A Lubbock Boy In New York City

I want to keep you folks entertained and enlightened on subjects that you enjoy.  Since I'm getting very little feedback, I just have to guess at what to put out here.  I'm sorta blogging in the wilderness, so give me a hand and let me know what you like.  I'll get back to Running the Blacktop and Barbeque next week.  For now, enjoy my take on New York City.

In New York City, they have these things they call “scones”.  The first time I ran across them was in a coffee shop adjacent to the Whitney Museum. I had asked for a cup of coffee, and a bagel with cream cheese. (I was thinking “When in Rome, etc.”   I figured they ate bagels and cream cheese for breakfast up there.)

The fellow who waited on me said, “We don’t have bagels, but I can get you a scone.” I asked, “What’s a scone?”

He looked at me as if he smelled manure, assumed a superior attitude, and proceeded to describe a scone without mentioning the words “bread” or “biscuit”. My curiosity took over, and I ordered coffee and a couple of scones. The scones turned out to be great big triangle-shaped dry biscuits. They were soft and crumbly, without any crust. Just a bit more dried out around the edges. They tasted OK, if you could keep the butter and jelly on them. The butter rolled up when you tried to spread it, and the scone crumbled off behind the butter knife, and broke up when you tried to eat it.

I finished my scones and coffee, and the waiter brought my check. Because he’d been so nice and superior, I told him to tell the cook to cut about two cups of Crisco and a little baking powder into the next batch of scones he made, and he’d really be on to something. The guy looked at me with an absolutely blank stare. No expression at all.  He didn’t say a word.  I assumed he was speechless with gratitude, and went on my way.

I bring up New York City because it’s one of my favorite places and I don’t want you all to get bored hearing about Lubbock and the High Plains all the time. I like to walk around Manhattan and look at stuff. Buildings, townhouses, museums, statues, shops, and people are everywhere there, and they are all great subjects to look at and wonder about, and appreciate, and paint with shake up spray cans, like the natives do.

I have two favorite hotels in New York. The St. Regis if I’m by myself and the Plaza if I have my family with me. Both hotels are old---the St. Regis was built by John Jacob Astor sometime just before 1900, and the Plaza was opened in 1907, replacing the original Plaza which was torn down because it was deemed too small for the location. Both have been meticulously maintained, restored, and updated regularly, to keep up with contemporary tastes. Even with all this regular “modernization”, the original detailing that so defined the buildings has not been completely destroyed. In the Plaza especially, the carved wood paneling, the parquet floors, the elaborate plaster work, the murals, the ornate ceilings, and the chandeliers have mostly been protected and preserved, so that we have a chance to feel the quality of times past. The hotel has become a sort of museum with rooms to let.

All the detail work was done by workmen who spent their lifetimes learning and perfecting their craft. They had silly notions, like pride in their work, an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, and the vague feeling that a job well done was its own reward. They didn’t realize that the robber barons where grinding them under their heels.

The unions, with their great leveling influence, had not come of age yet, so these men did not realize that it was wrong to excel in their craft. They didn’t believe that everyone should strive for mediocrity, so pay scales could be established based upon an average day’s production. These poor ignorants actually believed that a brick mason who put up eight hundred bricks each day, in a perfectly plumb and level wall, with absolutely identical mortar joints, was worth more money than a man who only did four hundred or so bricks in a haphazard manner. They thought job security and higher pay would come with excellence and hard work.

Even with such archaic notions, the Plaza was completed and opened for business in just twenty-seven months. Every hand-forged door knob, every hand-woven carpet, every stick of handmade furniture, every monogrammed linen napkin, every specially crafted spoon and fork was in its place just twenty-seven months after demolition was begun on the original hotel. The hotel cost twelve and one-half million dollars to build and furnish and the rates ranged from fifty cents a day for a single room, to twenty five dollars a day for the fanciest parlor with two adjacent bedrooms and two baths.

The St. Regis is a smaller and somewhat less elaborate hotel, on Fifty-Fifth Street, just off Fifth Avenue. If you saw the original “Godfather” movie, and remember the hit man who trapped his quarry in the revolving door, you’ve seen the lobby of the St. Regis. It is timeless, as with all things of good quality. The hotel was appropriate for the 1930’s, it was appropriate when I visited there in the 80’s and I’m sure it’s appropriate today. The lobby is very small, and most of the rest of the first floor is occupied by retail shops. I built a “Fred Jollier” shop on the Fifth Avenue side (For you folks from Lubbock, that is French for “Fred’s Jewelry Store”)

Leasing out most of the first floor undoubtedly caused the loss of some original, irreplaceable decorative art in the old building, but it may have allowed the property to survive some of the difficult economic cycles it’s been through. In any case, the hotel has survived, and it offers a superb location, and very comfortable, if somewhat smallish, rooms. The King Cole Lounge downstairs is one of the great places in New York for happy-hour people watching.

 My first morning at the St. Regis, I had a big breakfast--- ham, two eggs over easy, hash browns, orange juice, toast and coffee in the hotel Coffee Shop. The bill was on the wrong side of fourteen dollars (not including tip). After that, I simply walked directly across Fifty-Fifth Street to a little Greek café, (The Athens Restaurant or Acropolis Grill or something of that ilk) and had the same breakfast for just under four dollars, except I got much faster service and real biscuits instead of toast.

One of the exciting things about New York City is the contrast in lifestyles, ethnic backgrounds, and economic levels all jammed in together. Go around a corner and you’re in a different world. Cross the street and you’re in a new country. You can see the best and the worst of the human race in single glance in almost any direction.

There is a little park, more of a courtyard, on East 55^th Street near the St.Regis.  It may be Fifty-Forth or even Fifty-Sixth, but it is about two blocks east of Fifth Avenue, crammed in among the sky scrapers. The whole thing is maybe twenty-five feet wide and seventy feet deep. It has several small River Birch trees, some contempory tables and chairs, and gray “flamed” granite pavers. One side wall is covered with granite pavers, each with a distinctly cut pattern. Water cascades constantly down the whole wall, lending a pleasant and constant background murmur to the area.

An inconspicuous plaque tells that the property and upkeep were donated to the city of New York by a man named, if memory serves, Lowenstein.  I used to go there and drink coffee and read the paper and watch people early in the morning. It was a nice place to be. The morning sun filtered through the lacey trees. The waterfall lent an almost musical background and took the edge off the morning noises of the city. The designer did a good job, and the donor did a service to the people of his city.

One morning, as I sat there, two guys showed up with a cart and opened a little closet I had not noticed before. They unloaded a large stainless steel coffee urn, and several boxes of bakery goods, and set up shop in the closet. It is so typically New York for a business to spring up in the most unlikely place. I had been buying my coffee from the Greek café and carrying it there, so I was glad to see the closet coffee shop open. I went over to the Dutch door and ordered a cup of coffee and a bagel.

The guy said, “We don’t have any bagels. Would you like a scone?”

“Sure!” I said.  “I’m an old scone eater from ‘way back.”

As I said, I'll get back to Road Trip and Barbeque Articles later.  I just thought you all might like a little break.  I'll also do more on New York later.  You all hang in there.