The Lower East Side— Slum Goddess and More
The Lower East Side has a rich history going back to the early 1600s when it was part of the Dutch colony, New Amsterdam. In 1664, the British took over New Amsterdam and renamed it New York. During that time the land around the Lower East Side was agricultural with plantations and large farms. As New York expanded, the farmland was replaced by a cityscape that would become home to the waves of immigrants during the 1800s and early 1900s. Many of the first immigrants to settle there were Germans during the 1840s; and for a time the neighborhood was known as Little Germany or Kleindeutshland in German. The Germans moved on and were replaced by Irish, Italians, and Eastern Europeans.
The largest and most influential immigrants were Eastern European Jews who were fleeing anti-Semitism around the turn of the last century. Some of the people who were born in the Lower East Side include: Eddie Cantor, Al Jolson, George and Ira Gershwin, Jimmy Durante, Irving Berlin, James Cagney, John Garfield, Jackie Mason, Walter Matthau, and Ben Gazzara. With the exception of two Italians and an Irishman, the men listed above were Jewish, although some had anglicized their surnames. By the time I arrived in the mid 1960s, blacks and Puerto Ricans were replacing the earlier immigrants who had moved on to the middle class and suburbia. As I was posting union notices, I got to know the neighborhood and read up on its history.
The Lower East Side still had remnants of earlier immigrants such as Katz’s Delicatessen on East Houston Street. Katz’s is quite simply the best deli food on the planet. After eating there on a regular basis for a year and a half, I had concluded that other New York delis often came close, but none were better than Katz’s. My favorite meal was a pastrami sandwich with a little fat on fresh rye; a side of potato salad, washed down with a Rheingold Beer (so I could vote for Miss Rheingold) or a Dr. Brown’s cream soda. I also learned that deli food does not travel well outside of New York and New Jersey — it must have something to do with the air or the overall ambience.
On Orchard Street Jewish peddlers still sold all manner of goods: furniture, clothing, inexpensive jewelry, and household tools such as umbrellas. On pleasant days most of a store’s inventory was stacked in front of the store. I thought that the merchants preferred the push carts full of inventory that their grandfathers pushed around the Lower East Side.
The shop owners were polite, for the most part; my accent (basic northern California) made them curious. They asked questions about California, the weather, the major ethnic groups, and did many Jews live out there? I learned how to haggle with them — which came in handy when I lived in Asia some years later. I bought a bed and a fake fireplace mantel from one of the second-hand shops; the owner’s son helped me wheel my purchases down Houston Street and Avenue C. The difficult part was getting it up six floors to my apartment. Instead of a tip, I bought the young man lunch at Katz’s: pastrami with a little fat, potato salad and a Rheingold — the cute girl with a Jewish name got our votes for that year’s Miss Rheingold.
Close to my apartment was an active orthodox yeshiva for young men who wore payots (various styles of sideburns or sidelocks depending on their respective sects). The men and boys often dressed in black clothes under a black overcoat. Like the payots, their large black hats identified various sects that I was never able to identify. The younger people spoke English; the older people seemed to have preferred Yiddish and never bothered with English.
Within walking distance or a short bus ride were a variety of dining choices. One of my favorite walks was over to Little Italy for a lunch of grilled Italian sausage with peppers and onions on a lightly toasted bun. On a crisp fall day the aroma of grilled sausage permeated the neighborhood made my mouth water. Providing you were not mobbed up with one of the mafia families, Little Italy was one of the safest neighborhoods in New York. No two-bit burglar or stick-up man wanted to risk tangling with a mafia soldier. The restaurants usually featured southern Italian cooking with red sauce and pasta. Umberto’s Clam House, where the gangster Crazy Joey Gallo would later get shot, served excellent shell fish. Not far from Umberto’s was a wonderful pastry shop with elaborate Italian delights that were served with coffee, cappuccino, espresso and other drinks. I have forgotten the name of the shop, but I’m rather certain it is still in business. The peoples’ body language was interesting to watch when an expensively dress man and his body guards walked in. Silence befell the restaurant, no one stared or moved quickly; many got up and left with measured steps. When the man and his body guards left, customers look relieved and started talking again.
In the Manufacturers Hanover Bank’s branch office on the corner or Avenue B and Second Street, I was in a long line waiting to deposit a check. In front of me were Alan Ginsberg and his long-time lover Peter Orlovsky. They were annoyed at the bank’s poor service, and so was I. We started chatting and introduced ourselves. Ginsberg wondered if I had read his poetry; I told him that I had read some of it but didn’t understand it, at all. I added that I was sorry; he laughed and patted my shoulder. I explained what I was doing; they seemed interested. But somehow the conversation got around to restaurants in the area; Ginsberg suggested a diner with a Polish name on St. Marks Place around Seventh Street in the East Village. Along with Ginsberg, several members of the Fugs ate there as well. The Fugs had just released Slum Goddess of the Lower East Side
The Polish place served great breakfasts and good short-order lunches. Kielbasa and scrambled eggs became a favorite. Although I did not understand his poetry, it was pretty cool when Allen Ginsberg asked me to pass the salt.
