admission, the man's also an alcoholic. Perhaps this is why he can't find full-time hair-cutting jobs. Michael has “had” hundreds of women through the years, he said, but is no Wilt Chamberlain. He counts five women, in fact, who want to enter into “relationships” with him, but he finds them—relationships—entirely too complicated. Michael would rather just have sex with them and leave it at that. At the end of the day, he was looking for a few bucks—to buy a sandwich, not a drink, he said. I wonder if Michael Styles was telling me the truth.

Fifty Feet Underground

(Originally published 9/30/17)

While a passenger on the Number 1 train yesterday morning, a man entered carrying a small American flag. I logically assumed the flag was a prop for an impending subway car performance. However, life is full of surprises, especially on a New York City subway. The fellow walked right past me and entered the adjoining car without so much as a peep. This transpired on my downtown ride. On the return trip home, the same man appeared, but this time he didn't disappoint and promptly launched into his act. In good voice, he sang “God Bless America” while waving his little flag.

After the last verse, “God bless America, my home, sweet home,” the subway songster announced that he wasn't “homeless, hungry, harmful, or pregnant.” He then got to the business at hand. “If you like what you hear,” he said, “I’d appreciate a donation.” To prove that his act was multi-dimensional—and included ample doses of comedy—he added, “If you do not hear what you like, I will take a bribe to shut up!”

This singular subway show was far from over as the man performed for the Spanish-speaking riders. He belted out the familiar folk song “La Cucaracha” and then supplied us with some blue biographical information. He referenced his previous night’s roll in the hay with his randy third wife. By the blank looks on their faces, I didn't think very many of my fellow passengers appreciated the width and breadth of this guy's talents. After mentioning the enchanted evening with his wife, he pretended that he was reliving it—on the morning after—and became breathless and temporarily lost in space. When he returned to earth—and the subway car—from this heavenly recollection, he thanked all of us for being “a captive audience fifty feet underground.”

I typically give to panhandlers on the subway—homeless or otherwise—but didn't make the effort to bequeath anything to the man of song. For starters, it's not easy to get money out of your pocket when you are crammed next to somebody on a subway seat. Perhaps I was thrown off my usual routine by his unusual routine, which was hardly run-of-the-mill subway entertainment.

Interestingly, just as the songster-comedian exited the subway car, another chap entered. He, however, said that he was homeless, had experienced a run of bad luck, and was in a bad way. This time, I made the effort to unearth a dollar bill from my pocket. But I should have also given the “God Bless America” guy a “donation.” After all, his parting salvo noted the various payments he accepted, including “credit cards” and “gift cards.” If there is a next time, he will get a well-earned couple of bucks—a donation to a worthy cause ‘cause I like him.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Revenge of the Uncola

(Originally published 3/3/22)

Almost a half century ago, a sixty-four-ounce glass bottle of 7up, the uncola, left its mark. It was Christmas 1973, when soda pop came in glass, not plastic, bottles and were measured in ounces, not liters. Anyway, my brothers and I were playing a game of Skittle-Bowl, a Christmas gift that year, and about to partake in a little holiday bubbly.

Before opening the 7up bottle, if memory serves, it accidentally dropped to the floor. For every action there is a reaction. Retrieved and in one piece, the now agitated uncola erupted, ejecting its bottle cap with such force that it passed through a plastic hanging lamp shade above. It left a jagged hole in it on its way to the ceiling.

It was one of those what could have been moments in family history. Somebody could have lost an eye or suffered some other serious injury from the unleashed uncola. But no physical harm came to any human on the scene. And the hanging lamp endures to this day as a reminder of what once was.

I miss 1973. The family car was a used 1968 Buick Skylark purchased from a neighbor. The Mets were the National League champions. Local Sam’s Pizza served up a greasy delight back then when only whole pies were put in boxes, which were tied with string. Four oozing slices in a small paper bag was a sight to behold. My father called the place the “grease shop,” but the grease was—depending on the age of the pizza—a maker or breaker. There was good grease and bad grease.

There was a great bakery in the neighborhood, too: Shelvyn’s. Nowadays, standout standalone bakeries are hard to come by in these parts. Supermarkets with their own bakery departments and changing tastes and times have seen to that. Once upon a time, this otherworldly bakery on the main thoroughfare served up a cream donut to die for. It was deep-fried, dense, and delicious.

I have not sampled 7up in quite a while. I wonder if it still tastes the way it did when Geoffrey Holder was the product’s TV pitchman and bottle caps passed through lampshades at warp speed. Probably not. For it was a simpler time when the Skylark, with my father behind the wheel, slid off an icy road into a ditch in the environs of Bangor, Pennsylvania, home of my maternal grandparents. A good Samaritan—a farmer in his tractor—got us back on course. That was also Christmastime 1973. A lot happened that week. And it is fair to say that then I wasn't mulling over what life would be like almost fifty years later.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

(Originally published 1/21/19)

How cold is it? It is so cold that my “Ernie lock” is frozen. More on that shortly. But first, the weekend winter weather hype around here did not amount to more than a soaking rain. However, phase two—the brutally cold aftermath—came to pass. This past Saturday, the various subway platforms and subway staircases in New York City were smothered in rock salt—or whatever ice-melting combination the Metropolitan Transit Authority employs nowadays. In genuine fear of slipping, I found myself gingerly navigating this precautionary measure of what might or might not be. Honestly, descending heavily salted stairwells can be hazardous to one’s health.

Happily, I didn't take a tumble on the overly salty surfaces. The subsequent chill, though, resurrected memories of a past January cold spell. For some reason, I have these evocative images in mind of a particular time and a particular place. And courtesy of the wealth of information on the Internet, I can confirm what I have long believed to be that time, 1977, the winter of my first year in high school. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know that I mostly loathed the high school experience, cafeteria fare notwithstanding.

I vividly remember riding our not very special “Special” buses across the Bronx—west to east—on a series of brutally cold mornings. More than four decades later, I can still feel the despair of those icy rides, which commenced on Broadway under the noisy El. And as the buses rattled down Bailey Avenue, I can see the rising seven o’ clock sun reflecting on the frozen snow remnants on the passing sidewalks. At our rides' very literal high points on East Gun Hill Road, glimpses of the Long Island Sound on the horizon were visible. In the dreary depths of wintertime, such fleeting sightings made me pine for summer when our “Special” buses were on ice.

Looking back, there was nothing quite so depressing as venturing off to high school during an Arctic blast. But I somehow made it through that frigid January of 1977 and lived to tell. It should be noted here that if my secondary education was excised from my winter memory bank, the season had its moments. Honestly, it all boiled down to snow in those days. It is what I—and many of my peers—desired for a whole host of reasons, not the least being potential days off from school. But in an age before hand-held devices kept addicted youth indoors in winter, spring, summer, and fall, my contemporaries and I spent a lot of time outside no matter the season.

As for that Ernie lock, I will make a long story short. It is a bicycle lock used on the gate leading to a few descending stairs and my front door. The lock came to pass after an unsettling early morning visit from a person unknown. At that ungodly hour, 4 a.m., I opted not to inquire, “Who’s there?” Who, pray tell, was ringing my bell then—off and on—for half an hour that felt like an eternity? I should have called the police.

I did, however, have a prime suspect for the unwanted wake-up call: a neighborhood local named Ernie. We knew each other as kids but were never friends. Unfortunately, I am a familiar face. And Ernie has long been putting the monetary bite on people he knows—even remotely. I made the grave mistake of giving him a few dollars one time and it opened wide Pandora's Box. While it solved my short-term problem, it created a vexing long-term one.

Ernie’s story is a sorry one. Once upon a time, he was a quiet, unassuming youth. Now, pushing sixty, he is loquacious and inclined to rave—his brain, no doubt, scrambled by his decades-long addiction to heroin. In my most recent encounters with Ernie, he came out with a couple of whoppers. He would be starting a job in two weeks, he said on one occasion. That didn't happen. The man also reported that he would be receiving food stamps on the fifteenth of this month. I wonder? And, yes, if I gave him a little something to tide him over until then, Ernie would buy me groceries. Well, as of this writing, the Ernie lock remains frozen, but a spritz of WD-40 will fix that. As for Ernie, his problems are sadly not so easily fixable.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Pizza Hut Parable

(Originally published 5/14/21)

Forty-four years ago, an older neighbor and friend with both a sense of high adventure and an automobile decided to call on—for the very first time—a Pizza Hut restaurant. Big stuff! It was a newly opened location in the city of New Rochelle, a hop, skip, and a jump from where we called home in the Bronx. For years, we had heard whispers about Pizza Hut and its singular dining experience, but there wasn't one in the vicinity—until, that is, the summer of 1977, which was also, coincidentally, the “Summer of Sam.”

So, off we went—four of us in total—to Pizza Hut. Heartburn notwithstanding, we loved the place and the pan pizza, which was decidedly different from—our bread and butter—traditional New York-style pizza. My paternal grandmother, though, made a uniquely delicious pan pizza, with breadcrumbs sprinkled atop the mozzarella. Yes, the 1970s and 1980s, too, were kind to the Pizza Huts of the world and—I daresay—grandmothers’ home cooking as well. There were chains aplenty back then that were considered must tries, from Beefsteak Charlie’s to Brew Burger to Nedick’s. And while the aforementioned eateries may be in the compost of history, Pizza Hut endures.

I patronized Pizza Hut that summer’s eve in 1977 and, if memory serves, one more time, but details of the second visit escape me. The chain—including Pizza Hut Express locations—is still visible in the area. After recently viewing a retrospective Pizza Hut history on You Tube, my curiosity got the best of me. How is it faring all these years later, I wondered? In countless respects, 2021 is the polar opposite of 1977. Pizza Hut, for one, is no longer special. It is competing with popular chains—with assembly-line pizza pie tastes—like Domino’s, Little Caesar’s, and Papa John’s. Once upon a time, the charm of Pizza Hut was sit-down dining—the soup-to-nuts restaurant shebang with pizza as the main course. In the 1970s and 1980s, Pizza Hut décor was what one expected—and what one considered an unbeatable ambiance—in that unmistakable colorful snapshot in time. Pitchers of soda poured into red pebbled plastic tumblers and pizza served with a smile. It didn't get any better than that!

Honestly, it came as no surprise to me that Pizza Hut has evolved into a mere shadow of its former itself. Nowadays, it emphasizes delivery and pick-up over indoor dining. And from the comments I read on the YouTube video chronicling the chain’s storied history, the quality of the pizza has precipitously declined. So, what else is new? When in Rome do as the Romans do. When waging war against fellow fast-food pizza chains produce a similarly inferior product. Lamenting the Pizza Hut transformation, one former fan pithily remarked, “2021 sucks!”

Several days ago, I purchased a box of Ellio’s frozen pizza, a brand that I regularly consumed when, in fact, I sampled Pizza Hut for the first time. I liked the pizza back then. It had a defining sauce—that is Ellio’s—ample cheese, and a doughy cardboard crust. Now, it's three strikes and you're out—a non-defining sauce, minimal cheese, and a non-doughy cardboard crust—but it is still called Ellio’s. For a while there it was known as McCain’s Ellio’s, which marked its transition from memorable to insipid. What more can I say about the 1970s Pizza Hut experience and others just like it? You had to be there to understand.

“B” as in “Ball”

(Originally published 6/7/13)

With the school year ending, hospitable climes, and daylight to spare, it is June in the Bronx. It was—once upon a time—a favorite time of year. The month of June supplied more hours to play ball—all kinds of ball. Nowadays, I see very few kids playing anything on the streets. This sociological observation is why I was quite surprised to encounter a cardboard tray of rubber hardballs in a local delicatessen—one run by Arabs. For some reason, rubber hardballs in an Arab deli called to mind Dr. Zewail, an affable Egyptian professor of mine in Manhattan College. The man informed his macro-economics students that in his language—Arabic—there was no “P” as in “Peter” and “B” as in “ball.” And so, naturally, he always made a “mish, mosh, moosh” out of words with Ps and Bs, like “rubber hardball.”

A Bronx deli in the twenty-first century selling rubber hardballs just struck me as odd. Perhaps I am missing something here and there is a real demand for them—for some games played in some places unknown to me. They could also be old inventory from the 1970s and a prior deli owner, which is a possibility. I don't know. However, I do know that one, among many things, that we urban youth did to pass the time in my old neighborhood, Kingsbridge, was play pitcher and catcher, games of “errors,” or just have a catch in our concrete backyards and alleyways. Rubber hardballs, which I presume were manufactured for playing on rough, synthetic surfaces, were the ideal ball. Gradually, though, even they would wear out with use. This once versatile and robust orb would eventually be too far-gone—deemed an "egg"—and put out to pasture.

While growing up in that simpler snapshot in time, my family’s front hallway performed double duty as an equipment room, where our baseball gloves, bats, and balls were placed and plucked from as needed. The ball selection included everything from spaldeens to Wiffle balls; hardballs (cowhide and rubber) to tennis balls. When purchasing one of his stickball bats, I will always remember “Herman” of Bill’s Friendly Spot on W231st Street lecturing me. “Don't use tennis balls with it,” he said, “because the bat will break.” In other words, he wouldn't take back splinters—a broken bat under any circumstances. Of course, I ignored Herman’s wise counsel, and the bat broke upon a second contact with a tennis ball.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Touched by a Rat

(Originally published 6/23/12)

Angels touch some people, or so I have heard. No such luck for me today. I was, however, touched by a rat at the 14th Street subway station in lower Manhattan. I have spotted these ubiquitous rodents there before, running along not only the tracks but on the narrow platform as well. Suffice it to say, this location is not a good place to panic, shriek “eek,” and bolt like a pinball.

I always seek out the last car of the subway train for my trip home, which usually gets me a seat, but also happens to be near a garbage dumpster. While resting my weary bones against this thing several hours ago, a rodent with an exceptionally long tail scurried past me and then returned for an encore over my foot in concert with an arriving northbound Number 1 train. I feared my new friend might join me for the ride. Happily, the creature had other plans. While I'm not a superstitious sort, this kind of close encounter in an excessively humid, urine-smelling underground subway lair did not bode well for the future.

Placid subway rides can turn on a dime into a ride from hell. All it takes is one passenger or multiple passengers to make this nightmare a reality. Foremost, you don't want to ride with a deranged soul who could kill you. That did not happen today. You also don't want a malodorous individual, who has not bathed since the Clinton administration, to sit nearby. That did not happen, either. No, this group from hell were a couple of boorish families who never missed a beat in behaving ill-mannered. The subway car was their playground. If I printed out a transcript of what I heard on the ride from 96th Street in Manhattan until I exited in the Bronx a few miles later, there would be no periods in it. While standing only inches away from me, one woman painted her nails on the journey. I still have a headache.

I could see the disgust on the faces of the rest of the subway car’s passengers—a New York City melting pot if ever there was one—even though they were, to the untrained eye, poker-faced. Typically, straphangers, including me, prefer not to confront boors, who live by their perverse and coarse codes. In other words, they will scratch your eyes out for telling them to temper their crassness.

As the train inched closer to where I called home, and this shrill and loathsome brood didn't exit, I grew increasingly anxious. I dreaded the thought that they might live near me and that I might see them again. When I heard one individual inquire as to where they were getting off, the reply sounded a little too much like my station. I was prepared to stay on the train. Turns out, I was mistaken and exited where planned.

Walking ever so gingerly down this elevated subway station’s steps, I was greeted by a woman I know from my neighborhood. She asks passersby for quarters, even though she insists on at least a dollar’s worth of them. I said testily, “Can you at least wait until I get down?” The “quarter lady,” as she is known in some quarters, said she wanted to get something to eat from a local fast-food joint called Popeye’s. I gave her multiple quarters and she promptly hopped on a bus that pulled alongside her. She didn't use the change to pay the fare, I saw, and the bus was poised to take her a long way from Popeye’s! Damn that rat. Angels do not ride the subways. Who can blame them?

 

A Night to Remember

(Originally published 6/25/12)

On this very night thirty-nine years ago—June 25, 1973—I attended my first Mets' game at “beautiful Shea Stadium.” That is how announcer Curt Gowdy described the place four years earlier in a 1969 World Series highlight film. Anyway, from my ten-year-old perspective, it was more than beautiful. In fact, from my vantage point, it was awe-inspiring—Shea Stadium was the quintessential Wonder of the World. While I had been to Yankee Stadium on multiple occasions, I had only seen the "Big Shea" through the screen of my family’s black-and-white television set. So, to experience Shea Stadium in living color with its singular ballpark din—in the flight path of nearby LaGuardia Airport—made it a night to remember.

Johnny, an older neighbor, chauffeured five of us to the game in a firetruck-red Rebel, a classic AMC car from early 1970s. We had secured the tickets by snipping coupons from the backs of Dairylea-brand milk cartons, which was not as easy as it sounds. Looking back, the actual ticket values were $1.30 a pop—grandstand seating in the stadium’s high-altitude, dizzyingly steep upper deck. (The same ticket cost a $1.50 a couple of years later.) The Mets just were not doling out box seats to the area’s milk carton cutters. But it was a simpler time when free tickets of any kind were coveted.

While I remembered this incredibly special day in history—hence this blog—I didn't recall the starting pitcher or the lineup. I knew for certain my boyhood idol, Tom Seaver, wasn't on the mound, and was quite sure the legendary Willie Mays didn't get into the game, either. Yogi Berra was the team’s manager—I knew that—and a not especially memorable Met named Jim Gosger was one of the outfielders that night. I don't know why I remembered Gosger being in the game, but I did. I recalled, too, the tragic outcome. Entering the ninth inning, my team led two to nothing. The opposition Chicago Cubs, however, scored three runs in the top of the ninth and won the game. I was cruelly razzed by a couple of older males in my company—fans, of course, of my home borough's team in that other league and the Mets' cross-town rivals. Crestfallen, my older sister, who also was along for the ride, bought me a Mets' helmet as we exited paradise—so all was not lost. And life went on—almost four decades now and counting.

Postscript: Due to the magic of the Internet and the unfathomable depths of the information superhighway, I resurrected that evening’s box score. I was right about Jim Gosger. Tug McGraw blew a save opportunity and Jon Matlack took the loss that night. The attendance was 31,984 and the game time temperature was seventy degrees, ideal evening weather for a ballgame.

The Minister, Tree Branch, and Me

(Originally published 11/29/11)

I share something in common with a certain man of the cloth. It seems we both reside in street-level bachelor pads in private homes on the same block. And that's the long and short of our similarities, I suspect. Everything else I know about this fellow is limited to our encounters—for lack of a better description—which have been numerous the past couple of years. When I see him in the early morning hours—presumably before he goes to work, if that's the right phrase—he is without fail walking a small dog and puffing on a cigarette. The occupational giveaway is the Roman collar, fuchsia-colored buttoned shirt, and black sports jacket.

I have long assumed the man is an Episcopal or Methodist minister. Having experienced a Catholic upbringing and education, I just never knew a priest who lived in a basement apartment, which doesn't mean such living arrangements are unprecedented. The priests in my past always called hearth and home a parish or resided somewhere on the school grounds where they taught. But then again, a friend of mine worked alongside a Catholic priest in a Barnes & Noble store. The man needed the money and had to both locate, and pay out of his own pocket, his accommodation. These are tough times for all.

Anyway, today—post-Hurricane Irene Day One—I was outside and picking up scattered debris, including a large tree branch that I dragged to the curbside. With my back unintentionally turned away from this approaching holy man, I heard him—quite uncharacteristically—say something. I swiveled around and momentarily considered asking, “You talkin’ to me?” As per the norm, however, he was staring straight ahead, cigarette in one hand, and dog leash in the other, fulfilling his morning ritual. I surmised he was speaking to his canine friend, because I never saw any technological device in his ear. This man is old school and, for that matter, pretty old.

But then I noticed that the tree branch I had moved was jutting out a foot or so onto the sidewalk proper. Had I seen this before, I would never have placed it in such a precarious position, and I immediately moved it out of harm’s way. I proceeded to do something of a double take at that point, realizing that this neighbor of mine, who always does his best not to make eye contact with anyone—and, by osmosis, speak to anybody—had indeed addressed me. In fact, as soon as I laid eyes on the branch partially on the sidewalk, my brain—without any prompting on my part—replayed the previous moment. Yes, this mystery servant of the Lord, whose holy threads no doubt reeked of nicotine, had chided me. Considering that I was cleaning up a big mess, the scolding was at once unnecessary and unappreciated.

Harking back to my boyhood, I was always turned off by the unpleasantness and sometimes outright nastiness of a fair share of religious sorts. The more innocent and less cynical child quite often cuts to the chase. How could some of these men and women who purport to do God’s bidding and adhere to the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth be so disagreeable? I was never impressed with autocratic “good businessmen” known for running parishes with an iron fist and Wal-Mart bottom line efficiency. It seemed incongruous to me then, just as it does to me now.

I was literally both frightened and horrified by the fact that a Sister Lorraine-character passed nun muster and was permitted to teach children. She sported both a habit and a burgeoning mustache some four decades ago when she threw my friend Johnny down to the rock-hard marble at the altar’s edge in church. It was during "First Holy Communion" practice, and he received this body slam courtesy of the unforgiveable transgression of having a chewed up hot lunch straw sticking out of his shirt pocket.

Happily, Sister Lorraine was gone the following year—from my grammar school at least. Where she ended up after that, I don't know. Hopefully, she joined the Teamsters or was discovered by a talent scout for the World Wrestling Federation. All these years later in my adulthood—hopeless romantic that I am—I still prefer religious folk to be on the gentle side and not the Marlboro Man.

River, Take Me Away in Your Sunshine

(Originally published 8/21/11)

When my father was a young boy growing up in the Morningside Heights section of Manhattan, the family and some friends would often hop on the Number 1 train during summer weekends for the short ride up to Inwood Hill Park. Upon their arrival, they would hike through the area’s primordial woodlands—on Manhattan Island to this day—to an off-the-beaten trail winding down to a tiny snatch of sandy beach at the scenic confluence of the Harlem River Ship Canal and the Hudson River.

On such excursions, the older Italian men, including my grandfather, brought along their homemade wines. They placed the bottles in an icy cold freshwater spring, which trickled down through the nearby hills. Opened in 1936, the Henry Hudson Bridge loomed like a colossus—an engineering marvel—directly above this Shangri-La. The Spuyten Duyvil railroad swing bridge operated below.

Provided one did not venture out too far, the waters off this obscure snippet of shoreline were shallow and free of the extremely dangerous currents farther out. My father vividly remembered those days at the beach—wading into the drink awash in, among other things, human excrement. Granted, this fun in the sun couldn't have been the healthiest of recreational activities, but it was the late 1930s and early 1940s, when raw sewage poured into the local waters. It was just the way things were.

Flash forward thirty years and I recall being at water’s edge in New York Harbor. The wafting breeze was a curious mix of sea salt and sewer, and unsightly flotsam in the Hudson River was commonplace. The cleanliness of the waterway in those days—in these parts—was a familiar punch line.

But a funny thing happened over the last three decades. The river’s gotten cleaner—dramatically so. There is even talk of a public beach on Manhattan’s West Side. And not far to the north of the city, Hudson River beaches are open for business. And as for swimming in poop in the future, I think it would be wise to Just Say No. We have been there and done that—and there's no turning back.

Goodbye, Mr. Chips

(Originally published 5/21/16)

I recently purchased a few Banquet brand frozen turkey dinners at a local supermarket. Nowadays, “TV dinners” are not typically on my shopping list for a whole host of reasons—the foremost being that they aren't particularly good. Once upon a time, my youthful palate appreciated their ultra-sodium contents—but no more. Still, they were on sale, and the packaging underscored the fact that there was now “fifty percent more” turkey in them.

If nothing else, consuming these frozen dinners amounted to a stroll down Memory Lane. And I will concede, they were curiously edible. However, if there was indeed double the turkey in the dinners, their predecessors must have been sorely lacking—unsatisfying for sparrows, let alone for the human masses. Fifty percent more turkey notwithstanding, I could have effortlessly eaten the three I bought in one sitting. If there was a downside to TV dinners during my wide-eyed and insatiably hungry boyhood, it was, without question, the portions. Even Swanson’s “Hungry Man” versions were somehow never enough.

Nevertheless, this frozen dinner experience got me thinking about other grocery store products from my youth, some that still exist and others that are in the compost heap of history. I ate a lot of pizza in my younger days—and in a variety of forms, too, including an instant toaster version manufactured by Buitoni. Sadly, they are no more, but I fondly recall their gooey, reddish-orange puree of cheese and tomato sauce interiors, which were invariably blistering hot and prone to burn the mouth. My “Whatever Became Of” Internet search on these peculiar pizzas from yesteryear led me far afield to past comfort foods like Borden’s “Ready to Drink” Frosted Shakes in their heavy aluminum cans. We added milk to them at our house. They were that thick. Regrettably, the Frosted Shake has gone the way of the Buitoni toaster pizza.

And the death knell did not end there. Sometime around 1970, Kellogg’s introduced toaster pastries called Danish Go-Rounds. I distinctly remember the TV commercials for them. They featured a catchy jingle that went something like this: “A new kind of pastry, frosting, and tasty. New Kellogg’s…Danish Go-Rounds.” They were tasty all right but disappeared while I was still eating them. I had no choice. It was back to Pop-Tarts.

This former fare retrospective of mine found me in the end in Fudgetown. These were my all-time favorite cookies from a company called Burry, which also made Girl Scout cookies back then, when they were actually good. I had not thought of Fudgetown in a long time, but I see that they, too, are only a memory now, along with Burry’s other boxed cookies: Gaucho and Mr. Chips, the latter with the mysterious silhouette of Mr. Chips on the box. They were quality cookies. And since I never got the chance when Burry discontinued the products, I would like to finally say it—better late than never—“Goodbye, Mr. Chips.”

Laugh and the Whole World Laughs with You

(Originally published 7/1/10)

Once upon a time, I had a high school history teacher. His name was Mr. Downes. He taught a freshman-year course called "Asian and African Cultural Studies." Mr. Downes was a congenial and entertaining fellow who frequently tickled the funny bones of his young students. Sadly, though, I fear that this educator’s keen sense of humor and wry wit would bomb on the contemporary school stage.

At some point in the school year—1976-1977—we were studying the Southeast Asian country of India and its independent founding in 1947. The nation’s first prime minister was a man named Jawaharlal Nehru, a Mahatma Gandhi disciple. He is perhaps more renowned for inspiring a western fashion trend: the Nehru jacket. Throughout Mr. Downes’ lectures on the subject matter—India’s fledgling democracy, not sartorial predilections—he would speak in his normal tone of voice, and at his normal pace, until he came to the polysyllabic Nehru's first name. Our teacher would then pause—drum roll, please—and roll his tongue with consummate comic timing. I wish I could spell what I heard, but since it is near impossible, I will not even try. After this unique and brilliant pronunciation of “Jawaharlal,” Mr. Downes would immediately return to his natural speaking pattern and quietly say “Nehru.” It was something akin to the late Victor Borge’s phonetic punctuation routine—conventionally reading aloud from a book but supplying things like periods, commas, and question marks with their own individual and expressive sounds.

If Mr. Downes did any such thing today, a young snitch would no doubt turn him in. Above all else, schoolkids are trained in this duplicitous art at a very young age. He would then be reprimanded by the overly sensitive and feckless powers-that-be for not respecting another culture or even be accused of more nefarious crimes against humanity. An investigation would then be launched.

Guess what? Jawaharlal is an unusual name from our vantage point in the Land of Tom, Dick, and Harry. Bet you cannot say Jawaharlal three times real fast. If teachers in India or anywhere else on the planet want to make fun of American surnames in their lectures, I say: More power to them! Laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Cry and you cry alone in your safe spaces!

(Photo number one from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Misadventures of Pizza Man

(Originally published 3/7/16)

He was oozing optimism when he first opened his pizza place’s doors. His little restaurant was poised and ready for what was certain to be a mad dash of salivating clientele. Initially, the shop was staffed like a bustling Midtown Manhattan pizzeria—its multiple employees festooned in matching logo-emblazoned red baseball caps and staff shirts. The upbeat new owner, who had succeeded an unsuccessful pizza peddler, who in turn had assumed the reins from still another failed pizza guy, had—it seemed—all his bases covered. This latest entrepreneurial endeavor was sure to prove—despite its cursed location—that a third time is a charm.

Long a pizza devotee and forever a Bronx denizen, the shortest distance from point A (home) to point B (a decent New York slice of pizza) mattered to me. Therefore, I would throw myself at the mercy of the new kid on the block and hope for the best. I was perfectly willing to tolerate all growing pains, including extraordinarily green employees, who did not, in the slightest, strive to be otherwise. So, I was not bothered when the two slices, plus a small fountain drink—the $5.00 lunch special—was not awarded me because I declined the free drink. (I didn't want to carry it home.) The clueless staff charged me $5.50, the individual cost of two slices, because I passed on the drink! And then there was the improperly wrapped pizza conundrum, where exceptionally oily slices saturated takeout bags beyond their capacity to function. On more than one occasion during this establishment’s fledgling days, my bag split open before I arrived home, splattering my clothes with mozzarella, tomato sauce, and scorching hot, orangey grease. I was nonetheless hopeful things would improve once the gang that couldn’t shoot straight got the hang of it. I would thus ignore the countless pizza slices that lost their tips when plucked out of the oven and when yanked out of the takeout bag. Call me naïve, but I was convinced the pizza man would soon appreciate that his pizza pies were usually too thin, often too crisp, and sometimes a deadly combination of both. I had been served pizza slices with burnt bottoms before in my fast-food culinary travels, but never this degree of burnt offerings.

This pizza shop in the Northwest Bronx began with both high hopes and a full showcase of every conceivable specialty pizza. Quickly, though, a conspicuous dearth of sales cut the pizza selections on display to a haphazard, mangy medley of slices. A portent of things to come occurred when the restaurant’s top pizza oven died and was not repaired for months. It was painful to behold the well-intentioned, formerly optimistic owner preparing his pizza pies in an oven that was practically on the floor. God knows the man tried. He inundated the surrounding neighborhood with fliers on several occasions. In fact, one of them heralded that the place would be open for breakfast. But—go figure—he never opened for breakfast. It would have been the opportunity of a lifetime—and a first for me—to sample “Mash Potato” on a roll to start my day.

When all was said and done, the pizza served was rather good—above average, in my opinion—even if the slice size and its mass fluctuated from one day to the next. My last takeout purchase of a couple of slices—with pepperoni on them—was weightless. It was as if I had bought them on the moon.

Unquestionably, there was a consistency issue. You could get the freshest, tastiest slice one day and a soggy muddle the next. Refrigerated pizza from the prior day is a definite no-no in this business. Pizza visuals matter! The place’s showcase was too often unsightly—empty with just a few petrified-looking options. Nevertheless, I genuinely liked the proprietor and hoped he would eventually turn water to wine. He never did. His almost two years of misadventures seemed like an eternity to me, a loyal customer. I can only imagine what it seemed like to him. And if this pizza man tries his luck someplace else—which is very possible—I pray his pizza slice tips stay put and if he advertises “open for breakfast” he does, in fact, open for breakfast!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Beware of the Sponge

(Originally published on 7/11/11)

One of my fondest high school memories—or, quite possibly, my one and only fond memory—is the cafeteria. Cardinal Spellman in the Bronx served up some fine fare back in the day, including daily specials alongside a tasty, economical, always-available frankfurter. The school’s roast beef wedges, with their special cafeteria au jus, were otherworldly—better than anything Subway presently serves. On Wednesdays, the light-up menu board always read: “Roast Beef Wedge and Mashed Pot.” Potato was too long a word to fit.

I absolutely loved Friday’s special, which featured square slices of pizza with a unique consistency. All these years later, it is hard to describe, but I think a "soggy kind of savory" would do this pizza justice. Granted, I was a teenager with undeveloped taste buds. I am not certain my adult palate would so warmly embrace this pizza’s curious gooeyness, but memories of simpler times, I have found, are rarely simple.

Ah, but leave it to a fine Catholic institution of learning to cast a smothering pall over its five-star culinary hub, which is what the powers-that-were did—and with a pedestrian sponge no less. Yes, a sponge—a sopping, soiled, and bacteria-dripping one. In the waning moments of the school’s three lunch periods, a cursed lot of students were assigned either sponge duty or garbage pick-up from both the cafeteria tables and cafeteria floor. Student councilors would randomly select who would perform these messy tasks. On occasion, a general announcement might be made that any boys with red on their ties or girls with blonde hair—or some such thing—would have to clean up the spilled milk and splattered mustard with the dirty sponges supplied them after everyone else was dismissed.

Now, we weren't furnished rubber gloves for these tasks. Nor did we have time to wash our hands before returning to our next classes. In fact, some of us didn't even have the time to make it to the next class before the buzzer’s knell. And a few less than sympathetic teachers—the ones who no doubt hated kids and should have been in another profession—would send us to the dean’s office, where we would be given detention for being thirty seconds, or a minute, late because we were involuntarily cleaning messes off dirty lunch tables with grimy sponges or collecting refuse off tables and the floor.

I have since learned that sponge duty is a relic of the past at my alma mater. The more informed age in which we live puts a premium on both clean hands and clean thoughts—and it has cast asunder a vaunted tradition. And while I'm philosophically opposed to the nanny state of affairs, I'm not shedding any tears that the nasty sponge, and all that it wrought, has been retired for all time. In fact, I hope one has been bronzed and is on display in the school's Cardinal's Room, which celebrates the life and times of the less than savory man—so I have heard—for whom the school is named.

Are We Gonna Make It After All?

(Originally published 9/22/20)

Fifty years ago this month, The Mary Tyler Moore Show debuted. It lasted for seven seasons and went out on a high note—on Mary’s terms. Arguably not the best season—with the iconic characters not yet fully in character—the first, which originally aired in 1970-71, is nevertheless a classic. I distinctly recall watching the show in its infancy in my grandmother’s living room—just a flight of stairs away—on her color TV, a hulking Zenith with legs, a light-up channel dial, and a picture that did not appear until the set sufficiently “warmed up.”

I own the first season of The Mary Tyler Moore Show on DVD. For some reason, I find it oddly reassuring. It takes me back to a time and place that were decidedly simpler and more innocent. I appreciate that for the Vietnam War-draft-aged men, 1970-71 was anything but simple and innocent. Still, I was an eight-year-old kid in the second grade at St. John’s neighborhood grammar school. My teacher—a kindly woman—lived up the street from me. I remember—at a class show-and-tell session—bringing in a toy clock that I had gotten for Christmas. It counted the minutes and hours away with indefatigable alacrity. I had this thing for clocks and calendars—a youthful time fetish.

And here I am now, thinking long and hard about the passage of it. Fifty years ago, I was lying on my grandmother’s living room rug with a big fluffy pillow covered with a flowery pillowcase. The latter was my grandmother’s handiwork, just as were the heavy wool socks—a wintertime staple—that she regularly crocheted for her grandchildren. In fact, one of the most captivating things about The Mary Tyler Moore Show was Mary’s cozy studio apartment and her panoramic picture windows leading out to a deck. The fictional Mary Richards lived in the non-fictional Minneapolis, Minnesota with its notoriously cold and snowy winters. We television viewers were thus treated to ample fictional snowfall outside of Mary’s picture-perfect windows. As a youth, I considered snow an impressive weather phenomenon for a whole host of reasons, including outdoor hijinks, potential white Christmases, and—win-win—possible days off from school.

What an awesome time it was to watch prime-time television. Everyone had a favorite show on any given night and there was indeed something for everyone. When The Mary Tyler Moore Show debuted, there were no reality shows with histrionic, insincere narcissists behaving badly or Love Islands with histrionic, insincere narcissists behaving equally badly. Once upon a time, the commercials served as welcome bathroom breaks or—in my grandmother’s presence—apple and grapefruit breaks. The commercial allotments were also reasonable in length, unlike today’s TV ads, which are at once ubiquitous and intrusive. You could cook a full-course meal during some of these breaks.

One final thought on that special time—1970-71: It represented the last year in existence of “The Garden,” as it was affectionately known, across the street from me. This sprawling “victory garden” was the last of its kind in my neighborhood, Kingsbridge in the Bronx. If I looked out my front window, or my grandmother’s below me, during the first season of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, I spied an elongated makeshift fence covering a sprawling patch of earth that sprang to life in the summertime and became starkly barren in wintertime. It was the end of an era in a city with fewer empty spaces and undeveloped lots for gardens and youthful adventures. The times they were a-changin’ then and then has gradually become now, which is quite a melancholy thought to entertain. Just gaze out your front window and contemplate where we were versus where we are. Love is not quite all around us.

 (Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)