Remembering Dr. Z...By the Way

(Originally published 6/19/10)

The efficacy of Keynesian economics is being debated once more in both polite and impolite society. But rather than stake out a position on the demand side versus the supply side in this dismal science argument, I’d rather just wax nostalgic and recall a college professor of mine, Dr. Amin Zewail, whom I'll affectionately call “Dr. Z” hereafter.

Dr. Z was an adjunct professor substituting for an ailing instructor in a course called Intermediate Macroeconomics. The place: my alma mater, Manhattan College. The year: 1984. Dr. Z was a lanky, dome-headed Egyptian fellow, who not only wore thrift shop threads that didn’t quite fit his gawky frame—high waters and hobo shoes—every single day, but a sartorial selection at least thirty years past its prime.

Despite the briefness of my Dr. Z experience, it was nonetheless quite memorable. This man rates as one of those classic college characters I will not soon forget—a professor primarily remembered for his idiosyncrasies, including a singular teaching style. From the get-go, Dr. Z warned us that because “there was no ‘P’ as in Peter and ‘B’ as in ball” in his native tongue of Arabic, he was apt to “make a mish, mosh, moosh of the two…by the way” throughout his lectures. And he didn’t disappoint on that score.

In fact, the good doctor frequently finished sentences with the throwaway “by the way” phrase. He couldn’t stop saying it during class, which he took very, very seriously, by the way, often working himself into a frenzied, sweat-soaked trance to explain that Keynes’s General Theory “contended that consumption was a stable function of disposable income.”

Dr. Z also subscribed to the educative power of repetition. He peppered his lectures with “I repeat again” pronouncements and recapped word-for-word what had just been said. Dr. Z took attendance every class because, he revealed, he desperately needed the work and didn’t want to be fired. The man informed us that times were tough for him as a part-time professor, and that he called home somewhere in lower Manhattan “between the muggers and the hippies.” This former neighborhood of his, by the way, has since been gentrified beyond recognition and is no longer home to peripatetic profs.

When the buzzer sounded each class’s death knell, the Z-man stopped in mid-sentence and profusely thanked the whole lot of us. “Thank you very, very much,” he would bellow at the top of his lungs and really mean it. No, Dr. Z: thank you…for the memories and teaching me about John Maynard Keynes, too.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

It Is Goodbye

(Originally published 8/31/18)

Recently, I thought of an essay that was published in my Manhattan College Commencement program. Its anonymous author, a 1929 graduate, eloquently expressed the melancholy of the achievement and what it augured. He ended his piece as follows: “The moon grows pale and drops down and down. The shadows encroach further and further. The breeze sighs mournfully. A subway train rattles away into the distance. I sit alone on the Chapel steps. It is goodbye.”

Last week an old friend, neighbor, and fellow Jasper passed away. Mere words cannot do the man justice. Suffice it to say, Richie was a one-of-a-kind personage—a true original—whose likes will never be seen again. When I was growing up in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge, he was a ubiquitous and enigmatic presence on the block. He had the X-factor.

Riche was considerably older than those who hung on his every word and relished time spent with him. But his inimitable personality and audacious spirit added layers of color to the childhoods of those who experienced him up close and personal. You just had to be there.

Richie was the guy who taped oak-tag signs to his father’s dark brown Ford LTD that read “Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians” and “Bob Hope in Car.” He would then drive around the neighborhood with his youthful entourage. We would watch people stare, often gasp, and occasionally laugh. On a whim, Richie might ask, “Do you want to give the fist?” I don’t exactly know the origins of this peculiar pastime, but it involved shaking fists from the moving car’s windows at unsuspecting passersby on the street. It was harmless fun that—on the very same thoroughfares today—would put one’s life at risk.

Forty-one years ago this month, Richie, my older brother Joe, and I traveled to Boston to see the Red Sox in Fenway Park. Believe it or not, this was a monumental adventure for a fourteen-year-old boy and for our fearless leader—eleven years my senior—as well. We scrupulously planned the trip in an age before the Internet as if we were going around the world in eighty days. Money was tight. By the end of the two-day journey, our coffers were depleted. In fact, Richie loaned me five dollars along the way, which I agreed to work off at a future date by washing and waxing his car.

During those two days in Beantown, we ascended the Bunker Hill Monument, trod the grounds of Harvard University, and toured Old Ironsides. We also saw a game at Fenway alongside a grandfather affectionately known as “Pops,” who was quite shaky on his feet, and his doting grandson. Sitting next to me, Pops was concerned that I might be a “California rooter” and antagonistic towards his beloved Sox. I assured him that I was a Met fan from New York who wouldn’t be rooting for the visiting Angels.

Two short weeks later—with the same cast of three—Richie plotted a fun-filled encore to the summer of 1977: a jam-packed day trip that commenced at the Brigantine Castle on the Jersey Shore. This haunted amusement was incessantly advertised on local television back then and Richie wanted to see what all the fuss was about. It turned out to be much ado about nothing, and we promptly headed south to nearby Atlantic City—in its pre-casino days—and finally to Philadelphia. There we checked out Liberty Hall and that cracked bell. Our nightcap—the icing on the cake—was a game at Veterans Stadium. The Phillies versus the Braves in that cookie-cutter monstrosity lasted fourteen innings and ended near midnight.

Upon our return to the Bronx, Richie was noticeably drowsy behind the wheel of his beloved Mustang. We had, after all, left home at six o’clock in the morning. To give him a much-needed break, seventeen-year-old Joe, who had just gotten his driver’s license, offered to take over for a spell. Allowing an inexperienced driver such an opportunity in the middle of the night—and in the middle of what seemed like nowhere—was hardly a slam-dunk decision, but an exhausted Richie relented. He would turn over the reins for fifteen minutes, he said, and take a brief catnap. After a two-hour snooze, Richie arose from his slumber, and we were ever so close to home.

These memories are just snippets from decades of them. But they are reminders that life is fleeting and, really, about moments. And when time draws to a close, the moments to remember are the freest ones—simple, innocent, and absent of drama. Richie…it is goodbye.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

For the Birds

(Originally published 9/20/18)

This past weekend I briefly shared a subway car with two pigeons—one black and one white. I live in a diverse part of the country. The birds entered the car at the Van Cortlandt Park station at W242nd Street a few minutes before the southbound Number 1 train commenced its run into Manhattan. I’ve experienced such close encounters with nature before and always worried the birds might become trapped in the train on an unexpected and unwanted journey to places unknown. The nastiest part of such scenarios is that they would be passengers alongside ever-increasing numbers of unsympathetic straphangers. Happily, this pair proved quite savvy—Bronx strong, if you will—and were aware of the drill. They briskly pecked away at invisible crumbs on the subway car floor and exited the train moments before the “all-aboard” buzzer sounded and the conductor exclaimed, “Stand clear of the closing doors!”

My cohabitation with these feathered urban travelers inspired a series of flighty thoughts. It jarred my memory, too. Society has really gone to the birds, I concluded. For starters, I’ve noticed more and more uncooked rice on the sidewalks of local businesses frequented by pigeons. Apparently, these entrepreneurs have swallowed hook, line, and sinker the canard that consumption of the rice—after it expands in their stomachs—will cause the pigeons to explode. This, by the way, wouldn't exactly be a pretty sight on their respective properties.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not an admirer of large pigeon ensembles and people feeding them in the wrong places. For some individuals, a pigeon strike is considered a harbinger of good fortune. But for recipients of these plops from on high, it’s a major problem in the here and now. In my neck of the woods, I gingerly navigate through the various pigeon fallout zones and hope for the best. So far, lady luck has left me unsullied.

On the flip side of the pigeon-hating retailers in my neighborhood is a shopkeeper who liberally tosses birdseed on the front sidewalk of his business, which naturally attracts multiple species of birds. Not cardinals, orioles, and hummingbirds, but sparrows, starlings, and pigeons. But it’s the pigeons that rule the roost in this venue. Passersby must regularly wade through a bona fide mess with flapping pigeons in a perpetual cycle of ascent and descent. I suspect the nearby beauty parlor, restaurant, and cigar lounge don’t appreciate the feeding frenzies outside their doors.

When I was a youth, a notorious neighborhood bully was renowned for blowing up pigeons with firecrackers. Recently, I searched his name and came upon an arrest notice of this sadist from the past. It’s called karma. When I swerved to avoid a pigeon during driving lessons, my instructor told me in no uncertain terms not to do that again. I should make “pigeon soup” the next time. Fortunately, there wasn’t a next time.

One final pigeon story: It involves a great champion of progressive causes. When pigeons nested under his air conditioner, it disturbed his peace, tranquility, and routine. The chirping hatchlings eventually drove him to distraction. So, what does he do? No, he doesn’t call someone who could remove them humanely. Lock, stock, and barrel, the man with the bleeding liberal heart throws the nest down his building’s garbage chute. That’s the human species at work. It’s too often about us and only us. But you know what: There’s more than enough room for pigeons. We can co-exist.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Old Ironside

(Originally published 9/29/17)

Recently, I purchased the third season of Ironside starring Raymond Burr. Why the third? No special reason. It wasn’t that I remembered it as a superior season or one that contained favorite episodes. I only know that—twenty years ago—I purchased the first two seasons of the show on VHS tapes. I received one tape every six weeks with four episodes on it. Getting the whole kit and caboodle in one fell swoop wasn’t an option back then, which—if nothing else—prevented binge watching.

Just having the opportunity to revisit an old show like Ironside again, which is hard to come by in reruns, was pleasure enough. And even when old TV classics turn up in syndication nowadays, commercial time has mushroomed well above the allotments of network television when Ironside first aired. Taking meat cleavers to shows from yesteryear—and chopping them down by ten to twelve minutes—leaves a lot unsaid. To make matters worse, it’s often clueless individuals who are given the task of gutting the likes of Ironside by twenty percent. Doing this to Blue’s Clues might not blow holes in the plot, but 1960s and 1970s crime dramas lose a great deal in their abridged translations.

Anyway, back to Ironside, uncut and in living color. The show has got a winning opening theme by Quincy Jones. With its burly lead character, Chief Robert Ironside, wheelchair-bound throughout Ironside’s eight-year run, I will concede that the intro and episodes themselves have a campy feel all these years later. The irascible Chief twisting, turning, and chugging along can be a bit distracting at times. Let’s not forget that the man also loved canned chili, which he consumed regularly with undisguised glee. Although it always crosses my mind when the chili-loving is raised, flatulence was never once addressed—as far as I know—on the show. It’s funny that Detective Columbo was partial to chili as well. A coincidence? If only Ironside and Columbo had done a crossover episode. The detectives could have enjoyed a bowl together and compared notes.

The filming side of Ironside runs the gamut: some atmospheric location shots in San Francisco and the surrounding area at one moment, then the actors sitting in front of a screen featuring moving traffic or some such thing. The Ironside players—the Chief, Mark, Ed, and Eve—are, too, frequently going to bat for friends, former lovers, or relatives in trouble. I suppose it’s common in life to have a pal who is accused of murder or an old classmate who is up to his ass in alligators with the wise guys. It just hasn't been my experience.

Now that Ironside’s peculiarities have been cataloged, I will say that I fancy it. I didn’t watch the show when it originally aired. In fact, when I was very young, the opening segment featuring the Chief getting gunned down—in the back no less—gave me the willies. Instead, I discovered Ironside in 1980s reruns, when New York City local stations showed such stuff during the afternoon hours and before the advertising deluge took so much away.

When I watch shows like Ironside—and spy the copyright—I can’t help but feel nostalgic. I find myself imagining what my life was like when an episode originally aired. Season three of Ironside appeared on the 1969-1970 prime time schedule. I was in the second grade at St. John’s grammar school. I had one of my all-time favorite teachers, Mrs. Kehayas, that school year. She had show-and-tell sessions. I remember bringing in a clock that I received for Christmas—a unique timepiece that didn’t actually keep time. Rather, it chugged along—like Chief Ironside—in five-minute increments. It’s five after two; ten after two; quarter after two. I showcased my proficiency in telling time to my seven-year-old peers. If only I had that special clock now on my curio shelf because time keeps on ticking, ticking into the future. It also waits for no man and no woman, including Old Ironside and me.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Chef Boyardee Moment

(Originally published 8/8/15)

Forty years ago on August 5, 1975, three youths from the Bronx embarked on a camping misadventure in the woods of Harriman State Park. A mere fifty miles from New York City, the location was worlds apart from the hustle and bustle of the urban milieu they inhabited. Recently, I was reminded of something momentous that occurred during that rendezvous with nature: The twelve-year-old me sampled a peculiar delicacy—something, really, as American as apple pie—for the very first time. It was Chef Boyardee cheese raviolis.

Sixteen-year-old John—the eldest among us—made this culinary selection on a pre-camping trip shopping spree. For my fifteen-year-old brother and me, who had never consumed anything in a can sporting a Chef Boyardee label, it was a curious choice. There was no reason why we—who grew with our paternal grandmother on the premises—would have ever entertained eating canned raviolis. For she was master of too many dishes to count, and unequaled when it came to pasta “gravy.” But there we were at lunchtime communing with nature. Appropriately famished after hiking a fair distance with our cumbersome camping accouterments, it was decision time. 

Chef Boyardee cheese raviolis would bat lead-off—not freshly killed venison or wild duck—and serve as a well-earned repast for having reached our destination without fanfare. Renowned for my fussy eating habits, the oddsmakers had the likelihood of me even sampling the raviolis as very slim, and the possibility of me liking them even slimmer than that. Well, wonders will never cease! Poured into a pot and warmed over our initial campfire, I not only ate the raviolis but couldn’t get enough of them. They were shockingly delicious. After that August afternoon in the wilds of Upstate New York—and despite it being sacrilege to one side of the family—I requested Chef Boyardee meals on occasion.

This Chef Boyardee moment opened my eyes to fare far afield. I learned, too, what that familiar “hot lunch” smell in grammar school portended. When the cafeteria served up pasta, it smelled exactly like simmering Chef Boyardee, even if it was only a close cousin. I had long considered myself fortunate that I could both walk to grammar school and eat my lunch at home. But after tasting Chef Boyardee ravioli, I wasn’t quite so certain anymore. In high school—without the “go home for lunch” luxury—I was compelled to dine in the cafeteria and enjoy the pasta there—shells—every Thursday if memory serves. That sauce, too, was straight out of the Chef Boyardee recipe book.

I don’t eat Chef Boyardee anymore. The magic flavor and scintillating aroma that tantalized my adolescent taste buds forty years ago doesn’t cut it in the here and now. Nevertheless, to commemorate this fortieth anniversary, I purchased a can of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli—on sale for a dollar at a local dollar store—and wolfed it down for a recent supper. It was edible, I suppose, because I finished the serving. Yet, there was something unsettling about the experience. My tastes had changed—no doubt—but so did the Chef Boyardee recipe. The wafting bouquet of the raviolis on my stovetop brought me back in time—not to the leafy woodlands of Harriman State Park but again to my grammar school’s pungent “hot lunch” odor. I was back to where I started.

Roads Not Taken

(Originally published 6/14/13)

Growing up in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge, I faithfully attended Sunday Mass—and Mass on "Holy Days of Obligation," too—at St. John’s Church. It was an impressive-looking place on the inside in the 1970s, but I can’t honestly say I got much out of the repetitive Mass thing. There was no Mass appeal, if you will. The sermons from the various men of the cloth were largely uninspiring and certainly unmemorable. But to paraphrase comedian Jackie Mason: “I say this with all due respect.” My mother always said, “You get out of it what you put into it.” I didn’t put much into it, I guess.

What I recall from this generally benign but monotonous rinse-and-repeat experience was Sunday morning breakfast. That is, getting to Pat Mitchell’s Irish Food Center—aka “Pat’s” on W231st Street—before the Mass’s masses. In stark contrast with the parish priests’ sermons, Pat’s chocolate frosted donuts, miniature jellies, crumb buns, and fresh rolls were unforgettable. They meant an awful lot to an awful lot of locals, which explained why hightailing out of the church at Mass’s end as quickly as humanly possible was the order of the day. Long lines and a survival-of-the-fittest jostling in this cramped, but iconic neighborhood delicatessen were the Sunday morning norms after the various Masses.

But this essay isn’t about Pat Mitchell’s and his coveted donuts and rolls. (I’ve tackled this important historical and culinary topic before.) It’s about a road not taken. A special announcement—a footnote of sorts—was regularly made at the end of the Sunday morning Mass that I typically attended. The faithful in attendance were informed that coffee and donuts would be served in the church’s adjoining “pebble patio”—on the house of worship, as it were—immediately after we all shook hands and went in peace.

Foremost, I was intrigued by the moniker—pebble patio. It somehow struck me as funny—Lorenzo Semple-esque—and I wondered, too, what kinds of donuts were served there. Were they Pat Mitchell’s, which were delivered from a wholesale bakery called Willow Sunny, or were they from nearby Twin Donut? While appealing to the palate, the latter’s donuts left an aftertaste that often lingered for an entire day. Could they possibly be from the neighborhood bakery, Shelvyn's? No, not a chance—the bakery’s donuts were considerable in size, comparatively expensive, and thus unsuitable for any of the parish’s come-one, come-all freebies.

What I feared most of all, I think, was that the pebble patio donuts came from a supermarket. You know—the old-fashioned, powdered sugar, and cinnamon-coated varieties churned out by Hostess, Entenmann’s, and various generic bakers. But, alas, I never visited the pebble patio even once for a cup of joe. There’s an important life lesson here, and I believe it’s that we should call upon pebble patios whenever possible, because there might be more gained than just a pebble in a shoe.

Mr. Magoo's Heresy

(Originally published 11/22/10)

Recently, I stumbled upon a vintage television commercial on YouTube. It was for a beer called Stag, which I never had the pleasure of sampling. From the early 1960s or thereabouts, its pitchman was none other than Mr. Magoo, an extremely near-sighted, headstrong, beloved cartoon character. The ad’s a bona fide classic featuring the always-manic Magoo stumbling about in search of his preferred brew while singing its praises throughout.

The individual who placed this fifty-year-old commercial on YouTube obviously didn't approve of its underlying message. In fact, he dubbed it “sleazy," and at once indicted and convicted the animated Magoo for “cracking open a few frosties in front of impressionable young minds.” Now, considering that a half-century has passed since the advertisement first aired, pardon me for finding it a bit strange that so many contemporary men and women (see the YouTube comments) get exorcised over TV programming from long before they were born. Come on, when Mr. Magoo salivated over a cold glass of Stag, John F. Kennedy was the president.

And no, I wouldn't condone old Magoo hawking a brand of beer today or, for that matter, Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble puffing away on Winston cigarettes and promoting this lethal and filthy habit. But really, while The Flintstones and Mr. Magoo weren’t exactly on par with Family Guy or South Park, both cartoons from yesteryear were pitched to predominantly adult audiences and, I suspect, the spots weren’t aired during Saturday morning cartoon times, either.

Not too long ago, somebody uploaded a video on YouTube who disabled the comment option with these words: “I don’t care in the least what the idiotocracy has to say about my video. If you want to watch it—watch it. If you don’t—don’t.” Indeed, the virtual woods are chock full of folks with agendas nowadays, not to mention a never-ending parade of crass imbeciles champing at the bit to have their vulgar say on matters great and small.

Again, while I wouldn’t sanction a cartoon colossus like Mr. Magoo promoting a beer in the here and now, pardon me for being skeptical of the notion that we’ve come such a long way vis-à-vis uplifting impressionable minds. I wonder how many innocent youths reached for a Stag brew because the hyper-Magoo liked his few? My friends and I played with toy guns and plastic soldiers as kids, but it never occurred to us to bring the genuine articles into school and mow down our classmates. That said, I’m truly glad today's youngsters aren’t exposed to anything like Mr. Magoo with a beer-fueled buzz. It's at least something to be grateful for.

Curb Your Dog, Not Your Enthusiasm

(Originally published 6/2/14)

In the 1980s, my family included a beloved canine member of the household named Ginger. With few exceptions, we walked dogs in the street back then. A long-established New York City law—with posted signs to remind us—read, “Curb Your Dog.” On the very same grounds today, dogs are invariably walked on the sidewalk, which is understandable considering the sizeable increase in automobile traffic and sheer numbers of parked cars.

Never deviating, I faithfully walked Ginger in the street, weaving around parked cars in the process. On certain days of the week and times of the day, there was even room to roam unobstructed. Sure, the streets were littered with canine waste until the sweepers came along to whisk it away. Stepping in doggy-do was a repeated rite of passage. But curbing your dog was the be-all and end-of the original law. Picking up was not mandated.

In 1978, the first New York City “pooper-scooper” law passed but it was around 1982 or 1983, if memory serves, that curbing your dog alone wasn’t sufficient. Picking up what my father called our dog’s “business” was not only law but enforced by lurking sanitation police waiting to pounce like frogs on a fly. In fact, I received a $100 ticket in the fledgling months of enforcement—a fair chunk of change at the time—for not taking Ginger’s waste home with me. I was a scofflaw but learned an expensive lesson. I never repeated my transgression in the bright light of day.

Recently, I read that the city mothers and fathers have been systematically removing all “Clean Up After Your Dog” signs, the forebear of “Curb Your Dog” signs. The rationale for this undertaking is to reduce the city’s sign clutter, which is considerable and often confusing. Really, New York City residents should know by now that it’s their business to pick up their dog's business.

And I suspect that dog walkers one and all do know. Those who don’t know, know, too. They just don’t care, and posted signs encouraging them to pick up their dogs’ number two isn’t going to matter. I say good riddance to those ubiquitous signs. I've already paid my dues—a $100 fine—when, in fact, curbing my dog was first not enough.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Something Funny in Dirty Houses

(Originally published 3/17/17)

In the early 1970s, a hipper, more progressive education took hold in St. John’s Catholic grammar school and, I suppose, a lot of other places. I distinctly recall a lecture in the fourth grade about the evils of racial and ethnic stereotyping. Examples of stereotypes were supplied, including one that really hit home: “Italians have dirty houses.” The ten-year-old me valiantly tried to explain to my parents what I learned in school that day. Suffice it to say, Ma and Pa didn’t appreciate the sweeping Italian stereotype. The paternal side of my family—including a grandmother and aunt who lived in a clean apartment a flight of stairs away—were Italian.

Of course, the whole point of the lesson was that stereotypes were unfair and, in most instances, untrue or at least exaggerated. The Italians in my circle, nonetheless, were on the defensive and singled out Irish families they knew with dirty houses. Kingsbridge in the Bronx, where we all called home—in clean and dirty houses alike—was a predominantly Irish neighborhood in those days.

In fact, my grandfather opted to settle in an Irish enclave because he didn’t want my grandmother interacting with only the Italian-speaking. He figured she would better learn English kibitzing with the Irish rather than exclusively relying on her native tongue in the company of mostly Italians. My grandfather was a wise man. While my grandmother spoke with a heavy Italian accent, she had a fair command of the English language. To this day, my brothers and I—in what amounts to an affectionate tribute to her—employ certain English phrases that she was wont to employ. When she didn’t like a particular food, my grandmother would say, “No too good,” or “I no like a-too much.” These two patented phrases of hers are on the tip of our tongues nowadays—and they are apropos in describing more than what’s for dinner.

Honestly, I don’t know where the “dirty houses” stereotype originated. Were the educators afraid to address the genuine stereotypes—the ones that all of us were familiar—like Italians are garlic-eating greaseballs in league with organized crime. Funny, but the second example of an ethnic stereotype was: “The Irish drink something funny.” What, pray tell, is that supposed to mean? Irish men and women will freely concede what the abiding stereotype is—and many of them will say it’s not a stereotype at all.

I’ve known a fair share of men and women with drinking problems from a cross-section of ethnicities. My best friend’s Irish mother—who kept quite a neat and clean house, by the way—summed it up best when she said: “The Italians are secret drinkers. The Irish like to make a show of it.” It certainly described my grandfather and father, who preferred to clandestinely imbibe spirits in the comforts of home. My grandfather even made his own wine. He kept gallon jugs of it in the closet, which he would pull out in the evenings after a hard day’s work. I was told that after sampling a few glasses of the grape, he often reached for his harmonica. My grandmother “no like a-too much” this little bit of theater. If all that sounds a little stereotypical—so be it!

Nobody, in fact, laughed harder at Italian stereotypes roles than my father. He loved The Soprano’s. Apart from the Corleones in The Godfather—who had a smattering of nobility amidst the brutality—I never cared much for Italian gangster-themed television shows and movies. And it’s not because I was offended at how Italians were portrayed. I just found the absolute boorishness and wanton violence an unappealing one-two punch.

My mother—whose maternal grandparents came from Austria and spoke German—always decorated our front door for St. Patrick’s Day and, too, made corned beef and cabbage for dinner. When her ancestors first settled in Allentown, Pennsylvania in the early 1900s, my grandmother reported that Irish schoolmates would chant, “You Huns…go back to Germany!” When my grandfather bought his first and only home in Kingsbridge, he had to evict an Irish family to move his family in—and it took more than a year to do so. I’ve been told that said Irish family decreed, “The guineas are taking over.” Now, this family kept a dirty house. The roach infestation that welcomed my grandfather, grandmother, and their offspring is the stuff of legend. And so is the fact that we all lived happily ever after—friends for life regardless of stereotyping and name calling.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Different Strokes

(Originally published 8/18/25)

In the fledgling years of the new century, I pitched many book ideas to publishers, some via literary agents and some not. Perseverance in the publishing business is a must. Rejection, too, is part of the game, so get used to it or pick up your marbles and go home. The snippet to follow is from an unsold project of mine entitled 115 Who Had Their 15—fifteen minutes of fame, as it were. One of the sample chapters included in the proposal was headlined “Different Strokes” and recounted the story of Michael Fay. All these years later, I’d forgotten who he was or his particular moment in the spotlight, proving that —yes—he really did experience fifteen minutes of fame.

Michael Fay

In some instances, a person’s fifteen minutes of fame can be a very painful affair. Certainly, Michael Fay’s fleeting moment in the public eye stung and then some. In fact, had his criminal sentence not been commuted, it would have hurt a great deal more.

In 1994, an American named Michael Peter Fay achieved international renown after being arrested and charged with numerous counts of theft and vandalism. Despite a defense plea that a diagnosed attention-deficit-disorder was the wind beneath the wings of his lawlessness, a court of law found him guilty. However, this layered legal situation unfurled not in the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave, but on the faraway topography of Singapore, where the teenaged Fay resided with his mother and stepfather in the early 1990s.

Fay’s trials and tribulations took flight as a news story when it came to light that the eighteen-year-old’s punishment included a series of canings—six strokes to be exact—along with both jail time and a not inconsiderable fine. That is, the teen was to be lashed in the buttocks with a thirteen mm-thick rattan rod. True to form, America’s posturing politicians and many in the elite chattering classes complained that the nature of the offenses—vandalizing cars and stealing road signs—did not jibe with the excruciatingly painful sentence meted out. On the other hand, a fair slice of the crime-weary American populace was anything but exorcised about a juvenile delinquent getting thrashed several times where the sun didn't shine. And since Singapore justice flogs its convicted vandals—it's their thing—the nation’s government wasn’t too keen on getting lectured by American bureaucrats and its sanctimonious fourth estate.

Via diplomatic channels, the Bill Clinton White House nevertheless got involved, calling the caning “excessive” and trying to spare the young American a hiding he’d not soon forget. Publishing multiple editorials on the barbarity of caning, the New York Times editorial board was positively heartsick over the matter. Responding to the tidal wave of negative publicity, Singapore President Ong Teng Cheong, in one broad stroke of generosity, commuted Fay’s caning sentence from six strokes to four strokes.

On May 5, 1994, Fay’s commuted sentence came to pass. Stripped of his clothing, he was ushered into Caning Central, if you will, where he was asked to bend over. His various limbs were then strapped to a trestle, with the area of the kidneys protected from the rattan rod, which was to do the handiwork in concert with the designated caner.

Fay took his lumps and, it was reported, walked unassisted back to his jail cell. He behaved like a mature adult. But unfortunately for Fay, the literal moment of his fifteen minutes was a decade or so too early. Had his saga occurred today, he’d most assuredly have landed on a reality TV show, perhaps have gotten a book deal, or possibly had a movie made about his life. Instead, his post-caning life as a young adult landed him in Hazelden with a substance abuse problem—the agonizing experience having not put him completely on the straight and narrow. His vandalizing and petty thieving antics, though, appear to be a thing of the past.

What's Fare Is Fare

(Originally published 1/24/15)

So, the fare for a New York City bus or subway ride is going up to $2.75 this March. And it appears, too, that the going rate for another fare in these parts—a slice of pizza—is that very sum or close to it. For some inexplicable reason, these two decidedly unrelated fares—one a service and the other a favorite fast-food—have been inextricably linked for years.

Recently, I unearthed a newspaper article in my overflowing archives of miscellany. It was from the Riverdale Press, a local weekly, and dated 1992. I saved this slice of ephemera—a review of the area’s pizzerias—for a reason, probably because I was a pizza aficionado who had patronized each of the neighborhood shops but had a special affinity for one.

Naturally, I was surprised at my preferred pizzeria’s poor rating of just two slices (out of five maximum), although by the 1990s its quality was—I will concede—inconsistent. I was curious, nonetheless, to ascertain whether the cost of a transit ride corresponded with the going rate of slice of pizza that year. I wanted to know if this pizza connection had historical legs. Not too long ago, an individual on Facebook remembered when the price of a New York City slice of pizza was .15, which, coincidentally, was the cost of a bus or subway ride at the time. Now, I can recall pizza as low as .35 a slice—in the early to mid-1970s—that also corresponded to the day’s transit fare.

Anyway, this neighborhood newspaper pizza review noted the cost of a slice in the various places surveyed as anywhere between $1.30 and $1.40. The 1992 bus and subway fare was $1.25—close enough to establish the fare and fare conjoining timeline.

It should be noted that while New York City bus and subway service has gotten measurably better through the years—particularly the latter—the pizza slice has gotten slighter. That is, courtesy of the costs of cheese and tomato sauce—and every other foodstuff for that matter coupled with criminally high cost of doing business—the ubiquitous slice of pizza’s mass has suffered. The slice of pizza isn’t what it once was around here. And size matters.

When Luigi—who bore a striking resemblance to Lurch—of Luigi’s Pizzeria tossed his dough into the heavens, one got more for bang for the buck. And, when push came to shove, Luigi made more dough, too. It was the end of an era for sure—the 1990s—when Italian immigrants from Italy still owned a New York City pizzeria or two. But then, a Greek—who made a full-bodied and tasty pizza slice whose likes will never be sampled again—owned and operated my pizza parlor of record. The slice of the past: Rest in Pizza.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Do You “I Here” What I Hear?

(Originally published 2/23/25)

Recently, while awaiting a grocery delivery, I received a frantic call from my “courier.” “I here…I here…I here!” he bellowed into the phone. “Okay,” I answered, “I’m coming outside.” My delivery guy and groceries were not, in fact, awaiting me. I promptly contacted said courier and explained to him that I was standing outside my home, and he wasn’t. He just repeated over and over and over: “I here…I here…I here!” Again, I patiently noted that he wasn’t, and I ought to know. The man and my stuff were clearly somewhere else.

The frustrated fellow finally conceded that his English was subpar, which I could have guessed. French was his native language, he said. Communication barrier be damned, the courier understood that one picture is worth a thousand words in any language. As proof that he was indeed here, he sent me a photo of my grocery bags resting on a doorstep with a clearly visible house number in the backdrop. I immediately recognized the door, and it wasn’t mine. It was on an adjoining street.

My task now was to make this individual understand the error of his ways—that he got the house number right but street wrong. And one out of two in this instance wasn’t good enough. Sometimes here is there. Mercifully, he eventually found the real here.

So, yes, this is a fine time to transition, to turn the clock back to the pre-Grubhub and DoorDash age of my youth. And I, like my courier, will employ images on this stroll down memory lane. Consider this a hodgepodge of people, places, and things from yesterday when I was young. You know: When the taste of life was sweet as rain upon my tongue.

Once upon a time on a fifteenth of June sometime in the mid-1990s, I purchased three LPs from the “Out of Print Record Specialists” in Manhattan’s East Village. I plunked down $41.02 for a couple of Perry Como albums and the Grease movie soundtrack. The place was called Footlight Records, an atmospheric basement shop down several stairs from the sidewalk. What a treasure trove it was before the Digital Age cast it, and anything like it, asunder. The joy of unearthing the Scrooge and 1776 musical soundtracks was profound. If memory serves, the former cost me $30. In those bygone days, I owned a cassette/record player combo and made audiotapes from the LPs.

Around the same time that I was patronizing Footlight Records, Ranch*1 fast-food eateries were ubiquitous in New York City. They were here today and gone tomorrow, it seemed. I don’t exactly know why, but I think the Ranch*1 powers-that-be were involved in some financial chicanery. I remember eating in the one on Broadway. A middle-aged man named Jerry worked there. He seemed out of place among the much younger staff. I often wondered what his story was and how the guy ended up as a Ranch*1 cashier performing double-duty passing out fliers in a giant chicken costume. The Ranch*1 chicken fingers were my go-to menu item, but nothing to write home about.

A couple of decades earlier, an entrepreneurial neighbor of mine and a college friend opened a home furnishing business that attempted to cash in on the trendy, colorful, and uber-cool 1970s. It was a colossal bust but an important learning lesson. To think that two young men with limited resources could open a place in that area of Manhattan. Now it would take a Brink’s truck delivery to pay the first month’s rent.

As far as I was concerned, Sam’s was the “Tastiest Pizza in Town.” How many slices did I consume through the decades? God only knows. The prior generations in my family—on the Italian paternal side—found calling on a local pizza place as often as I did sacrilege. My father referred to Sam’s Pizza as the “grease shop.” But what a great grease shop it was.

I met Mike and Ida in their final years in the printing business. They were an old-school elderly couple hanging on in a fast-changing business climate. Rapid Printing was a bona fide mom-and-pop establishment, the likes of which are rapidly, if you will, disappearing in the big cities.

I learned to drive with the “Experience People,” I’m happy to say. Six weeks of intense lessons with my able and patient instructor, Eddie, and I passed my driving test on the first try. I was almost thirty at the time—and loathed driving—so passing was a major feather in my cap. When I initially got into the car with Eddie, he pointed to this mysterious object in front of me and said, “This is the steering wheel.” It was indeed.

Old school diners are also a dying breed in New York City. Fortunately, Tibbett Diner lives on in the present, on Tibbett Avenue, not Tibbetts Avenue. It’s a classic diner if ever there was one and a favorite locale for shooting movies and TV shows!

As Exhibit A on the ravages of inflation, check out the diner prices from thirty years ago: Beefburger Deluxe, $3.95; Two Eggs with Ham, Bacon, or Sausage, $3.50; Broiled Lamb Chops with Mint Jelly, $11.75. Plugging in these 1994 prices—and adjusting for inflation through the years—and this is what we get in the here and now: $3.95/$8.36; $3.50/$7.41; $11.75/$24.87.

Jasper’s Pizza on Riverdale Avenue in the Bronx served a unique and tasty pizza pie. You knew you were eating a Jasper slice when you were eating a Jasper slice. It had a mellow garlic flavor, which, I know, is not everyone’s cup of tea. I had a friend who was Vampire-like when it came to garlic—an Italian American no less—repelled by its smell and positively weak-kneed by its taste.

For one brief shining moment in the Riverdale section of the Bronx, there was a Pudgie’s famous chicken joint. As I recall, it was decent fare for what it was—fast-food fried chicken. The chain is still around, I see, just not around here anymore.

Another vanishing breed: the mom-and-pop pet food and supplies store. I worked at this place some forty-five years ago, beginning while still in high school. Jimmy Carter was the president. To say that it was a different time and vastly different pet food and supplies industry would be an understatement.

Carolla’s Italian deli in Lavallette, New Jersey was a nifty place. My family once rented a cottage for a couple of weeks in the summer that bordered the back of the delicatessen. Separated only be a rickety wooden fence, the sound of seagulls competed with Carolla’s exhaust fans; the scent of the ocean—a block away—commingled with the aromas of pizza, pasta sauce, and roasted peppers. Sad to report: The deli is no more. Carolla’s corner lot is now occupied by condos.

From the Jersey Shore to Old Cape Cod and roast beef sandwiches. I never ordered a cold roast beef sandwich from a deli or diner in New York, nor would I ever. So, it was quite the find discovering eateries that specialized in roast beef that weren’t Roy Rodgers- or Arby’s-green sheen caliber. First there was Bill & Bob’s Famous Roast Beef, which morphed into Timmy’s for four decades.

I patronized Timmy’s almost every day when I visited Cape Cod in the 1990s—never had a bad sandwich. And there was nothing comparable to Timmy’s in the environs of New York City. Apparently, roast beef as a headliner is a New England regional thing. Alas, Timmy retired this past year, marking the end of an era of fine roast beef sandwiches and a personal dedication that is becoming rarer with each passing day.

Not too far from Timmy’s was—and still is—Giardino’s restaurant, which served personal pizzas before personal pizzas were a thing. Coming from the Bronx, this style of pizza was completely foreign to me. My family and I quickly discovered that pan pizza was the rule in those parts. While I wouldn’t rate it as a favorite style, Giardino’s served—once upon a time at least—awesome pizza.

On the fledgling trips to Cape Cod, the family choice of restaurants—of which there were many—was Fred’s Turkey House. As I remember, the menu was family-friendly with a lot more than turkey, but I don’t quite understand why we maintained such loyalty to the place.

Bloom’s restaurant was owned, if I remember correctly, by Fred of Fred’s Turkey House. It was a more upscale spot with a “Bountiful Bath Tub Salad Bar.” I’ll have the broiled bay scallops and pass on the salad.

And then there was Mother’s Booktique, an independent book seller in Christmas Tree Plaza, home of a big Christmas Tree Shop in West Yarmouth, Massachusetts. Regrettably, Mother’s Booktique is long gone and so, too, the Christmas Tree Shop, which, like Timmy’s, Fred’s Turkey House, and Giardino’s pizza was so Cape Cod.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)