SIR: St. George, Staten Island

Monday, April 9, 2012




Spring break for the Salisbury (CT) public schools usually means Camp Viveca for my nieces., only this year niece number one turned into a teenager, so she went away with a friend instead of coming to stay with me. Niece number two, who just turned ten (whoo-hoo: double digits!), came anyway, and even though only one of us was officially on vacation, we had a great time.

Eden’s spring break overlapped with the limited time Damaso was back in the city, so we decided she could be the first guest to join us for one of our forays to the end of the line. We even decided to let her choose where we’d go. Well, theoretically she chose; I may have biased her by how I described the options, but in any case all three of us were delighted by the decision to go back to Staten Island to explore the other end of the Staten Island Railway line at St. George.












The catch? The one train that ends at St. George doesn’t get there from anywhere that any of us would be, so we wouldn’t actually take it. The three of us met where I was working near Cooper Square, took the subway down to Bowling Green, and walked to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal just in time to miss a boat. No problem. It was rush hour, and another one came soon enough. I was surprised that Eden wanted to sit “somewhere comfortable” more than she wanted to stand outside and see the sites. She had already been to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty on school field trips, but hey, I’ve seen them too, and I still get a thrill out of watching them from the boat. One funny thing about being with other people, especially kids, is the way you always want to see everything through them. I was disappointed that she didn’t find the boat trip more exciting, but it’s a freaking ferry for crying out loud! I don’t find it that exciting either, so why was I disappointed that she didn’t? It’s not just me, either. Working in the circus business, I frequently hear parents narrating entire shows for kids who are watching the exact same thing, and it’s generally clear that the narration only improves the experience for the adult eager to mediate rather than for the child subjected to the amateur voiceover.





After debarking, we were still in the ferry building when Eden pointed to the Statue of Liberty Deli. Damaso and I nix it immediately. I wanted to explore historic St. George, and it didn’t look particularly hospitable anyway; I’m not sure it even had seating. Eden looked confused, “I thought we had to eat at the first place we saw,” she stated. I may have stopped following the agenda before I even started, but I’m a nut for arbitrary rules, and I was proud of her for wanting to follow them.





We passed through the terminal building and skirted the shoreline, 9-11 monument, and ballpark to get to Richmond Terrace. From the distance, I thought the street would be lined with delicious and quaint places to eat, but up close we didn’t find anything so we cut through a path beside what turns out to be the Richmond County Supreme Court to Stuyvesant Place and spotted the fantastic 1960s-era Lunch Depot, which unfortunately for us may have been shuttered for decades for all we could tell. We turned up Hyatt Street and saw Steiny’s Pub, which proudly proclaimed that it welcomes tourists and regulars. Tourists go to Staten Island? Well, I guess we’re tourists there, so we turned in. I wasn’t convinced yet that we wanted to eat there, but when I asked the waitress where the historic strip was she said, “this is it,” so we stayed.





Maybe if the bar hadn’t been so crowded we would have continued my tradition of taking my rural nieces to inappropriate watering holes, but we got seated at a giant, tall table in the window with a bench around three sides of it. The waitress warned us that they’d only be serving food for another 20 minutes, so we quickly chose from the limited menu. Our decision was made even easier when we found out they were out of pizza and didn’t have anything fried.



Eden, who is an extremely picky eater, asked the waitress whether the chicken noodle soup had anything “extra” in it, and once satisfied that it only had chicken and small pieces of celery and carrot, ordered a bowl. I was relieved and surprised that she was willing to put up with that much vegetable content, but she told me you always get that with chicken noodle soup.

“So what were you worried about?” I asked.

“Sometimes they put in something really weird,” she answered, “you know, like tomatoes.”

I don’t much like tomatoes either, so I had to support her on that one. Now I can start worrying about finding them in chicken noodle soup.









Damaso, who’s been acting all healthy, ordered the chicken garden salad, and I was delighted to see that the day’s special was my former favorite meal: a veggie burger with bacon and cheddar. I didn’t eat meat or poultry from ages 12 through 26, and when I first started eating meat again, I wasn’t quite ready to face a whole slab of hamburger, but I was hungry for all the bacon I could get, so I used to order veggie burgers with bacon all the time, and everyone laughed at me. In Staten Island, however, that’s a special of the day, and it came with cole slaw.

All three meals were disappointing. Damaso’s salad was wilted and boring, and they didn’t have any dressings he liked, and my burger was bland and unsatisfying. Eden liked her soup fine, actually, but she was full after about half a bowl, and since both of us were still hungry, we tried to eat it, but it was bland and oily with mushy, overcooked vegetables. Yuck.







While we ate, Eden charged her iPod touch and played games on it, Damaso charged his camera battery and checked out the Yankees on one television and the Mets on another, and I admired the giant baseball trophy by the bar and grooved to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. Eden wasn’t the only kid in the bar either. A boy about her age was eating with his father at the only normally sized table in the joint. They were also the only other people not at the bar watching the game. I think the majority of customers were watching the Mets, although I would have made St. George for Yankees given that the Yankees’ farm team is right there.





We were still hungry after our skimpy and bland meal, but when we asked to see the menus again, our waitress reminded us that the 20 minutes was up and the kitchen was closed. She brought us a bowl of tortilla chips though, and they were the best food we’d had yet, fresh and salty.

We decided to have dessert somewhere else, so we settled up and went back out to explore St. George. One restaurant was open; it looked expensive but not good, and the menu in the glass box outside the front door showed lots of wines but no desserts, so we gave up and walked back to the ferry terminal. After checking out all the available dessert options, we chose the random little deli because it had a countertop display with tiers of giant, beautiful cup cakes. Damaso and I were overwhelmed with delicious options, but Eden said she didn’t like cup cakes. What?! She was, however, excited by something Damaso and I hadn’t even noticed, though: a cooler of MiniMelts, those gummy ice cream pellets, and she carefully selected the perfect package.

Damaso and I made our selections and wanted to order our cup cakes, which by the way might have been the only non-packaged/processed items in the store, but the man behind the counter ignored us because he was busy shouting at the man behind the opposite counter on the other side of the store. Damaso and Eden stood by waiting politely for at least a pause in the stream of what I’m guessing was Urdu invective, but it looked like it might take a while, so I just walked up and said, “We’d like cupcakes please,” which jarred the counterman out of his yelling frenzy enough for him to pay attention to us. Damaso got a red velvet-chocolate cupcake, and I asked for the “seasonal,” which turned out to be… damn I am the worst food journalist ever! I forgot! I think it had Oreos in it. I’ve got to learn to write these as soon as I get home.

In any case, we had dessert on the ferry home. The cup cakes were too sweet to finish, so Damaso and I each took home leftovers, but Eden had no trouble polishing off the MiniMelts. When we got back to Manhattan, our walking route back to the subway took us through the Canyon of Heroes, the section of lower Broadway that ticker tape parades pass through. Embedded in the sidewalks are granite strips with the names and dates of past honorees, many of whom are comically anti-climactic, perhaps like this journey or even this whole idea. Hey, it may not have a snappy moral or a good meal, but I got to ride a ferry and spend decent time with good people. It’s not over. It ain’t exploring if you know what you’ll find, and I’ve got a lot more lines to ride.

Photographs by Damaso Reyes

SIR: Tottenville, Staten Island

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Holy end-of-the-line, Batman, Staten Island is really far away! Like, it’s another world far away. Everywhere else we’ve gone, once we get there it feels like the center’s just moved, but in Staten Island it feels like even the locals know they’re far from “the city.” You’d think the separatist movement would be more active.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This trip starts at the ferry terminal, officially the Staten Island Ferry Whitehall Terminal. Well, actually my trip started when I left my home in Brooklyn, late to meet Damaso on the J train, and then stood paralyzed outside my apartment trying to decide whether I was dressed appropriately. I finally concluded that I’d be sweaty and miserable all day if I kept both coats I had on, so I ran back to shed a few layers. By the time I made it back to the J, I was sweaty anyway from being late and running, but I was also late and wrong: I had been dressed appropriately, had caught a moment of heat in the sun, and would now be freezing for the rest of the day. Damaso, always dressed appropriately in warm clothes that wick, was proportionately irritated to be kept waiting so long at my fumbling incompetence.

The J doesn’t run all the way downtown on weekends, so we transferred and then walked a few blocks through battery park community gardens and living statues of Lady Liberty. It took quite a while to get to the ferry terminal, but it still felt like the trip began there. When you’re underground in a subway, you could be going anywhere, but when you’re waiting in a giant room with pigeons flying around and some dude playing Balkan violin music you can barely hear over his recorded backing track, you know you’re leaving one island for another.

I’ve taken the Staten Island ferry a few times since the city spruced up the terminal in 2005. Usually I just get to St. George, turn around, and come back. It's the hip way to show visiting friends the Statue of Liberty without paying the fees and waiting in the lines for the actual Liberty Island ferry. Last time I went, I walked to the Staten Island 9/11 memorial in freezing rain and then turned around and came back. This time it’s cold but crisp and bright enough to keep me in sunglasses even inside the terminal. As we wait, I idly read the zipper scroll: corn is up. Red wax is up. Wait. Red wax? I ask Damaso, and he suggests maybe it’s one of those odd old commodities like pork bellies. The next “stock” to scroll is ice, also up. Finally we realize it’s an ad. Nicely played, Maker’s Mark. You got us. Giant Maker’s Mark ads surround the waiting room. Each poster is different, but I don’t understand any of them. For example, one has a row of upside-down bottle necks pointed down and an alternating row pointed diagonally. Damaso explains that the bottles look like the legs of the Rockette’s kick line. I’d understood that; I just don’t know what the Rockettes have to do with whiskey. I frequently get only the wrong half of the joke. I get the joke part but not the normal meaning, and single entendres aren’t funny.

The ferry crossing, as always, is spectacular, but instead of watching the scenery we watch the tourists jostling each other for photos and the non-tourists shouting at them to close the doors—it’s freezing in here!

On the other side it isn’t hard to find the Staten Island Railway, which is just one line from St. George to Tottenville. Inside, the “subway” (no part of the route actually goes underground) car looks like a 1970s bus station in a depressed company town after the company leaves town. The walls are lined with light panels, but few businesses have bought ads, and the panels glow dully white. The ride lasts over 40 minutes, during which I gaze out the windows while Damaso reads me Staten Island trivia from his smart phone (Android users today are like Apple users in 1990). 

With just under a half-million people, Staten Island is the least populous borough, but its area is bigger than that of Manhattan or the Bronx. More surprisingly, the Staten Island Railway is older than the NYC subway system. Operated by the Staten Island Rapid Transit Operating Authority, its western portion includes freight lines that connect to the national railway system while its main route is included on MTA maps and generally considered a part of the NYC subway system.

I can’t see anyone out the windows, only houses and yards. At one stop, three shopping carts dangle from trees, apparently pushed off the overpass above. Although I’ve spent gorgeous afternoons at the Snug Harbor Cultural Center and have several friends who’ve moved to St. George and swear by the beauty, convenience, and low cost of living in Staten Island, I still associate it with two pop culture homages: Working Girl and Papa Don’t Preach, which means my mental Staten Island averages from 1987 and is only populated by working-class Italian Americans. Few of the train’s riders confirm my preconception.

When we finally exit at Tottenville, everyone else walks to the “uptown” exit, but we continue down the platform to the end. On our right, water. In front of us, water. The Outerbridge Crossing, which I hadn’t previously realized is not just the name of the route but the full name of the bridge, is behind us, and we can see New Jersey to our right. This is as far south and as far west as New York City goes. It’s beautiful actually, but Damaso is too hungry to stop to shoot, so we decide to find food first and come back after. It doesn’t look promising. We’re in what looks like a lovely suburb. Nobody else came out our platform exit, we see no businesses, and the streets are empty, so we start walking in the only direction we can, and it’s uphill. We don’t have hills where I live.

After walking for a block or two, we run into a man out smoking on the street and ask him where we can eat. In what I would have identified as a thick Boston accent, he directs us to a deli a few blocks away. “Deli” in New York can mean anything from a 7-11 convenience store with microwaveable pre-wrapped sandwiches to the Carnegie’s full-service pastrami, so we have no idea what lies ahead, but we don’t see signs of a business district anywhere else, so we continue in that direction.

One house has a purple hula-hoop balanced horizontally on top of a bush in the front yard. A telephone pole has a yellow sign advertising a yard sale, so we memorize the address to check it out later. It’s on the same street we’re on, and we both love yard sales.

A few blocks later, we run into two police officers. Damaso always thinks cops know the best places to eat. A lot of people think that. I don’t have any data on the subject.

The cops recommend the same deli the smoker had, only with a twist: “You should go to the deli,” they say, “but we’re not allowed to eat there.”

Huh?

“There’ve been a bunch of 911 calls originating from that place.”

How is this supposed to be an explanation? If the place is dangerous, shouldn’t cops be encouraged to hang out there? And if it is dangerous but police aren't allowed in it, should we be going there? Of course we are now. We make sure we have cell phone service to call them in case of emergency, and we continue our uphill trek. Staten Island feels like that—a place where we might not have cell phone service. But we do.

Eventually we reach the Towne Deli and Pizzeria, established 1971, which turns out to be a perfectly nice looking restaurant with a take-out counter in the small lobby and about four tables and four booths. None of the patrons look like Mafioso, although clearly they all are, because why else would the police chiefs be worried about their patrol officers mingling there. I should have checked the toilet tank for a gun, but that just occurred to me now. That’s probably the only way to know for sure, right Mikey?

It’s bustling late on a Saturday afternoon. We sit directly under a giant “Welcome to Tottenville” sign, open our gondolier-decorated menus, and try to decide. One of the weekend specials is a hot roast beef sandwich with melted “Monetary Jack” on toasted ciabatta with fried onions and horseradish spread. It comes with cole slaw and pickles and a soda or beer. Even if it hadn’t promised lucre instead of cheese, I was interested, but I when I point it out, Damaso decides to get it, and I decide not to. So there.

Back to the old drawing board, or in this case, back to the giant laminated menu. Except for knowing I was not going to order another burger, I can’t even narrow my selection down to a category, so I ask the waitress for advice. She says to get a panini, most of which, like the pizzas are named for various relatives and other characters: Famous Fouch’s, Aunt Cathy’s Uncle Charlie’s Titsi Gina’s. I ask for the Super Townini—ham, salami, pepperoni, provolone, and American cheese. We’ve been eating so many French fries, and I’d happily eat more, but I’m beginning to get nervous about my waistline, so I take the half-sandwich option and get a side of spinach with garlic.

Both meals come with drinks, but they don’t have unsweetened iced tea. The waitress offers me my pick from the coolers, but it’s mostly soda, so I say I’ll try the sweetened iced tea. As always with our afternoon meals, I encourage Damaso to get a beer, and he asks the waitress what they have. As usual, she goes through a long list, and then he orders a Coke.

After way too long a wait, our sandwiches arrive, and some time later, but only after I ask the waitress who then admits she had forgotten all about it, my spinach comes. The panini is okay, but the spinach is an overcooked watery, oily mess. Apparently oil and water do mix. It’s also giant, but I drown it in lemon and eat the whole thing, convinced that each bite cancels out one of the week’s earlier French fries. 

We’re already finished eating by the time we remember to ask the waitress about one line on the menu that had caught our eye: “Home of The Mess.” What’s The Mess? She almost slaps her head like an old V-8 commercial and says she should have recommended I get that. It’s a sandwich with “all the meats” on it, or, as she clarifies, “all the Italian meat.” The young couple at the next table, who haven’t been served yet, can’t stand her straightforward definition and interrupt to gush about The Mess: “If Jesus made a sandwich,” says the woman and just ends the sentence there with a sigh. They offer to let us try theirs, but who knows how long it'll be till their food arrives, and we’re ready to roll or, as my father would say, rolly to read, so we head out into the cold.

The yard sale is on the same street we're on, but we can't find enough addresses to figure out which way to go. We sure didn’t see it on the way to the deli, so we walk a few blocks in the opposite direction. We get far enough to find another SIR stop and are tempted to return home, but despite the cold, we decide to walk back so Damaso can photograph the Tottenville station. Maybe I misremembered the yard sale address. 

We walk all the way back to the yard sale sign and confirm that A. I had gotten the address wrong, B. we have apparently now passed it twice without noticing anything, and C. according to the posted times, the sale has just ended, but just then a slew of pre-teenage boys ride up, throw their bicycles on a nearby lawn, and pound on a doorway. We're standing right in front of the yard sale home!

We follow them into a living room whose floor is covered with absolute junk sorted into piles each less appealing than the last. Most of the mounds are loose toys of the small, plastic variety, but there is also a mound of random furnishings (pillows, candlesticks) and a large collection of small shoes, including a pair of turquoise and lime low-top Chuck Taylors. I take off one shoe to show the hosts my turquoise and lime socks. The shoe is a Cinderella-perfect match but in color only; I can barely squeeze a few toes in. We leave empty handed.

To get the best pictures, we walk around the stationhouse the long way and startle a pair of necking teenagers. She’s a knockout. He’s dating up. 

The subway back to St. George station is crowded, mostly with groups of women talking loudly either among themselves or into cell phones. I fall asleep with my head on Damaso’s shoulder, and he falls asleep with his head leaning on mine. I don’t want the ride to end.

But it does. The waiting room at St. George Terminal has two giant fish tanks and outlines of the harbor islands in mosaics on the floor. I stand on the Liberty Island and watch a little girl jumping from one floor decoration to the next as though they she were a frog on a lily pad. There are benches on both sides of the long room but none in the middle. Everyone on one side of the room seems to be waiting for the next ferry. Everyone on the other side seems to live in the station. The women’s room is past the gauntlet of station dwellers, one of whom is talking to himself loudly. A woman in metal stilettos and a jacket whose back looks like a tiger slashed the leather buys a frozen yogurt. I still feel a little ripped off by the bad spinach, so I’m tempted to get one too, but I resist. This station is the near end of the SIR, so maybe I'll buy desert when we return to St. George for the other end of that line.

Photographs by Damaso Reyes