Troll Museum Resurrection

In June, I reported on the eviction of Reverend Jen and her Troll Museum. Now she will be resurrecting the museum, for only a short time, in a community art space called Chinatown Soup.


photo by Mr. E

She writes on the Facebook invite: "For years the LES Troll Museum made many people happy, made them feel like, maybe, the LES hadn't turned into a real-estate shitshow bedroom community for the rich."

The event will run for one week, opening tonight, August 16 at 7:00pm, at 16 Orchard Street.

"Expect a killer opening, weird performances, drawings, paintings, plays, a troll hair-dressing station, a troll-coloring book station, shit that's for sale, a 'Troll Parade' and informative monologues about the importance of Troll Commerce."

Pearl River Remains

As you know, the beloved Pearl River Mart closed when its rent was hiked from $100,000 to a reported $500,000 per month.

Here's what remains.



#SaveNYC.

Last Meal at 69 Bayard

VANISHED

As I reported last week, the restaurant 69 Bayard closed in Chinatown this weekend. I went in for a final meal--and also a first.



The line went down the block and around the corner. Most of the patrons were young Chinese people, long-time regulars, and a few older folks.

According to NPR, 69 Bayard had been here for 80 years. They closed because the landlord hiked the rent, denying them a new lease. It's the story we've heard now a hundred thousand times.



Inside the busy restaurant, I shared a table with a Chinese family.

The mom told me how she used to pick up her son from school and bring him in every day for a good, affordable meal. "Lots of memories," she said.

We talked about Chinatown and changes. "Everything in Chinatown," she said, "is going up. Everything's more expensive."



I ate my chicken wings while regulars came in and out, hugging the waiters, taking pictures, saying goodbye.

On the wall near my table, a pair of dollar bills read: "Sweetness was here. 69 Bayard 4 ever." It's quite possible that Sweetness is somebody's name, but I prefer to think it refers to the flavor of the place, which is sweet--and warm and friendly. I don't know if there's a word in Chinese for the Yiddish word Haimish, but if there is, it applies to 69 Bayard.



If you'd like to try and stop the bleeding, join #SaveNYC. Help pass the Small Business Survival Act. Let the city know we need protections for our beloved small businesses.

69 Bayard

 VANISHING

69 Bayard is the little restaurant in Chinatown where the walls are covered with dollar bills.


photo: Winston Wanders

It's been there a long time--I don't know how long and the man who answered the phone was too harried to answer that question when I called, but he did tell me that this Saturday will be 69's last day in business.

I also don't know the reason for the closure.

The restaurant is known and loved for being a late-night nosh.

It will be missed by many.


photo: Larry C. on Yelp

Pearl River Mart

This past spring, Crain's reported that Pearl River Mart, the excellent Asian emporium, would be forced to close at the end of the year due to an insane rent hike.

Now reader Andrea R. writes in with a final (ish) date. A friend who works in the store told her: "the closing date is around February 10."



Pearl River first opened in Chinatown in 1971. It has since moved twice, but this may be the end of it, due to sky-high rents all over the city. As Crain's reported, "Pearl River currently pays more than $100,000 a month for its shop, and rent would rise more than five times when the lease expires."

That's over $500,000 per month.

And this is why we need to #SaveNYC.

Sidewalk Cobblers

A little while ago, New York magazine published a piece on how Chinatown has stayed Chinatown, instead of becoming yet another bland, suburban, luxury Nowhere like most of Manhattan. It really is one of the last holdout neighborhoods of the old New York.

I love the relative lawlessness of Chinatown's sidewalks, where all manner of business is conducted. The place has not been regulated and tamed. One phenomenon I particularly enjoy is that of the sidewalk cobbler. While storefront cobblers across town are dying out, thanks to skyrocketing rents, these renegade merchants survive.

There are many of them, but my favorite has a wide space on Elizabeth Street by Grand. Not the ruined Elizabeth Street of "Nolita," but the other Elizabeth Street, further south.



The cobbler's stall, if you can call it that, consists of a long piece of plywood erected alongside a corner herb market. It is beautifully decorated with hand-drawn illustrations, glued to the brick wall. Most of the drawings are of animals--birds, horses, cats, pandas--but also waterfalls and warships and airplanes.



The cobbler and his assistant sit and smoke cigarettes while they work--and their customers wait, stocking-footed, on nearby stools, reading Chinese newspapers.



Most of the sidewalk cobblers will also sharpen your knives and scissors.

Here's another:



And another:



Writing for the Times about the shopless cobblers of Chinatown in 2003, here's Joseph Berger:

"No one knows whether this breed of entrepreneur is growing, but scholars say the phenomenon may reflect the city's rising costs of doing business.

'As rents increased, it became more prohibitive to open up a store, so if you can have a store without paying the rent you do it,' said Dr. William B. Helmreich, a professor of sociology at the City University of New York who specializes in urban ethnography.

These sidewalk tradespeople may be a throwback to the European immigrants of a century ago who would stake out a business wherever it was possible."

The Lost Arcade

The Lost Arcade, a new documentary film by Kurt Vincent and Irene Chin, tells the story of the legendary Chinatown Fair.

On Mott Street since 1944, the arcade owners lost their lease in 2011 and made plans to move to Brooklyn.


New York Daily Photo

"Its very existence was an anachronism," said The Verge; "the lone hold-out of a culture that had been long since overshadowed by the meteoric rise of home consoles." The arcade managed to re-open in the same spot, but it wasn't the same. Co-owner Lonnie Sobel called it "a cross between Dave & Busters and Chuck E. Cheese."

"But as the neighborhood gentrified," the filmmakers write, "this haven for a diverse, unlikely community faced its strongest challenge, inspiring its biggest devotees to next-level greatness."

See The Lost Arcade at its world premier November 14 and 18 at IFC Center as part of DOC NYC. Click here for tickets.

Exclusively for Vanishing New York, the filmmakers have put together a clip featuring the history of Chinatown Fair--and the story of its famous dancing and tic tac toe-playing chickens:


The Lost Arcade (Exclusive Clip) from ArcadeMovie on Vimeo.

For more on the arcade's history and those chickens, check out:
DeNiro, Streep, Chicken
Chinatown Fair

Winnie's Bar

VANISHING

More bad news for the life of New York's classic dive bars. After 28 years on Bayard Street in Chinatown, Winnie's is closing.

Reader Jack wrote in, "Two bartenders at Winnie’s Bar and Grill in Chinatown have told me that they are closing sometime in March as the landlord is renting the space to someone else (they have gone for 3 years without a lease)."

I called to confirm. The bartender I spoke with told me they'll be closing at the end of March. She was unable to give any details about the reason for the closure. *UPDATE: The owner writes on imgur, "Winnie's Bar will be closing due to the inability to attain a lease from the landlord."



Site of several Chinese gangster showdowns in the late 1980s and early 90s, Winnie's was a favorite spot of the notorious Ghost Shadows. It later became known as a place for karaoke and was voted Best Karaoke Bar in New York by the Village Voice. Here's how they described the scene:

"Dingy, dimly lit, and not too crowded, Winnie's in Chinatown is the antithesis of the slick, sanitized karaoke bars you're likely to encounter uptown. As you enter, you'll notice it's a bit segregated: On the left, old Chinese dudes play dice games at the bar; on the right, spacious red booths are packed with skinny-jeans-wearing hipsters and local office workers cheering on their friends at the mic."

The space itself has been a bar for a long time. Said the bartender of Winnie's 28 years, "It was a bar before that, and a bar before that, and a bar before that." That history shows in the well-worn interior, which is 100% classic dive.



Winnie's block of Bayard makes an appearance in the 1949 movie Adam's Rib. That awning for Carmine's Restaurant looks like it might be the same spot.

Jimmy Breslin wrote of a Carmine's on Bayard Street: "Carmine's is always the same... Carmine's is the bar on Bayard Street, behind the Criminal Court Building in Manhattan, where the cops and court attendants go... Carmine's smells as if it has river water in the basement. A couple of drinks and you don't notice the smell anymore."

Could be the place.

104 Bayard also turns up in a murky tax photo from the early 1980s, but it's too blurry to determine the bar's name.



In any case, what are the chances that Winnie's space will remain a dive bar once Winnie's is gone?

Before it turns into yet another bubble tea emporium, visit one last time to enjoy this classic spot -- knock back a pitcher of Winnie's infamous Hawaiian Punch (a powerful mixture of, among other things, rum, vodka, amaretto, creme de bananes, and grenadine), and belt out a bad rendition of "Don't Stop Believin" or "Eye of the Tiger" (two of the biggest crowd pleasers, according to general manager Teddy Mui).

Better yet, for this occasion, "Another One Bites the Dust."

Bird Garden

From my piece in today's Metro NY:

On a Saturday morning at the Hua Mei Bird Garden in Sara D. Roosevelt Park, where the Lower East Side rubs up against Chinatown, the trees are full of birdcages. Half shrouded in white cloths, they look like Halloween ghosts, bouncing a little in the branches. Up close, you find that each one is carved from bamboo and contains a single songbird...



...It’s the end of summer. The air has shifted. Already, the leaves of the London Plane trees are brown and falling. One drops into my lap, like a living thing, and I think of a line from a poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti:

“Outside the leaves were falling
and they cried
Too soon! too soon!”

Please read the whole essay here.

A Night at Forlini's

If you're looking for a good time in the old New York, you have to go to Forlini's on a night when Angelo Ruggiero is performing in the back room.



For one thing, Forlini's is something of a hidden treasure. Cut off from Little Italy by Canal Street, it's tucked away on Baxter, surrounded by Chinatown and unspoiled by tourists. The out-of-towners don't seem to know the place exists.

Established in 1943, Forlini's is pure and authentic. New Yorkers eat there. It's a favorite place for judges, lawyers, and other people involved in the justice system, thanks to its location close to the State Supreme Court house.



The rooms are filled with diamond-tufted, peach-colored banquettes and booths, the walls hung with an odd and fascinating assortment of massive oil paintings in heavy, gilded frames.

The staff -- all family -- greet you with warmth and respect. Don't expect any "fixed-up," "revived" Italian food. Forlini's is old-school red sauce all the way. The food's fine, but I don't go to restaurants for the food. I go for the place itself, for the history and the people. For the emotions that the space generates.

And--especially on the nights when Mr. Ruggiero sings--Forlini's is loaded with history, emotion, and wonderful people.



The crowd of regulars shows up early. Italian-Americans, they come in from the outer boroughs, Jersey, and Long Island. They all know each other, and if you haven't been before, you might feel like you're crashing somebody's Golden Anniversary party. But if you're friendly, unfussy, and have fun, you'll be welcomed.

Ruggiero's wife, who looks a little like Liza Minnelli in a glittering tunic and fedora, sets up the music machine and makes the rounds, greeting each person. Then Ruggiero, as bald as Mr. Clean with a big, bright smile, takes the mike. The crowd goes wild. It's all Sinatra, 1950s doo-wop, and Neapolitan folk songs. Ladies swoon. Everyone sings along. During the Italian songs, people swing their napkins through the air.

By the time dinner is done, everyone is dancing in the narrow spaces between the tables (take a look), and you've made some new best friends.



Ruggiero performs at Forlini's about once a month or so. Next up, he'll be there September 5. Be sure to make a reservation.

Pearl Paint

VANISHING?

A tipster has written in that "Pearl Paint will be closing its Canal Street store soon," according to an employee.

The information has not been confirmed with Pearl; however, Tribeca Citizen also notes this week that the Pearl building is for sale or lease: "the store is a downtown icon, and from the sound of the listing, Pearl isn’t likely to survive a transition. The entire six-level, 11,850-square-foot space is listed on Massey Knakal’s website for sale or rent—or teardown."



A mecca for artists, with six floors of absolutely everything art supply, Pearl began closing stores in 2010. People worried about the Canal Street location, but it soldiered on.



Now, at the same time that artists are being pushed further out of town, it looks like time is up for this important piece of the old creative city.



What might come to replace it? The realtor suggests it's an "Outstanding Condo Conversion Opportunity."



And invites interested tenants to "Join Neighborhood Retailers" like Subway, 7-Eleven, Bank of America, and Starbucks...

Malaysia Beef Jerky

Sometimes you stumble upon places and things that remind you that this city is not dead--yet. Not entirely. And it gives you a flutter of hope. After many years of walking all over town, there still remain entire blocks, even in Manhattan, that are unknown to you. So it was when I stepped into Malaysia Beef Jerky at 95A Elizabeth Street in Chinatown.



Under an awning bearing the silhouettes of a pig, chicken, and cow, the place is a scruffy little hole in the wall, filled with Buddhist altars and the sweet, spicy fragrance of jerky.

The three people behind the counter are businesslike and abrupt. As it should be. An unsmiling woman stands at a sizzling grill in the window, turning thin-sliced squares of pink meat with a pair of tongs.



The meat is then stacked in a glass case, under warming light bulbs, behind signs with their simple, no-nonsense names: Beef Jerky, Chicken Jerky, Pork Jerky, spiced or not spiced.

Five bucks will get you a quarter pound, warm and greasy, stashed in a paper bag. Just the right amount to eat with your hands while you're walking around, looking for more of the hidden city.



(How long before some asshole opens an "artisanal" jerky shop a block away, offering flavors like truffle oil, tarragon, cardamom, and of course the uber-hip sriracha, and then this place will be turned into a macaron shop? In other words, go -- now -- and get some real artisanal jerky. Because, while Chinatown's been slow to gentrify, you never know.)

Buttons and Art

At the He Zhen Snap Button Company at 166 Mott Street, Mr. Li (his name is He Zhen, but everyone calls him Mr. Li) has spent the past 32 years machine-stamping snaps, studs, and rivets into clothing. Any time I've walked by, there have been men inside, hanging out, talking, watching a televised soccer match. It's that kind of neighborhood place.



Recently, I went by to find an art gallery in the button shop's space. My heart sank, thinking that yet another gallery had taken over a mom-and-pop garment business, a trend that's been happening up and down the Lower East Side and into Chinatown. But something felt different about this one. I went inside and discovered a more compelling local story.

Above the paintings, stacked on shelves, are clear boxes crammed with buttons. Not props for authenticity's sake, this is the real thing. In the back room, Mr. Li still has his workshop, with a phalanx of stamping machines and a well-organized array of buttons on the walls and hanging in bags from the ceiling.



His daughter, Amy Li, runs the gallery. First-generation Chinese-American, Amy grew up on the same block as the button shop. She studied painting and art history at Hunter College, and recently received a master’s in arts administration from the Savannah College of Art and Design. Much of the work by artists in her current show, Karmic Play, takes off on images from popular culture: silkscreened Kim Kardashian heads done in Warhol style, Philip IV in a UPS uniform, t-shirts that read, "I AM BANKSY."

Amy opened her first show in September, planning to stop at just one and then relinquish the space back to her father. She was searching for a full-time job, but the artists' work sold so well, she took it as a sign to continue.



She and her dad co-exist peaceably in the shared space. At first, he needed some convincing to let her open shop. "I asked very nicely," Amy explained, "and promised not to do anything crazy. No performance art. I told him I wouldn't destroy the place."

"When I was growing up," she recalls, the shop "was packed with 6-foot-high piles of clothing. The clothes usually smelled like cat urine because the sweatshops that did the sewing beforehand raised cats. There were constant sounds of workers operating heavy machinery to apply metal buttons to the clothing. Today the business is mostly wholesale and small jobs applying buttons for fashion designers."



The button shop is known as a spot for neighbors to gather. Some might think it's a social club. As Amy said, "One of my friends always thought it was a club for old Chinese men to chain-smoke and watch television."

Though they can't watch TV in the shop anymore, the local community has been very supportive of Amy's endeavor. Some of her father's customers have worried that his business is closing. "I’ve had to do some explaining, but they like the idea of the gallery."



And selling art out of a functioning button shop has its advantages. "It has helped me stand out," says Amy, "and also provides character and personality. As a start-up, I would have failed if I sat in a white box. The button store attracts many visitors and allows me to have conversations with anyone who walks in. Artists think it’s a humble and cool space."

She hopes eventually to move to Chelsea or to open a second gallery there. She'd like a larger space for mounting solo exhibitions and bigger shows. Besides, she says, "I’ve been told that if I want to be anything, I can’t stay in a Chinatown button shop."




For more information about the gallery and its artists, please visit the Amy Li Projects online and at Facebook.