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Friday, February 22, 2013

Povestea lui McSorley's

McSorley's: view of the barroom
illustration by Thurber
(The New Yorker, 1940)
no copyright infringement intended

(click here for the English version)

Anul era 1860, iar in scurt timp Lincoln avea sa devina al saisprezecelea presedinte al Americii, chemat sa conduca natiunea in unele din cele mai grele momente ale istoriei ei. Dar in dimineata aceea de februarie Lincoln nu era inca bine cunoscut. Venise la New York, unde urma sa tina un discurs la Cooper Union, o universitate inca tanara, avea si ea sa devina peste ani venerabila. Fireste ca Lincoln era emotionat si se temea ca new yorkezii aia sofisticati il vor vedea doar ca pe un provincial oarecare, nimic mai mult. Discursul insa a fost electrizant, si avea sa ramana celebru in istorie, the Cooper Union Address. Aplauzele au fost furtunoase, audienta a fost castigata de personalitatea lui. Dupa aceea, cativa suporteri l-au invitat la o berarie din apropiere, de pe Strada a Saptea (am gasit povestea asta in The Examiner). Au petrecut acolo cateva ceasuri bune, Lincoln s-a comportat ca un adevarat barbat si a baut cot la cot cu ceilalti, ceea ce i-a marit popularitatea.

Beraria aceea exista si azi, este socotita cel mai vechi Irish saloon, taverna irlandeza, din New York (chiar daca nu o fi chiar din 1854, cum o lauda firma, in orice caz in 1860 era acolo si era cunoscuta). O infiintase un imigrant irlandez, John McSorley, Old John cum avea sa fie cunoscut in folclorul local. Numele carciumii a fost la inceput The Old House at Home, si asa avea sa ramana pana in 1908, cand firma crasmei a fost doborata de o furtuna si a trebuit inlocuita. Cu ocazia aceea beraria a capatat numele  de McSorley's Old Time Ale House. Mai tarziu s-a renuntat la Time si s-a pastrat restul, McSorley's Old Ale House. Si asa a ramas cunoscuta, si asa se numeste si azi.




Clientela a fost intotdeauna amestecata: studenti dela Cooper Union, medici internisti dela Bellevue, vanzatori dela librariile din Astor Place,  camionagii dela Wanamaker, pensionari de prin Bowery, dar nucleul dur il alcatuiau imigrantii irlandezi, fie ei tamplari sau tabacari, carutasi, parlagii sau zidari. Cu exceptia catorva ani cand vindeau si tarie, s-a servit intotdeauna doar bere, si doar la halba, si doar un singur soi de bere, care mai tarziu avea sa se numeasca McSorley's Cream Stock. Licenta a trecut prin mai multi fabricanti de bere, pana la urma au ajuns sa o puna si in comert la sticle, cu eticheta McSorley's, insa in carciuma a ramas si azi servita numai la halba. Mai e berea asta cum era odata? Mai mult sau mai putin. Am gasit pe web un articol despre ea, spunand ca nu e o bere chiar atat de irlandeza pe cat crede ea ca este. Autorul articolului pare a fi un pasionat de bere irlandeza (http://www.beeridiot.com/?p=203), asa ca o avea dreptate.


(http://www.beeridiot.com/?p=203)
no copyright infringement intended

Dar sa ne intoarcem la vremurile de demult. Unii beau berea rece, altora le placea fiarta, si-o incalzeau pe plita pusa pe soba din centrul carciumii (marturisesc ca si mie imi place bere fiarta, dreasa cu oarece mirodenii). Alaturi de asta se serveau pesmeti, ceapa cruda si branza (unii clienti se plang si azi ca branza e tot cea care a fost desfacuta in 1854, in seara inaugurarii). Old John era inebunit dupa ceapa cruda, era in stare sa ia o halca de paine (mai bine zis un coltuc), sa faca o gaura si sa bage acolo o ceapa intreaga, apoi musca din ea ca dintr-un mar. Iar vorba lui era, Good Beer, Raw Onion, and No Ladies, pana in 1970 accesul femeilor la McSorley's a fost interzis, batranul era de parere ca nimeni nu poate sa bea bere in tihna in prezenta unor femei, iar interdictia a ramas si multi ani dupa ce a murit el. A trebuit ca in 1970 tribunalul sa dea o sentinta prin care sa oblige carciuma sa primeasca si femei. Prin veacul al nousprezecelea insa, o singura femeie a fost primita sa intre. Era o batrana un pic ciudata, vaduva de razboi, mergea din carciuma in carciuma sa vanda alune. Cand era cald afara, Old John ii vindea o halba. Drept multumire batrana i-a brodat odata un steag american, pe care Old John  l-a pastrat si e si azi acolo. Mai era o femeie, insa asta era inramata pe un perete, in camera din spate, un nud cu papagal, copie dupa o pictura celebra a lui Courbet (e drept ca autorul copiei si-a luat oarece libertati fata de original).

Altfel, era bine sa mergi acolo. Old John tinea un set de lulele si un sac de tutun, si daca luai o bere, aveai dreptul si sa pufai o pipa din partea casei. Altfel, batranul isi avea si momente de cumsecadenie, si momente destule cand era morocanos. Bause zdravan in tinerete, insa in ultimii treizeci de ani de viata a devenit abstinent, spunea mereu cand era intrebat ca isi bause portia. Insa ii placea sa manance. Seara isi taia o friptura babana, o punea pe o lopata (ca alfel nu ar fi incaput) si o tinea deasupra focului.

(Vintage Anchor)
no copyright infringement intended

Old John tinea si un cal, caci ii placea sa participe la cursele de trap. Calul era tinut intr-un grajd prin apropiere (pe St. Mark's, daca nu ma insel), iar noaptea ii punea si o capra alaturi, caci, asa credea batranul, noaptea caii au nevoie de companie.




Au trecut pe acolo mari personalitati. Primul a fost Lincoln, cum am zis. Avea sa vina acolo si un alt mare presedinte al Americii, Theodore Roosevelt. Insa cel mai des venea Peter Cooper, fondatorul universitatii Cooper Union, un mare inginer si un mare filantrop (el a introdus locomotivele cu aburi in America, si tot el a infiintat Cooper Union, universitate privata cu o selectie extrem de riguroasa, in care studentii odata admisi nu mai trebuiau sa plateasca nici o taxa de studii). Peter Cooper a fost unul din bunii prieteni ai lui Old John si petrecea ore intregi in camera din spate, la taifas cu muncitorii care erau clientii obisnuiti - avea si un scaun al lui, care a ramas a lui si dupa ce a murit si e acolo si azi.

Cu atatea povesti, si cu atatea personalitati care au trecut pragul acolo, nu e de mirare ca McSorley's a intrat in atentia artistilor. In 1882, McSorley's Inflation, o comedie de Ed Harrigan, cu muzica de David Braham, a avut peste o suta de reprezentatii pe Broadway (si lui Old John ii placeau mult cuplete lui Harrigan si Hart).

Pe la 1911, un grup de artisti au inceput sa frecventeze locanda. Era John Sloan, care a imortalizat locul in cateva picturi astazi bine cunoscute. Apoi George Luks si Glenn O. Coleman. Ca si Sloan, erau artisti realisti, interesati sa surprinda pe panza viata din cartierele new yorkeze. Venea si Stuart Davis, modernistul, care ne-a lasat o acuarela celebrand atmosfera de acolo.


Stuart Davis, McSorley's Ale House
watercolor with traces of charcoal on paper, 1917
(Sotheby's Catalog)
no copyright infringement intended

O gravura facuta de Sloan in 1916 infatiseaza camera din spate. Batranul asezat in scaun inspre fereastra, cu fata la ceilalti, poate fi foarte bine Peter Cooper, sau poate Old John, insa amandoi murisera de mult, asa incat Sloan si-a folosit imaginatia. Exista si un ulei al lui Sloan infatisand tot camera din spate, a fost facut in 1912 si cred ca de data aceasta omul de pe scaunul dinspre fereastra era un contemporan al pictorului.





In 1910 Old John a murit, si i-a urmat fiul, Bill (care avea sa fie poreclit in scurt timp Old Bill, prea era scortos). Era abstinent si tot timpul morocanos, insa stia sa mestereasca berea ca lumea. Vara tinea halbele intr-o cada plina de gheata, asa ca oricat ai fi zabovit sa iti bei berea, halba ramanea rece. Intr-o pictura facuta de Sloan in 1912 il vedem pe Old Bill oficiind la bar, cu papillon negru si parul roscat.


John Sloan, McSorley's Bar
oil on canvas, 1912
Detroit Institute of the Arts
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:McSorley%27s_Bar_1912_John_Sloan.jpg)
no copyright infringement intended


Era morocanos, cum zic, insa clientii mai batrani il indrageau si chiar erau mandri de toanele lui, doar imbatranisera odata cu el, le amintea de anii tineretii. Doar cand venea cate un musteriu nou, cate unul din astia batranii se ducea si il lua peste picior pe Bill, hei, da-mi si mie cinci dolari cu imprumut, hai, ca doar nu o sa ii iei cu tine, stii ca giulgiul nu are buzunare. Bill se enerva si mormaia niste sudalmi. Iar clientul se intorcea la noul venit, ei vezi?

Cand inchidea, Bill ii chema pe toti clientii la bar si le dadea un rand din partea casei. Era un obicei pe care il avusese si taica-sau, si il pastra cu sfintenie. Toata viata si-a respectat tatal si i-a respectat amintirea.

Inca doua picturi de Sloan, facute prin 1928/29. Intr-una il vedem pe Old Bill inconjurat de pisici: era una din pasiunile lui, tinea pisici in bar si le hranea copios. Iar cealalta pictura celebreaza spiritul lui McSorley's, clientii adunati acolo intr-o seara de sambata.





John Sloan, McSorley's Saturday Night, 1928
(http://artoutthewazoo.wordpress.com/2011/10/23/john-french-sloan-the-mcsorleys-bar-paintings/)
no copyright infringement intended


Unul din artistii care veneau pe la 1911 si mai incolo, a adus intr-o seara un prieten, care facea parte din miscarea anarhista. tinea discursuri incendiare si avea mereu neplaceri cu politia. Culmea este ca Bill, care era un reactionar indarjit, a prins drag de anarhist si s-au imprietenit. I-a zis la un moment dat un politai, fii si tu mai atent si mai fereste-te de omul asta! - Dar ce a facut? - Ei pe dracu', pai asta vrea sa arunce in aer toate bancile. - Pai si eu vreau la fel, a zis carciumarul, care era atat de invechit in felul lui de a fi, ca nu avea incredere in banci, nu lucra cu nici o banca, nu avea nici casa de marcat, ii platea pe furnizori cu bani pesin, bagati in pungi de hartie. Om de scoala veche, ce mai.

Dupa ce a trecut de saptezeci de ani, asta era dupa 1930, a vandut carciuma unui politai pensionar, care era foarte cumsecade. Daca il vedea pe vreun client ca incepe sa faca scandal, nu il dadea pe usa afara (cum ar fi facut Bill), ci ii dadea o farfurie de ciorba sa isi revina, pentru ca, spunea el, nu clientul e vinovat daca berea a fost proasta.

Altfel, carciuma ramasese peste ani la fel cum fusese de la inceput. Pe jos peste podea era asezat rumegus, tavanul era plin de panza de paianjeni si coscovit, tot locul intunecos, soba in mijloc, camera din spate pentru clienti mai cunoscuti. Iar peretii plini de tablouri. de portrete, si de taieturi din ziare (cea mai veche fiind o stire din 1815 a unui ziar londonez, se anunta in doua randuri ca trupele engleze s-au angajat in lupta cu trupele franceze ale lui Napoleon la Waterloo). Pe langa asta, o curiozitate, multe oase de iades. Au si ele o istorie a lor. Au fost destule razboaie in toti anii astia, iar cand plecau pe front, oamenii isi lasau cate un iades aici, sa il gaseasca la intoarcere. Oasele de iades ramase sunt ale celor care au murit in lupta.

Iar Joseph Mitchell avea sa scrie in 1940 povestea locului, a intitulat-o The Old House at Home si a publicat-o in The New Yorker. In 1943 avea sa apara in volum, McSorley's Wonderful Saloon. Este o poveste superba, si care strabate cu maiestrie cateva generatii in vremea carora fireste ca New Yorkul s-a schimbat mult. I-am citit povestirea de mai multe ori, pentru ca m-a vrajit. Am observat ca dela o generatie la alta, schimba si vocabularul, pentru ca si limba evolua: din 1854 pana in 1940, cand Joseph Mitchell si-a scris povestirea. Am folosit-o in povestirea mea pe a lui, si intamplarile pe care el le descrie, dar de multe ori si cuvintele lui. Asa ca povestea mea este mai curand un soi de Repovestind impreuna cu Mitchell despre carciuma lui Old John

e. e. cummings a venit si el des pe aici si a scris odata un poem despre McSorley's, insa in cu totul alta nota decat a facut-o Mitchell.






Si ce s-a mai intamplat dupa aceea, dupa ce Mitchell si-a scris povestirea, iar cummings poemul? Seria de intamplari si de povesti a continuat. In 1970 femeile au trebuit admise, caci asa glasuia decizia tribunalului. Asta a dus la niste schimbari de logistica, au incercat ei sa faca schimbari cat mai putine (de exemplu au lasat destul de mult timp toaleta unisex). S-au mai intamplat si altele. In 1964 patronul (un urmas al politaiului care luase afacerea dela Bill) s-a dus in vizita in Irlanda si masina i s-a stricat pe drum. Era departe de orice localitate si l-a salvat un irlandez, Mathew Maher pe numele lui. S-au imprietenit dupa asta la toarta, iar Mathew a venit apoi la New York sa lucreze ca barman la McSorley's. A preluat el afacerea in 1977. Asa ca localul e tot acolo, tot plin de amintiri, tot servind bere la halba, doar ca acum e napadit de turisti.




McSorleys Old Ale House, New York City - Bucket List Bars
(video by drunkenhistory)

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posted by Pierre Radulescu at 12:01 PM | 0 comments

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Telling the Story of McSorley's

McSorley's: view of the barroom
illustration by Thurber
(The New Yorker, 1940)
no copyright infringement intended

(click here for the Romanian version)


It was February 1860, and Lincoln was not yet well known in the country. All this would change very soon, as the electoral campaign was approaching: by the end of the year he would be elected the sixteenth President of America, called to lead the nation in some of its most difficult moments ever. But in that morning when he came to New York to deliver a speech at the Cooper Union, Lincoln was fearful he would fail to convince the audience. After all he could appear to these sophisticated New Yorkers as just some Mid-Western guy, nothing more.  It didn't happen that way. His discourse was extraordinary and it would remain in history as one of Lincoln's most important statements, the Cooper Union Address. Later that day, several men that had been in the attendance, took him to a pub nearby, on the Seventh Street (I found this story told in The Examiner). They spent there a good couple of hours with  lots of ale mugs and much fun, and Lincoln proved to be a fine fellow in all respects. People definitely sympathized with him and decided that he was the man to be their leader from then on.

That pub is still in operation, it's the oldest Irish saloon in New York (even if it's maybe not been running exactly since 1854, as the signboard is boasting, it was anyway there on February 27, 1860, the day when  Lincoln came in). It was founded by an Irish immigrant, John McSorley (Old John, as he would remain known in the local folklore). The name of the tavern was at the beginning The Old House at Home and it would remain so till 1908, when the old signboard failed in a storm. They changed the signboard, and they changed the name, into McSorkey's Old Time Ale House. Later the Time was removed and the saloon kept only the remainder,  McSorley's Old Ale House, and so it's been since then, and so it is today.




The clientele has always been motley. As Joseph Mitchell describes it, students from Cooper Union, internes from Bellevue, the hospital on First Avenue, then all kind of mechanics and salesmen, truck drivers and clerks, also old guys living in poor hotels on the Bowery, but the hardcore were the Irish immigrants, be them carpenters or tanners, teamsters, slaughter-house butchers or bricklayers, that kind of workforce. Except for a few years at the beginning of the 20th century when they tried to sell also some spirits, there has always been only one kind of drink, ale, and only on tap, and only one brand of ale, McSorley's Cream Stock. The license has passed across the years through three or four brewers, eventually they started to produce also bottled beer, labeled with the McSorley's name (while the tavern has been keeping to the tap rule). Is it today the same as it used to be in the old days? More or less. I just found a review stating that, the beer is less Irish than it thinks it is, and the taste is like a hoppier version of a cream ale (http://www.beeridiot.com/?p=203). So it goes.


(http://www.beeridiot.com/?p=203)
no copyright infringement intended


But let's go back to the old days. Some liked the beer as cold as it could be, others preferred it warm, and were keeping their mugs on the hove of the stove that was in the middle of the barroom. There was also a free lunch of soda crackers, raw onion and cheese (the patrons have always been complaining that the cheese was still the one served in 1854 at the opening,  but you know how picky patrons can be sometimes). Old John was crazy about raw onion (according to Joseph Mitchell, he liked to fit a whole onion into the hollowed-out heel of a loaf of French bread and he ate it as if it were an apple). His motto was Good Beer, Raw Onion, and No Ladies. And so women were not allowed, as Old John believed that men couldn't drink in tranquility in the presence of the other sex. The interdiction remained in place many years after he had passed away. It has been necessary a court order to reverse this interdiction, and it came only in 1970. But in the old days there had been only one woman willingly admitted inside, an old peddler who was going from bar to bar on the Bowery hawking peanuts. In warm days Old John was even selling her a beer. She was so grateful that she embroidered for him a little American flag that was put above the brass-bound  ale pump and it is still there. There has been also another woman, only this one was kept framed on the wall in the back room and is still there today: a nude with a parrot, a copy of a famous painting by Courbet (not a perfect copy: the man who did it took some liberties from the original).

Overall it was good in the old days. Old John was keeping a set of clay and corncob pipes, plus an amount of tobacco, and the purchase of one beer entitled you to a smoke on the house. He had his moments of affability, he had also his moods. He had been a heavy drinker for many years, then he decided that he had had his share and got sober. He was a big eater. Each evening he liked to cut for him a huge steak of three pounds or so, and to place it on a coal shovel over the fireplace, in the back room.


(Vintage Anchor)
no copyright infringement intended

Old John had also a horse, as he enjoyed surfing sulky. He kept the horse in a stable on St. Mark's Place, where it was sleeping along with a nanny goat: Old John considered that during the night horses needed company.




There have been notable patrons along the years. It has been Abraham Lincoln, as I said, also another great American President, Teddy Roosevelt. Then Peter Cooper, the founder of Cooper Union, who was coming often and was a good friend of Old John. He liked to stay in the back room, chatting with the working men, and a stool was reserved for him. It remained known as Peter Cooper's stool after he passed away and it is still there in the back room.

With so many stories, and so notable presences, the tavern enjoyed a well deserved fame along the years and naturally it came in the artists' attention. In 1882,  McSorley's Inflation, a play by Ed Harrigan, scored by David Braham, opened on Broadway and had over hundred performances (by the way, Old John was in turn a great lover of Harrigan 'n Hart songs).

By 1911 a group of artists started to be regulars at McSorley's. It was John Sloan, who immortalized the atmosphere of the tavern in some paintings, now well known. It was also  George Luks, also Glenn O. Coleman.  They all belonged to the Ashcan School of painting, interested to capture in their works the essence of  NY neighborhood life. It was then Stuart Davis, the modernist, he also left a watercolor celebrating the McSorley's.


Stuart Davis, McSorley's Ale House
watercolor with traces of charcoal on paper, 1917
(Sotheby's Catalog)
no copyright infringement intended

An etching that Sloan made in 1916 shows the back room. The old man seated in the chair near the window, facing the others, could very well be Peter Cooper, or maybe Old John, anyway both of them were then long time dead, so Sloan used his imagination. There is another painting by Sloan showing the back room, it was made in 1912, and it seems to me that here the man seated by the window was a contemporary of the artist.





Old John passed away in 1910, and the business was inherited by his son Bill (who would soon get known as Old Bill, that stiff and surly he was officiating at the bar). This guy was absolutely sober and always moody, but he had the gift of understanding ale, of knowing ale's tricks and caprices, like no one else. Joseph Mitchell explained it, he understood ale, he knew how to draw it and how to keep it, and in warm weather he made a practice of chilling the mugs in a tub of ice, so even if a customer would nurse an ale a too long time, the chilled earthen ware mug kept it cool. A painting made by Sloan in 1912 shows Old Bill officiating at the bar, with black bow-tie and reddish hair.


John Sloan, McSorley's Bar
oil on canvas, 1912
Detroit Institute of the Arts
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:McSorley%27s_Bar_1912_John_Sloan.jpg)
no copyright infringement intended


He was surly, as I said, but the old customers were fond of him and even proud of his moods: they all had grown together, and Bill's outbursts made them believe they were young again. Sometimes, when a newcomer entered the picture, one of these old guys was going to Bill saying, hey Bill, lend me fifty dollars, don't be stingy, there ain't no pockets in the shroud! Bill was replying with gamy epithets, and the customer was turning to the newcomer, see? Anyway, when the closing hour was coming, Bill called everybody and bought them a round. It was a habit inherited from his father, and Bill was keeping it scrupulously. He worshiped his father, and didn't make any change in the tavern, to keep it as it had been in the old times.

Here are two other paintings by Sloan, made by 1928/29. In one of them we can see Old Bill surrounded by cats: it was one of his passions, he was keeping cats in the bar and was feeding them copiously. And the other painting is just celebrating the spirit of McSorley's, the clients gathered there one Saturday night.





John Sloan, McSorley's Saturday Night, 1928
(http://artoutthewazoo.wordpress.com/2011/10/23/john-french-sloan-the-mcsorleys-bar-paintings/)
no copyright infringement intended


One of the artists who were regulars there brought one evening a friend who was an anarchist, a guy always in trouble with the police for his incendiary speeches. Though Old Bill was a staunch reactionary, he took a liking for the anarchist and they became good friends. Once a policeman warned him about that long-haired nut. - Why? asked Bill. Hell, man, this guy wants to blow up every bank in the country! - So am I, answered Bill, who actually did not have any confidence in banks, and was always operating only with cash. Definitely the old school guy.

After 1930, Bill (then in his seventies) sold the business to a retired policeman who promised not to make any change. The new owner was a very gentle guy. If one patron was starting to make trouble, instead of throwing him out (as Old Bill would have done), the new landlord was trying to sober the drunkard with soup, saying that the man was not faulty if the beer had been bad.

And the saloon remained as it was in the old days, with its ceiling, low, shrunk, and cobwebbed, with its floor, covered with sawdust, with its rickety armchairs around the stove, and with all its memorabilia: portraits and photos and excerpts from newspapers covering any inch on the walls. The oldest excerpt was a paragraph from London Times from 1815, informing that the British and French armies started what would become the Waterloo battle. Apart from that, a rack with many wishbones. There is a history with them. America had a number of wars during all these tens of years, and any patron who was called into the army was leaving here a wishbone to find it when he would come back. The wishbones that remained were those left by the people who died in the wars.

In 1940 Joseph Mitchell told the story of this place. He named the story The Old House at Home and published it in The New Yorker. Later he would compile it in a book named McSorley's Wonderful Saloon. It is a great story, and I used here largely its flow and even sentences from it, trying to make them distinct by use of italics (to the point that my post should rather be named Mc Sorley's, Reading It Together with Joseph Mitchell). What I found special, beside the story itself, was the way Mitchell subtly changed the words and expressions he used as he was passing from one generation of McSorley's guys to another. There were several generations, beginning with 1854, and naturally the language evolved, and Mitchell followed with passion and an immense pleasure all changes that had happened in the main vocabulary across the decades and across the generations.

e.e.cummings also came here and wrote a poem about the place. It is in a very different note that the story of Mitchell.






And what happened after Mitchell wrote his essay (and cummings his poem)? Well, the chain of wonderful stories went on. It was the episode of 1970, when the women were admitted inside. Then the presence of women led to some changes in the logistics, they tried to make them as less as possible (for a while they maintained a unisex bathroom). There were also other things that happened. In 1964 the owner of the tavern (a descendant of the policeman) was visiting Ireland and his car broke up on the road. He was picked up by a guy whose name was Mathew Maher. They got friends and Mathew came to New York to work as a bartender to McSorley's. He bought the business in 1977.  Overall, today McSorley's is still there, full of memorabilia, boasting its cream stock ale, and being now (for better or for worse) a tourist trap.




McSorleys Old Ale House, New York City - Bucket List Bars
(video by drunkenhistory)






(Joseph Mitchell)

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posted by Pierre Radulescu at 4:24 PM | 0 comments

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Vechiul Fulton Ferry Hotel

Joseph Mitchell in fatza lui Sloppy Louie's
mijlocul anilor 1950
(photo published in The New Yorker)
no copyright infringement intended

(click here for the English version)

Zona in care a fost una din pietele mari de peste ale New Yorkului este azi un punct turistic permanent aglomerat. Cladirea in care se afla piata a devenit un complex de restaurante si magazine de suveniruri, plus nelipsitul visitor center, plus un food court care se prelungeste cu o terasa uriasa tronand peste East River. Te asezi pe un sezlong pe terasa si savurezi privelistea. Brooklyn Bridge e foarte aproape. Langa fosta piata stau ancorate doua corabii, ramase acolo de pe vremea cand vapoarele venite din toata lumea acostau acolo si isi descarcau pestele, sau alte marfuri, sau calatori.

Locul respira istorie, respira vechiul New-York. Cladirile din jur isi au fiecare o poveste a lor, doar ca este bine ascunsa. Iti trebuie mult ca sa dibui povestea fiecarei cladiri, pentru ca oamenii care lucrau acolo pe vremuri nu mai sunt: pescari si negustori de peste (fie ei angrosisti sau detailisti), marinari si armatori, carciumari si ospatari, functionarii dela firmele care tineau businessul sau traiau pe langa el, toti muncitorii din port si nu numai, hamali si instalatori, zidari si lacatusi, sau oameni care calatoreau des cu afaceri sau de placere. Toti oamenii acestia nu mai sunt, mai exista acum ghizi turistici care stiu multe lucruri si poate sunt pasionati sa afle si altele. Mai exista apoi arhivele orasului, doar ca e greu sa ajungi la ele. Pe locul unde erau carciumi marinaresti si hoteluri cam stil trei coceni, totul este aranjat acum sa atraga turisti.

Este greu deci sa afli povestea acelor case, si e pacat, pentru ca fiecare poveste ascunde in ea de fapt alte povesti si mai vechi, care merg hat departe, pana la vremea cand colonistii olandezi venisera aici si intemeiau Noul Amsterdam.

O asemenea poveste am gasit-o intr-o carte scrisa de un mare scriitor new-yorkez, Joseph Mitchell. Venise la New York prin 1928, era de undeva din North Carolina mi se pare, si avea un singur gand, sa devina scriitor. A inceput sa colaboreze la diferite ziare, iar la Herald Tribune a primit un sfat, sa se plimbe de nebun pe strazi, sa inteleaga fiecare coltisor si fiecare om care i se va parea mai ciudat. Si asta a facut tot restul vietii, s-a plimbat ca un maniac prin tot New Yorkul, a cercetat fiecare strada si fiecare cladire, s-a imprietenit cu toti ciudatii, si nu numai, cu toti oamenii simpli (pentru ca oamenii simpli sunt cei care au ceva de spus, daca stii sa-i asculti, si el stia sa-i asculte, e si asta un dar dela Dumnezeu, nu-l avem toti). Si a scris, povestiri dupa povestiri, despre strazi si case, despre ciudati si despre oamenii simpli care ii povesteau alte povesti, in care era vorba de alte povesti si mai vechi.

Prin 1933 cred, a inceput sa lucreze pentru The New Yorker, prin 1938 a capatat acolo statutul de staff writer, si acolo a lucrat pana a murit prin anii nouazeci.

Daca ii citesti o pagina doar, te indragostesti de cartile lui si nu mai scapi, devii maniac si tu, devine drog, si e periculos.

In iunie 1952 i-a aparut povestirea The Cave, a numit-o mai tarziu Up to the Old Hotel. Povestirea i-a aparut fireste in The New Yorker, iar mai tarziu a aparut in volum, ca toate celelalte.

Era pe vremea aceea client la Sloppy Louie's, un restaurant pescaresc aflat intr-o  cladire acolo spre malul lui East River, pe coltul dintre South Street si Fulton Street. Patronul era un batran italian, Louie Morino, venise dintr-un sat de pescari de langa Genova, lucrase multi ani ca ospatar prin diverse carciumi pescaresti, pana isi cumparase locul acesta dela un alt carciumar italian.


veche carte postala, aratandu-l pe Louie Morino
(proprietarul lui Sloppy Louie's)
(http://www.cardcow.com/159890/sloppy-louies-restaurant-92-south-street-new-york-city/)
no copyright infringement intended


Stateau des de vorba, iar italianul era totdeauna bun la povesti. Povesti care, cum zic, se chemau unele pe altele. Satul de unde plecase, cum arata taica-sau, si ce pesti se pescuiau acolo, la cine venise la New York, locurile pe unde lucrase ca ospatar, si apoi despre carciuma aceasta, Sloppy Louie era o porecla, lenesul Louie, de fapt porecla de Sloppy o avusese si carciuma dinainte, si se pastrase. S-a suparat omul nostru la inceput, insa ceilalti vazandu-l suparat au continuat sa il necajeasca. Si si-a dat seama ca nu avea alta cale decat sa se alieze cu ei, asa ca si-a scris si pe firma Sloppy Louie.

In fine, Louie se gandea acum sa isi mareasca spatiul cu mese, caci avea clienti din ce in ce mai multi, dar nu prea avea unde sa se extinda. La primul etaj avea depozitul, caci nimeni nu se incumeta pe acolo sa isi faca depozit in pivnita, East River e la doi pasi si sunt inundatii cand ti-e lumea mai draga. E invers ca in centrul nostru vechi din Bucuresti, aici negustorii cand cumparau o pravalie in primul rand ii interesa beciul, asta trebuia sa fie solid ca acolo isi tineau marfa, nu de inundatii le era teama bucurestenilor, ci de incendii, le ardeau casele, dar averea era in beciuri si ramanea. Uite ca la New York pe malul raului e taman pe dos.

Asadar batranul Louie avea o problema, ca nu putea sa isi extinda carciuma. Scriitorul l-a intrebat atunci de etajele superioare ale casei, ca mai erau doua. Ei bine, Louie nu se urcase acolo nicodata. Si o noua poveste s-a insailat. Pe vremuri, cand nu exista inca Brokklyn Bridge, iar legatura cu Brooklynul era asigurata de un feribot, niste olandezi construisera casa asta, era Fulton Ferry Hotel, de fapt asezat in casa asta si casa de langa ea. Aici exista o scara numai pana la primul etaj, apoi era un lift din acelea vechi, actionat manual cu franghii. In casa cealalta era scara pana la ultimul etaj. Hotelul isi avusese vremurile lui de glorie, dar dupa ce s-a construit Brooklyn Bridge nu a mai fost nevoie de feribot, incet, incet si vapoarele au inceput sa ancoreze pe Hudson, aici a ramas Piata de Peste, the Old Fulton Fish Market, dar oricum hotelul nu mai avea vad. Asa ca olandezii (mai bine zis urmasii lor) au inchiriat cladirile printr-o agentie imobiliara si nu le-a mai pasat de ele. Au venit carciumari italieni dupa carciumiari italieni, pana la Louie, si au lasat naibii etajele de sus, ca le era si frica sa mai mearga cu liftul ala de pe vremea lui Pazvante Chiorul.

Au fost doua situatii in care Louie era gata gata sa ia liftul. A venit odata un mester sa repare acoperisul, insa cand a vazut liftul, a preferat sa se suie pe acoperisul casei celeilalte si sa treaca de acolo pe acoperisul asta. A mai venit odata un constructor, avea doua casti de protectie la el, ei erau gata-gata sa se suie in lift, insa s-a lasat si constructorul asta pagubas, era si gras peste masura. Castile ramasesera insa aici in carciuma, de cativa ani.

Se intamplase insa ceva. Venise intr-o seara o batrana si se recomandase ca fiind proprietareasa casei. Trecuse intamplator pe acolo, nu avea nici o treaba anume. Si era din familia aceea de olandezi. Iar Louie cunoscuse candva in Brooklyn, unde lucrase ca ospatar, o doamna foarte batrana care venea sa cineze la restaurant si era apoi condusa la trasura, pentru ca mergea greu, insa era vioaie  la vorba si simpatica, ei bine, batranica aceea ii povestise de familia asta de olandezi, fusesera niste oameni de oarece vaza in vremurile de demult. Iar acum lui Louie i se aprinsese un beculet, si a vrut sa afle mai mult despre istoria acelui hotel de deasupra la care nu mai urcase nimeni de zeci de ani. Nimeni nu prea stia nimic, pana la urma un client care lucra la un serviciu de arhive a venit cu cateva informatii interesante, drept pentru care Louie l-a servit gratis cu cina vreo sapte spatamani, ca asa fusese invoiala.

Si atunci Joseph Mitchell, scriitorul, care ascultase toate povestile astea, i-a propus lui Louie sa ia liftul impreuna. Bine, a zis carciumarul, insa vino odata imbracat cu haine proaste, ca e praf si mizerie ca dracu', iti dai seama.

Nu, a raspuns scriitorul, acum sa mergem, ca alta data nu o vom mai face.

Si-au luat castile, au urcat la primul etaj pe scara. Ca sa ajunga la lift trebuia sa se urce acum pe o scara de lemn fixata in podea si in tavan. Usa dela lift s-a deschis greu. Au pasit inauntru. Liftul avea podea, dar nu avea tavan, asa ca se vedeau rotile mari de deaupra. pe care rulau franghiile. Se vedeau pentru ca isi luasera lanterne, altfel era bezna.

Au tras de o franghie, nu s-a miscat, au mai tras odata, in fine a inceput sa urce liftul scartaind. Trageau de franghie, urca nitel si statea, iar trageau, iar urca. Au ajuns in sfarsit la unul ditre etaje. Acum nu se mai deschidea usa dela lift sa iasa. S-a deschis pana la urma si au pasit intr-un hol mare. Era ca orice hotel de mana a saptea, cu niste camere in jurul holului. O placarda intr-una din camere: The Wages of Sin is Death, and that's what's the hotel about: wages of sin, death, dust, old empty rooms, old empty whiskey bottles, old empty bureau drawers.

N-au mai mers la etajul de sus, ce sa mai fie acolo?

Inchei cu un fragment din povestire, chiar inceputul ei, croit asemanator cu Moby Dick al lui Melville (cam respira a Melville hotelul ala vechi, oricum):

Every now and then, seeking to rid my mind of thoughts of death and doom, I get up early and go down to Fulton Fish Market. I usually arrive around five-thirty, and take a walk through the two huge open-fronted sheds, the Old Market and the New Market, whose fronts rest on South Street and whose backs rest on piles in the East River. At that time, a little while before the trading begins, the stands in the sheds are heaped high and spilling over with forty to sixty kinds of finfish and shellfish from the East Coast, the West Coast, the Gulf Coast, and half a dozen foreign countries. The smoky riverbank dawn, the racket the fishmongers make, the seaweedy smell, and the sight of this plentifulness always give me a feeling of well-being, and sometimes they elate me. I wander among the stands for an hour or so. Then I go into a cheerful market restaurant named Sloppy Louie’s and eat a big, inexpensive, invigorating breakfast–a kippered herring and scrambled eggs, or a shad-roe omelet, or split sea scallops and bacon, or some other breakfast specialty of the place.




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posted by Pierre Radulescu at 7:37 AM | 0 comments

Sloppy Louie's and the Old Fulton Ferry Hotel

Joseph Mitchell in front of Sloppy Louie's
mid 1950's
(photo published in The New Yorker)
no copyright infringement intended

(click here for the Romanian version)

The place where the Old Fulton Fish Market used to be till 2005 has become a thriving tourist zone. The market building is now housing a complex of restaurants and souvenir shops. The second floor has a huge deck overlooking the East River. You can lay there on a wooden deckchair and enjoy the magnificent view. The movement of river waves reverberates on the deck and you feel gentle pushes as coming from the deckchair. Brooklyn Bridge is close. Some old ships are docked nearby, left over since the days when  the place was a harbor and vessels from all over the world were coming there, landing fish, or other goods, or passengers.

The place smells old New York and the waterfront buildings hide stories of their own. Only it's extremely difficult if not impossible to find these stories, as the people willing to tell them are no  more, those fishermen and fishmongers (be them wholesalers or retailers), sailors or shipowners, innkeepers or waiters, clerks working in the offices around, dock laborers or plumbers, contractors, locksmiths, or business travelers, or any other kind of people implied one way or another with the fish business or the sailing. There are now only the tourist guides, and some of them are really passionate fellows trying to discover the secrets of the place. The buildings used to be run-down, looking as they had been allowed to dilapidate on their own, meanwhile they have been landmarked and restored, and now the whole looks very neat, which makes history even more difficult to be discovered.

It is a pity that these old stories are so well hidden, because each of them embeds other and other stories, older and older, a chain going back in time to the first Dutch colonists who came here and founded the Nieuw Amsterdam.

I found such a story told by Joseph Mitchell, a fascinating story like any other told by him (I think it's enough to read a single page coming from this author, and you become addict). The story was published in The New Yorker in June 1952, with the title The Cave. Later on, Mitchell changed the name of it in Up in the Old Hotel.

Back in those times Mitchell used to come any given day down to the Fulton Fish Market, to get that special feeling of old New York, and he was a permanent client of the Sloppy Louie's, a seafood restaurant located at the corner of South and Fulton Streets. The owner of the restaurant was an old Italian, Louis (or Louie) Morino,  a generous, contemplative and world-wise guy, who had come to America from a small fishing village near Genoa and had worked many years as a waiter in different seafood restaurants before taking this place from another Italian restaurateur and starting his own business.


old postcard, showing Louie Morino
(the owner of Sloppy Louie's)
(http://www.cardcow.com/159890/sloppy-louies-restaurant-92-south-street-new-york-city/)
no copyright infringement intended


Louie loved to tell stories, and Mitchell was a wonderful listener (it's this a gift from God, to be a good listener, it's not for everyone, you always make the others feel fine and share great stuff). So Louie was telling Mitchell about his small village in Italy, how was the fishing there, why had he left for America, at whom had he gone first place to get a job here in New York, about his work as a waiter in small seafood restaurants across the city, and how had he taken this place. The name of the restaurant was Sloppy Louie's, and Sloppy was a nick inherited from the previous owner. Louie had been upset about that in the beginning, which made the other guys to go on calling the place names.  And Louie realized that he couldn't beat them, so he had to join the flock, and soon the restaurant had a new signboard, Sloppy Louie's.

Now Louie was thinking of extending his restaurant, as the number of patrons was increasing, only there was no more available space. The existent tables were occupying the whole ground floor, and the next floor was occupied by the restaurant storerooms. No way to relocate the storerooms down to the basement: due to the vicinity of East River the basement was always in danger to be flooded (it was totally different in Bucharest in the old times, where merchants were always interested in big basements for their shops, to keep there the goods - the danger in old Bucharest was rather fire than flood).

At this point of discussion Mitchell asked Louie why was he not using all floors: the building had four floors in all. The answer was astounding: Louie had never gone to the upper floors! There was a stair going only to the next floor. Then there was a small hand powered elevator, a rope-pull as it was named, kind of a dumbwaiter, and nobody had used it anymore for tens of years.

It had happened however twice for Louie to be almost ready to try the elevator. The first time (back in 1938) it had been a man sent by the real-estate management company to inspect the roofs after a hurricane. The man saw the elevator and gave up, preferring rather to go on the roof next door and cross over. The second time had been much more recently, seven months or so before. A contractor came once to eat in the restaurant and proposed to Louie to go together to try the elevator, just for curiosity. The contractor had also two helmets with him, the kind used in construction work. They both went toward the elevator, when the contractor suddenly changed his mind. He was anyway too fat to be kind of comfortable in the elevator cage. The two helmets were still there, waiting for the contractor to come back.

One evening an old lady passed by. She was the owner of the building. Louie had never been aware of her existence, as he had the lease contract with the real-estate management company. The name of the old lady was Mrs. Schermerhorn, and that raised him a trigger. Years before, when Louie was working in a restaurant in Brooklyn, he used to walk the Schermerhorn Street there on his way to work. Well, there was an old lady coming to the restaurant in Brooklyn every evening to have dinner. Her name was Mrs. Frelinghuysen. She was a frail person, due to her age, while very gentle. Everytime when she was leaving the restaurant to go home, one of the waiters was accompanying her to the carriage. Once she told Louie about the Schermerhorn family that had given the name to the street: Mrs. Frelinghuysen had attended in her youth a wedding of one of these Schermehorns, then a funeral of another.

So the Schermerhorns, that old Dutch family, had built the house where Louie was now keeping his restaurant! This was quite a history, and Louie was eager now to find more. Mrs. Schermerhorn didn't know too much, actually she knew virtually nothing. Eventually one of the patrons, who worked at an archives office, brought some interesting data. Louie was so excited that he promised the guy to serve him free lunch for seven weeks or so.

The Schermerhorns had built the whole block on Fulton between South and Front Streets. This had been at the beginning of the 19-th century (actually today the block is known as the Schermerhorn Row). The building with Louie's restaurant had been at the beginning a hotel, the Fulton Ferry Hotel (using all floors, by the way). The Brooklyn Bridge was not yet built, and a ferry was operating between the two parts of the city. There was also the harbor, so the hotel had always enough clients. Then the bridge was built, the ferry disappeared, and ships started to land on the opposite side of Manhattan, on Hudson. So the hotel was no more of any good, and the Schermerhorns gave the buildings in the care of a real-estate company.Was it possible to find some old papers, some documents, up in the old hotel?

All this was very exciting, and Mitchell proposed going up in the old hotel right away, together with Louie.  Let this to next time, and bring your oldest clothes, so the dust won't make any difference, was the answer. No, if we don't do it now, it's not gonna be ever, replied Mitchell. So they took the helmets and two flashlights, went up the next floor and considered taking the elevator. To reach it a ladder was needed. There was one, fixed to the floor and to the ceiling. The elevator door was difficult to open, eventually they opened it and entered the cage. The lift had no rooftop, so they could see the wheels that were sustaining the ropes. Louie started to pull one rope, without success. No wonder, after so many years of inactivity. Eventually the cage began to move, at each pull one or two inches up. They got to the third floor, now the cage door refused to open. Well, it opened after all, and the two stepped in a large hall surrounded by numbered rooms. There was a placard in one of the rooms, stating that The Wages of Sin Are Death. One couldn't object to this, only that's what the whole was about, wages of sin, death, dust, old empty rooms, old empty bottles of whiskey, old empty bureau drawers, dislocated beds and chairs. It was no use to go to the fourth floor. So it goes, would have said Vonnegut, only here the atmosphere was calling maybe in mind Melville, call me Ishmael!

And actually the way Mitchell started his story reminds Melville. Here it is:

Every now and then, seeking to rid my mind of thoughts of death and doom, I get up early and go down to Fulton Fish Market. I usually arrive around five-thirty, and take a walk through the two huge open-fronted sheds, the Old Market and the New Market, whose fronts rest on South Street and whose backs rest on piles in the East River. At that time, a little while before the trading begins, the stands in the sheds are heaped high and spilling over with forty to sixty kinds of finfish and shellfish from the East Coast, the West Coast, the Gulf Coast, and half a dozen foreign countries. The smoky riverbank dawn, the racket the fishmongers make, the seaweedy smell, and the sight of this plentifulness always give me a feeling of well-being, and sometimes they elate me. I wander among the stands for an hour or so. Then I go into a cheerful market restaurant named Sloppy Louie’s and eat a big, inexpensive, invigorating breakfast–a kippered herring and scrambled eggs, or a shad-roe omelet, or split sea scallops and bacon, or some other breakfast specialty of the place.






(Joseph Mitchell)

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posted by Pierre Radulescu at 6:59 AM | 3 comments