Old New York: Town Shop's Old Skills Have Found a New Home

By Mitch Broder

Why did the Town Shop cross the road?

To get to the other size.

Especially since the other size is three times the previous size.

Town Shop is the store where women undress you with their eyes — at least if you’re also a woman, and in search of the right brassiere. It’s the bra-fitting capital of New York, and it has just moved across the street to a shop that can provide more women than ever with its formidable support.

This is fitting, since Town Shop has always been preoccupied with size. It advances the theory that 80 percent of women are afflicted with ill-fitting bras. When a member of that 80 percent walks in, a fitter quickly looks her over and then announces her proper number and letter. There’s not a tape measure in the house.

But the once-over measure must work, since the store is around a century old, with roots in a Bleecker Street notions shop of 1888. It has had several branches around the city, but this is the one that endured. It’s been a fixture on the Upper West Side since 1936.

For most of its life it was run by Selma Koch, the founder’s daughter-in-law, who arguably became even more famous than her bras. Her crusty devotion made her a media darling. She ruled the store for 75 years. She was undoubtedly as famous as you could get and still be a bra-store owner.

Selma died 10 years ago, and the store has since been run by her son and grandson, Peter Koch and Danny Koch. Schooled as they are in spatial relationships, they were primed to increase their square footage. When a chance appeared across the street, they packed up their underthings.

The bright new space, Danny says, is a jolt to some longtime patrons: “They say, ‘Oh, we loved that old store’ or ‘We miss the intimate feel.’” But others are jolted with joy. “They can’t believe this is us,” Danny says. “They’re not accustomed to shopping in one of our stores where you can actually see the merchandise.”

The merchandise, as always, includes all manner of ladies’ delicates. But now it also includes a whole department of gentlemen’s delicates. The Koches tested the waters two years ago with the Spanx line of “compression” undershirts, and their new store has expanded it into an entire man’s room.

Along with the Spanx compressors, the room displays underwear and pajamas with fancy-pants brand names like Calida and Derek Rose. As Danny points out, women buy most men’s underwear, but just in case, the man’s room has a TV set that always shows the game.

Danny loves his new place — but he made sure to give it some old spirit. You can see it in things like the dressing-room curtains and the Town Shop memorabilia. The store is shiny, but it’s still a long way from Bloomingdale’s. Or in Danny’s words: “It’s somewhere between what we had and the Apple Store.”

Cross over to Town Shop, now at 2270 Broadway, between 81^st and 82^nd streets, in New York City.

READ THE WHOLE STORY OF THE TOWN SHOP AND THE STORIES OF DOZENS OF OTHER CITY CLASSICS IN THE AMAZON BEST SELLER “DISCOVERING VINTAGE NEW YORK”! GIVE IT THE ONCE-OVER AT THE TOWN SHOP!

Old New York: A Sad Last Look at What's Left of Big Nick's

By Mitch Broder

It was clear almost immediately that I was not going to be getting a hamburger.

And yet I stayed. Surely someone would show up and say it was all a mistake.

I'm never in the last four stages of grief. I enter denial and I stay there. This applies to the loss of places as much as to the loss of people. So when I visited Big Nick’s Burger Joint & Pizza Joint a few days after its closing, I was sure that it would be coming back. Despite all that crap in my booth.

Big Nick’s is the joint that had more character in its 28-page menu than most restaurants in New York today have in their 28-day lifespans. Ironically, for all its earthiness, it gave the Upper West Side class. It closed last week because its space can now be rented for the price of 10,000 hamburgers a month.

Nevertheless, Big Nick — ever the gracious host — invited me in, even if, for the first time, I would have to leave hungry. I roamed the ruins, unsure what I craved more, the earthiness or a hamburger. It didn’t matter. Neither one could have existed without the other.

The earthiness included framed photographs of mostly stars of the future, and little signs for selections like the Sumo Burger (“Over One Pound [1 LB.] of Meat”). The hamburgers included 60 varieties among which was the Sumo, although, if you were going strictly by weight, that one should have counted as two.

Nick always embraced his jointhood. He put quotes on the back of the menu like: “Big Nick’s is a 24-hour dump that … inspires affection.” His place was a roadside diner, except that the road was Broadway. On his tables, there was never a laptop. On his TVs, there were always Three Stooges.

Nick is actually Demetrios Niko Imirziades, who arrived from Athens in 1961 to make his Broadway debut. He washed dishes. But he also diligently attended restaurant school and worked his way up to manager at the coffee shop that he would buy in 1964.

He renamed it The Burger Joint (now the name of the unconnected joint at Le Parker Meridien). A few years later, he unveiled the Big Nick burger in response to the Big Mac. In 1976, he renamed the place Big Nick’s. The name was accurate. Nick had once excelled in discus and shot put.

Through the years, Nick has opened and closed about a dozen other joints. One was Big Nick’s on 71^st Street, which still exists but is no longer his. The last to go, before the flagship, was the nearby Niko’s Mediterranean Grill & Bistro, which closed in 2011. It had been inspired by his mother’s cooking.

I thought of all this as I trudged past the now burgerless grill, the now empty stools, and the now Stoogeless television sets. I thought of it as I gazed at the corner booth where I once sat with Nick, when he told me that it was the booth in which he’d had a heart attack thirty years ago.

Now, before I left, I spoke with Nick outside. He seemed confident that he’d be opening another place, around 20 blocks up. “It’ll be a little bit more limited menu,” he said. “It’ll be a combination of what I sold at Niko’s and what I sold at Big Nick’s.”

“I will know in September if something’s happening, and if it doesn’t work out, maybe we’ll try something else,” he said. “Nothing is set a hundred percent.”

Except for this: The old Big Nick’s will be back. I know it. No need for anger, bargaining, or depression.

And definitely no need for acceptance.

Big Nick’s was on Broadway at 77^th Street. I’ll let you know when it comes back.

VISIT THE CITY’S OTHER VINTAGE SPOTS BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE. FIND THEM ALL IN THE NEW BOOK “DISCOVERING VINTAGE NEW YORK.” IT COVERS OVER 75 PLACES THAT TAKE YOU BACK IN TIME. IT INCLUDES THE WHOLE STORY OF BIG NICK’S.

New in New York: At Baconery, Everyone's Taken With Bacon

By Mitch Broder

Wesley Klein’s plans for his bakery became clear to me when I asked him if he thought there was anything at all that doesn’t go well with bacon, and he said no.

“It works with everything,” he said. He named his place Baconery, and he meant it. Today he puts bacon in a few foods. Tomorrow he may put it in all foods.

So go now, while the menu is manageable, and decide for yourself how clever he was to open the city’s first all-bacon bakery. The response has been promising, he says: “People come in with their expectations too high and go out saying it was even better than they expected.”

Their choices include bacon cookies, bacon brownies, bacon blondies, bacon muffins, bacon croissants, and bacon pecan pie. Also bacon lollipops, bacon caramels, bacon marshmallow bars, chocolate-covered bacon, and gluten-free bacon macaroons.

If they really want to pig out, they can precede (or follow) the sweets with one (or more) of the bakery’s six bacon sandwiches. They range from the Miss Piggy (Grilled Bacon & Cheese) to the Porky Pig (Bacon, Egg, Lettuce, Cheese, Tomato, Avocado, Cucumber, Mayo). There's also a Wilbur.

Wesley’s idea was to address our need for sweet combined with salty. He got the idea while sopping up pancake syrup with a slab of bacon. He consulted with chefs, established his main ingredient’s versatility, launched Baconery online, and a year later opened the store.

He started small, but he went whole hog. It’s a hard-core bacon store. There are bacon slices on the walls. There are bacon rugs on the floor. There are bacon-colored sofas accented with bacon-print pillows, behind red-and-white-striped tables and baconian wood-topped stools.

Besides the food, he sells T-shirts that say things like “Feel Like Bacon Love,” along with items like bacon-themed platters and wallets, and actual gourmet bacon. And he has posted “The Rules of Bacon,” of which Number Four is: “Even the pigs like bacon. That’s a fact.”

It’s a curious obsession, especially curious since Wesley is Jewish, which he says only proves that Baconery welcomes customers of all faiths. And you can glimpse the obsessive future with a glimpse at the selections currently served from 6 to 8 p.m. as “Snack of the Night.”

Sunday’s snack, for example, is the Ultimate Bacon Mashed Potato Bowl. Wednesday’s is the Nutella Bacon Strawberry Crepe. Monday’s is Bacon Wrapped Pineapples; Tuesday’s is Bacon Wrapped Jalapeños. And Friday’s is apparently what it’s all leading to: Bacon Wrapped Bacon.

Get bacon for granted at Baconery, 911 Columbus Avenue, between 104^th and 105^th streets, in New York City.

New in New York: At Say Cheese, You Don't Have to Be Grilled

By Mitch Broder

Stella Ballarini wants to make you a grilled cheese sandwich just like your mom’s, assuming your mom made hers with truffles or candied bacon.

And with sourdough or Tuscan. And with Gruyère or Gouda. And with a side of tomato soup with parmesan crostini.

All right, Stella wants to make you a grilled cheese sandwich not like your mom’s, which is probably for the best, because you can’t compete with Mom. She wants to make you a grilled cheese sandwich just like your mom’s if your mom threw parties for the Emmy Awards and Tommy Hilfiger.

Stella runs Scoozi Events, a boutique party-thrower. She has thrown parties for clients also including Bloomingdale’s and Mattel. And now she’s throwing a party for you, at a little shop next to Scoozi that specializes in grilled-cheese sandwiches, which is why it’s called Say Cheese.

Here a grilled cheese sandwich means Swiss, Gruyère, and Apple Compote on Tuscan Bread; or Gruyère and Candied Bacon on Peasant Bread; or Swiss, Parmesan, and Truffle on Tuscan Peasant Bread. Here a grilled cheese sandwich runs from $6.50 to $9.50. Or $2 more if you add maple bacon.

Here a simple grilled cheese sandwich is Mascarpone and Nutella. Here your mom’s grilled cheese sandwich is White American on Potato Bread. Here there are also a Pork Belly Slider with Candied Watermelon Rind, Gourmet Mac & Cheese, and, surprisingly, Tater Tots. Though you can add truffle sauce.

Stella is not the first to glorify the grilled cheese. A dozen years ago I wrote of a place on the Lower East Side called Grilled Cheese NYC. It enticed you to create your own sandwich by choosing one ingredient each from a list of cheeses, a list of vegetables, and a list of spreads. And a list of two breads.

Its cheeses included Dill Havarti and Jalapeño Yogurt. (There was no American.) Its spreads included Basil and Black Olive Pesto. To help you, it had a blackboard with a full-color sandwich schematic. (I am uneasy with such restaurants, which explains why Grilled Cheese NYC is gone.)

By contrast, Say Cheese has already created its sandwiches, potentially reducing your decision workload by hours. You pick one sandwich from a handful, leaving you time to admire the nostalgic décor or to patronize the family’s third business, Zoë Ballarini’s Girl Scout Cookie Stand.

I picked the special, which was Honey Goat Cheese and Blackberries on Semolina-with-Golden-Raisins-and-Fennel Bread. It would have taken me days to create it. I had it with Watermelon Mojito, which contained watermelon, lime juice, mint, agave nectar, and lemon juice. It would have taken me months to create that.

The sandwich came in a black skillet and was crunchy, creamy, and fruity. The mojito came in a tin cup and was fruity, minty, and agavy. These were a grilled cheese and a fruit drink, but they were flavor festivals, as was the dessert of graham-cracker-dusted toasted marshmallows on a pipette of chocolate, which I would never even have thought to create.

Stella loves making stuff like this, which is the main reason she opened Say Cheese. Basically, she was looking for a good time. “It’s something relatively simple to do, which is just what I wanted,” she says, “because what we do next door is so high-end and so labor-intensive.”

Her main challenge is the customer estimate of sandwich arrival time. Plainly put, Say Cheese is not as quick as Mom. “People get impatient,” Stella says. “People expect grilled cheese to be fast because it sounds like a fast food. But good grilled cheese takes a little while.”

Slow down at Say Cheese, 142 West 83^rd Street, between Columbus and Amsterdam avenues, in New York City.

Vintage New York Presents: The Great Joints of New York City

By Mitch Broder

You can always get out of a joint — unless, of course, it's the joint.

But you can't always find a Joint, unless you bone up on your Joints.

New York just got its latest Joint, Sticky's Finger Joint, which is a great joint if you happen to like Joints that have fingers. But in its Jointhood, it is a rarity: New York is not crawling with Joints. It has little more than a handful, and they're not exactly hip joints.

Here, nonetheless, is a gallery of Manhattan's best-known Joints. I won't be surprised if I've missed a couple. Joints are just the sort of thing you blow.

Above is Big Nick's Pizza Joint, which is to the left of Big Nick's Burger Joint, which is shown at the top. The joints are on Broadway near 77th Street. I took these pictures on February 22nd, the day that Big Nick celebrated his golden anniversary by selling burgers for sixty cents. The enormous lines alarmed passersby.

While Big Nick also founded Big Nick's Burger Joint & Pizza Joint Too, he no longer owns it, though it still acts as if he does. It's on 71st Street at Columbus Avenue. When I took this picture, its burgers were $6.75, and there were no lines.

Paul's Da Burger Joint, on Second Avenue near St. Mark's Place, has long claimed to have the best burger in the city. Either way, it has one of the best fake burgers in the city, and it's next to Gem Spa, which has long claimed to have the best egg cream in the city.

Behind a great curtain at Le Parker Meridien is the somewhat secret Burger Joint, whose only signage is a neon burger and the jaunty poster you see here. The hotel is fancy; the joint is a dump. That's the irony. Find it on 56th Street between Sixth and Seventh.

Clearly, joints are for meat, except in the case of Kate's — which may be why her joint, on Avenue B at Fourth Street, shut down last week. Kate Halpern's "vegetarian diner" sold things like Buffalo Unchicken Wings and the Not Reuben Sandwich. At the end, Kate was thinking of adding some meat. Maybe she just should have changed the name.

Tell me if you know of another Joint. Just don't get yourself out of joint.