New in New York: Now You Can Pinpoint Your Wafels & Dinges

By Mitch Broder

When I was a boy my mother deemed waffles and ice cream an official meal, which is why I still love my mother and why I still love waffles and ice cream. But a good waffle, like a good mother, can be hard to find, which is why Wafels & Dinges has opened its first shop that doesn’t move.

Till now Wafels & Dinges has been the mildly baffling name of a fleet of trucks and carts that dispense waffles in mildly baffling forms. Powdered — make that powered — by public response, the owners have opened a waffle café in Alphabet City without any wheels.

Dinges, pronounced “ding-ess,” which is Flemish for “things,” are the toppings that you can get on your wafels. Wafels, pronounced “wah-fuls,” which is Flemish for “waffles,” are Belgian waffles. Belgians speak Flemish. New Yorkers are learning.

The main wafels are the Liège, which is “soft, sweet & chewy,” and the Brussels, which is “light n’crispy.” Once you have selected your wafel, you move on to selecting your dinges. Standard dinges include maple syrup and butter, but the dinges go way beyond standard.

One dish premiering at the café is the Oh Oh Serrano, which is a “flavor fest on a grilled Brussels wafel with serrano ham, asiago cheese, & fig spread.” Another is the 2^nd Street Salmon Special, which loads your Brussels wafel with smoked salmon, capers, red onion, and lemon-dill sour cream.

These join things familiar to truck patrons, like the wafel with pulled pork, and the wafel with Bauernschinken ham, Raclette cheese, and scallions. Also things like the World’s Fair wafel, topped with strawberries, whipped cream, and powdered sugar, just like the ones that were the hit of the ’64 fair.

My mother never stocked Asiago cheese or lemon-dill sour cream, let alone Bauernschinken ham or pulled pork. So I ordered waffles and ice cream. I chose chocolate ice cream on a Brussels wafel. I knew it wouldn’t match Breyers on a Downyflake. But it came remarkably close.

Still, at least in New York, Belgian waffles have a checkered history. They’ve never had a golden moment like, say, Belgian fries. Over a decade ago I wrote about a new place called Bulgin’ Waffles Café. It was soon toast. Then again, its special was the Hot Waffle in a Bag.

More recently, there was a place called Go For a Bite, whose two specialties were its  “Original Belgium Waffles” and its Cream Puffs. It, too, went up in smoke. Curiously, it has been replaced by a restaurant that serves only oatmeal, which is called, suitably, OatMeals.

Acccording to Sophie Grant, the manager of Wafels & Dinges, waffles are a tough sell largely because of Breyers and Downyflake. “It’s one of those meals people take for granted,” she explained. “You can get them at any diner and have them at home in the freezer.”

“What sets ours apart is the quality,” she added. “It’s as close to a real Belgian waffle as you can get. We chose one thing to do really well.” That choice was made by Thomas DeGeest, the Wafels & Dinges founder, who sold his first wafel in 2007 from a 1968 Chevy truck.

Thomas’s triumphs since then have included popularizing spekuloos spread, a Belgian topping that looks like peanut butter and tastes like a gingerbread man.

Awhile ago I got it on a Liège wafel from a Wafels & Dinges truck.

I’m trying to get my mother to deem that another official meal.

Get off the street at Wafels & Dinges, 209 East Second Street, between avenues B and C, in New York City.

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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.

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Old New York: Catch the Cool Cats at Bleecker Street Records

By Mitch Broder

Creeper and Scuzzball apparently will be moving to a new store, but that shouldn’t stop you from paying a call on them while they’re at the old store. At the old store, after all, you always know where you can find them. In the new store, at least at the start, they might actually get up.

Creeper and Scuzzball are the languid cats of Bleecker Street Records, one of the few consequential record stores left in New York. It’s been said to be closing, due to the typical rent challenges of city stores. But credible sources tell me it’s moving, probably in the fall.

It’s moving, they say, to the former site of another record store — 186 West Fourth Street, once the home of Disc-O-Rama. Disc-O-Rama, which has had several stores, is now just at 44 West Eighth Street. It, too, carries CDs and LPs — but not with the festiveness of Bleecker Street.

At Bleecker Street Records, the main attractions are the walls. There aren’t any. At least not that you can see. If they are there, they are concealed by hundreds of beguiling albums, which recall the joys that were once a part of a hunt for musical treasure.

They include rarities by the likes of the Beatles and Buddy Holly, and oddities by the likes of Carroll O’Connor and Zero Mostel. This may the only place in the world that displays an LP by the Detergents, who answered the bizarre Shangri-Las hit “Leader of the Pack” with their bizarrer hit, “Leader of the Laundromat.”

The albums provide education along with entertainment. They are festooned with labels that tell you things you never thought you could know. A formidable example is found on the label for the Japanese pressing of an album intriguingly titled “The Best of Cheryl Ladd”:

“Did you know this former ‘Charlie’s Angel’ was also the singing voice behind the animated cartoon ‘Josie & the Pussycats,’ and she was very popular in Japan where she enjoyed a successful career and released many Japanese Market only releases!!! Well, it’s all true!!!”

And as if that isn’t enough, the label makes sure to add: “Japanese pressing/Best Quality! ... Immaculate Condition!!!! This Gatefold LP comes with a huge color poster of Cheryl … Va Va Voom!!!!”

Below the displays, the place is packed with recorded music, much of which you’re unlikely to find anywhere else. It spans not just rock and pop, but everything from country to Broadway, with a dash of Noël Coward, Jimmy Durante, Chad Everett, and Rosey Grier.

Topping it off — almost literally — are Creeper and Scuzzball, two big gray furry meat loaves who doze on boxes by the stairs to the basement. They hardly move and they rarely respond. Evidently, this gives them mystique. One of the store’s best-selling items is the Creeper and Scuzzball T-shirt.

Inevitably, there’s some whining online about the record prices. They can be high. But so can prices on any other antiques. Besides, the bins in the basement are full of surprising bargains. And if you’re looking for “The Best of Cheryl Ladd,” how many options do you have?

The store, more or less as it is, dates to 1972. It was called The Golden Disc, with “disc” referring to vinyl. It changed hands in the mid-nineties and was redubbed Bleecker Street. The new store settled in just in time to enjoy the golden age of compact discs.

Today it counts on record hounds willing to pay the price, says Rob Lecuyer, one of the store managers. “People come to New York to spend money, and this is a real tourist street,” he says. “Some people complain about prices. Other people drop thousands in one sitting.”

West Fourth is also a tourist street, so it seems like a good bet. And that’s good for New Yorkers — at least the ones who still like to hunt.

“Anything and everything will sell,” Rob says. “What you think is crap, somebody else is like: ‘I’ve been looking for this my whole life.’”

Take a spin at Bleecker Street Records, 239 Bleecker Street, between Carmine and Leroy streets, New York City.

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Old New York: Discover It All in "Discovering Vintage New York"

By Mitch Broder

Walk by the Streit’s matzo factory and get handed a hot piece of matzo as you pass the open window of the matzo-cooling room.

Sit down at Marchi’s Restaurant and get served the one and only meal they’ve been serving there every night for the past 70 years.

Marchi's.

Slip into Marie’s Crisis Café and get amused by people singing show tunes around a piano before you break down and start singing along.

I can’t live around such opportunities and not tell people about them. That’s why I’ve written a book called “Discovering Vintage New York.”

About two years ago, I started writing Vintage New York the Blog. But long before that, I dreamed of writing Vintage New York the Book. And that’s just what I did — dream. But as vintage spots kept disappearing, I knew I’d better get to work while the dream could still come true.

The result is the first and only book to collect all the Manhattan restaurants, shops, cafés, and nightspots that take you back in time. It covers more than 75, and it spotlights 50 with profiles that tell you what each place is like now and how it got that way.

Katz's.

My blog, as its subhead notes, allows for “justifiable detours.” But the book travels exclusively on Vintage Road. All the spots are at least 50 years old (or very close to it). And all the spots, in some genuine way, evoke a bygone era.

The subjects range from the Café Carlyle to Katz’s Delicatessen, and from The Four Seasons to The Donut Pub. I spent hours at every one of them and interviewed people at every one of them. I wanted to get each spot’s history straight and to convey each spot’s unique charm.

A friend who once worked in publicity has called the book an “adventure map,” and though I have to leave terms like that to publicists, I secretly think she’s right. No one I’ve met along the way has known about all of these places, let alone been to all of them. Or even to a lot of them.

I add this in the book’s introduction:

I chose places that some of us see as the heart of New York — the ones that created the city that’s squeezing the likes of them out. When places like these close, people who always meant to visit them start grieving. I wrote this book to save you some grief.

More than that, I wrote it to tempt you to visit these spots for fun. They are precious places, and they almost always leave you with precious memories. I don’t want to say how many vintage places have disappeared since I started dreaming. I’ll just say that no matter what you think, nothing lasts forever.

I tell more about the book in the introduction, and I thank the many people who helped to make it possible in the acknowledgments. Still, I’m compelled to shamelessly steal my own words again, and repeat the first paragraph of those acknowledgments:

The people who most directly made this book possible are the people who own, manage, and otherwise tend to the places featured in it. Thanks to everyone who invited me in, showed me around, told me stories, and kept the places going long enough for me to show up.

And now I also thank The New York Post for introducing the book to New York City with a big splash, in last week’s Sunday paper. It was appropriate, since The Post is the oldest newspaper in the city, and yet it was nimble enough to scoop me on a story about myself.

Find what's really cool in “Discovering Vintage New York,” published today by the Globe Pequot Press. It makes a great gift. I’m not just saying that.

Old Yet New in New York: Papaya King Crowns the East Village

By Mitch Broder

They snap downtown just the way they snap uptown.

That’s all that matters. Papaya King East Village is a success.

Yes, the hot dogs that gave a second career to tropical fruit drinks have ventured from East 86^th Street to St. Mark’s Place. Thus, Papaya King has a second location for the first time in decades. And the dogs traveled well. Here, too, they’re one of the best bites of New York.

The new store is three times as big as the old, and it has a concrete porch. It takes some time to acclimate to all that luxury.  But the hot dogs are the same, which is to say perfectly tasty and snappy, as are the buns, which is to say perfectly fluffy and crunchy.

As is the papaya drink, which is to say perfectly creamy and frothy. It’s unlike any other fruit drink you know. It’s mysterious. And best left that way.

Papaya King, born on that uptown corner in 1932, has had other branches, but they disappeared despite the perfection. The original location was bought by a group of investors three years ago. The new store is their first attempt to build on history.

“It’s a good match for the brand,” says Blake Gower, the group’s head of development. “It’s a quintessential New York experience on a quintessential New York street.” He’s especially proud of the porch: “It’s one of the key design elements. It kind of makes this place feel like it’s always been here.”

Blake wanted to have a place that looked new to people who like new things and old to people who like old things, and he got as close as you could expect. The classic neon sign, for instance, is new and yet manages to say Old New York in the middle of the city’s body-piercing corridor.

Inside, the walls preserve a Papaya King tradition: little signs designed to enlighten you about frankfurters and fruit. But here they’re tailored to the neighborhood, as in: “Right across the street from where you’re standing was the legendary Five Spot Jazz Club. All the greats played there. Bet they wished for franks after shows.”

Blake dug even further back to come up with the bamboo counter and the thatched grill awning laden with artificial fruit. They recall Papaya King’s origin as a stand called Hawaiian Tropical Drinks, where just fruit juice was sold, sometimes by a man crowned by a pith helmet.

The porch has wooden chairs that make you feel like you’re at the old homestead, until you notice the view of the St. Mark’s Hotel, the St. Marks Ale House, and Karaoke St. Marks (and you get a snootful of smoldering sandalwood from the nearby incense stand).

It’s a unique blend. But it could be what the neighborhood needs, since Papaya King could be what every neighborhood needs. Among nearby competitors is Japadog. But Japadog has hot dogs with bonito flakes. Papaya King has two hot dogs and a fruit drink for five bucks.

It has toppings, too, though not bonito flakes. But try a couple of these dogs straight.

As the longtime slogan promises: “Our Franks are Tastier than Filet Mignon.”

Eat royally at Papaya King, at 3 St. Mark’s Place, between Cooper Square and Astor Place, in New York City.

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