#mott street new york

[colorfulfoxengineer]

Kid Rebecca Lee,age 14, Revy in her teen years.

[gotankgo]

Mott Street, Chinatown, New York City in the 1970's.

[wikipediapictures]

Corky Lee

“This is a video still from a full portrait AR 4k video of the unveiling of the street sign for Corky Lee Way in New York City.” - via Wikimedia Commons

[sweeteaglecreation]

Revy in her teen years

[creativespark]

Glenn O'Brien, Jean-Michel Basquiat and Madonna on Thanksgiving at Glenn O'Brien's place on Mott Street in New York City, 1982

[dispelzine]

Walls / Mott Street, New York City, New York.

[ortodelmondo]

USA. New York City. 1976. Little Italy. Dee and Lisa on Mott Street. © Susan Meiselas/Magnum Photos

[strictlyfavorites]

Lombardi’s is a pizzeria located at 32 Spring Street on the corner of Mott Street in the Nolita neighborhood in the borough of Manhattan, New York City. Opened in 1905, it has been acknowledged by the Pizza Hall of Fame as the first pizzeria in the United States.

[valleydean]

Chapter 6 [Read Here]

CHAMPION Part III of Heavyweight a deancas boxing au by valleydean (emmbrancsxx0) read from the beginning | playlist | tip

SUMMARY: Brooklyn, 1933. Dean Winchester, the number one contender, trains to become the next Heavyweight Champion of the World, and this time he won't let anything get in his way. Title holder Castiel Novak has second thoughts about retiring, especially when someone from his past arrives in New York and asks for his help. Meanwhile, a new contender rises to fame and threatens to complicate both of Dean and Cas' ambitions - and their relationship.

CHAPTER PREVIEW:

The telephone’s ringing filled the quiet house. Dean sprinted downstairs, his polished shoes drumming on the hardwood and his loose tie nearly slipping off his neck in his haste, because no one else was home to pick up the phone. Sam and Eileen had taken the baby to Eileen’s aunt’s in Mott Haven for a few days. So, he had to get to it before it stopped ringing. Because that had to be Cas. No one else would have been calling so late.

On the first floor, his toe connected with one of Maura’s rattles that had been dropped on the floor. The thing made a racket as it skittered across the room and slid beneath one of the chairs, but Dean didn’t care about that right now. He’d been waiting for Cas to call all night.

He dove toward the phone, nearly breathless, and picked it up with a clatter on what must have been the final ring. “Cas?”

“Dean?” Cas’ confused, slightly concerned voice came in tinny over the line. “Are you… alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean assured him with a grin to hide his embarrassment before he realized Cas couldn’t see it. “I just ran down here. Didn’t wanna miss you.”

“Oh. Apologies. I didn’t think you’d be busy.”

“I’m not.” Dean swallowed down the lingering tracing of breathlessness and asked, “How’d it go?”

“I won,” Cas said. There was the slight sound of a fog horn behind him. Dean could picture him, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, the balcony doors open and lacy curtains billowing while river boats and barges chugged down the churning Mississippi behind him. The streets below would be filled with people and music.

“’Course ya did!” Dean cheered proudly into the phone. “Never doubted you. How’d you do it?”

“Technical knockout in the fifth round,” Cas said.

“He had enough so soon, huh?” Dean said, even though Cas’ returning grunt sounded pretty tired and worn out, too. Dean held the phone between his shoulder and ear and tied his tie. Across the living room, the moonlight came in through the front window.

“You celebrating tonight?” he asked.

Cas huffed. His voice was all gravel and grit, and Dean missed the rumble of it beside him. “No. I’m too tired. But… tomorrow, we will. Gabriel demanded it. He said Michael, Raphael, and I weren’t any fun.”

Dean snorted. “Well, he’s got a point.” Apparently, Dean could still feel Cas rolling his eyes halfway across the country. It made his smile brighten. “Drink a Sazerac for me.”

“Okay,” Cas agreed. Then, “What about you? What are you doing tonight?” His voice was soft now, almost wistful, like he wished he was there. On any other night, it would have made Dean feel the same longing, because he missed Cas’ fingers carding through his hair while they sat on the couch and listened to the radio. He hated hugging a pillow at night, pretending it was Cas.

But tonight, the question made the skin on Dean’s face tighten.

“Ah, nothing really,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jo was supposed to come over for some drinks, but she bailed. So, it’s just me, Sammy, and Eileen staring at each other all night.” He gave an exaggerated groan, his eyes flashing to the empty sofa and armchairs. “Fun times.”

There was a pause over the line. Dean thumbed at his ring. His other hand tightened around the phone.

“How are you and Sam?” Cas asked. “After that night…”

Dean exhaled and leaned against the wall. He didn’t really want to be reminded of Cas’ going away party. “We’re fine. Same old. Sammy got over it.” He scoffed. “Eileen looked like she wanted to tear me a new one for a couple days, but we’re good.”

That was mostly true. Things were still a little tense, but it’d blow over eventually. Sam was usually at the office most nights, anyway, so it wasn’t like he was even around to be pissed at Dean.

If anything, Bobby was the one Dean still needed to dodge. Ever since Ed and Harry had their fifteen minutes of fame in the papers and radio shows, Bobby had been riding Dean’s ass, despite the fact that the rest of the world had moved on.

“Good,” Cas said, seeming satisfied. “And how’s Jack? He’s staying out of trouble?”

“Yeah, no more schoolyard fights,” Dean told him, even though Cas would probably know better than him. Kelly had let Dean take the kid for ice cream once since Cas had left, and that was only because Charlie had come along too—and because he’d shown up at Kelly’s door unannounced so she wouldn’t be ready with an excuse. It was bullshit. “Everything’s good. Don’t worry so much. You’re not missing anything.”

There was a rapping of knuckles at the front door. Dean’s heart nearly leaped right out of his damn mouth. He looked at the door, seeing Lee cupping his hands over the sidelights to peer inside.

Behind him, on the street, Dean saw the glowing headlights of Lee’s new Cadillac 325 waiting for them. Lee had been so excited to show Dean the car—and, as much as Dean hated other people driving him around, he could make an exception this time. The Cadillac was the most luxurious car money could buy. Dean was a little jealous of the new toy, but he was mostly happy for his friend. Lee deserved it. He’d been working hard.

And, hey, maybe Lee would let Dean take it for a spin.

When Lee caught Dean’s eye through the window, Dean held up a finger to tell him to wait. Lee put up both hands in surrender and leaned back.

“Well, I miss you,” Cas was saying over the phone, none the wiser.

Dean’s heartstrings plucked. He turned his back to the door and ducked his head more to keep the conversation private. He said, “Me too, baby.”

So damn much.

He imagined Cas in the silence that followed: the openness of his expression, the slight smile on his lips and the twinkle in his eyes, the soft lines on his face and tired hunch of his shoulders. Dean twirled his ring again without realizing it.

Then, he remembered Lee outside.

Dean hated lying to Cas. It made his stomach feel fuzzy. But Cas would only bitch at him if he knew he was going out to a club with Lee.

And what else was Dean supposed to do with his time? Wait around for the phone to ring like some lovesick damsel? Cas was gone because he chose to be. He had to know Dean would hang out with his friends while he was away. If he really wanted Dean to stop partying with Lee, he would have stayed. Dean was doing nothing wrong in his book.

But Dean didn’t want to start a fight. It was just easier this way, and what Cas didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

Forcing his tone to be smooth and casual, he said, “Anyway, you sound beat. Why don’t you get some sleep, huh? Call me again before you leave New Orleans.”

“I will,” Cas said into a yawn. Dean couldn’t help but feel fond over that sound. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Dream about me,” Dean told him.

It was met with, “Always.”

Dean lingered on the phone for another second before setting it back down on its cradle. Then he rolled his shoulders back, fixed the knot of his tie, and went to the door.

“Finally!” Lee said jovially in lieu of a greeting. “You ready?”

“Always am!” Dean answered, his grin mischievous now.

Lee whooped and walked down the stoop. Dean turned around to flick off the light. While he did, his eyes landed on the phone again. Guilt pounded at the back of his head, but he blinked and shook it away. He closed the door behind him on his way out.

[mariacallous]

When Liebman’s Delicatessen opened on 235th Street in 1953, the Bronx was still sometimes called “the Jewish Borough.” More than half a million Jews lived between Mott Haven and Riverdale, and according to the 70-year-old deli’s website, they were served by 100 kosher delis. Today, Liebman’s is the last one standing. 

“I ask myself a lot: ‘why are we the one that survived?’” Yuval Dekel, who has owned the deli for 20 years, told The Nosher. “Certainly because we’re in Riverdale, which is still a Jewish community.” 

He surveys the restaurant, where nearly all 60 blue naugahyde seats are occupied by neighborhood regulars over 60, noshing on pastrami to the strains of ‘50s jukebox hits. “We’re a deli that has regular New York City resident customers. We’re not a tourist destination.”

Dekel, one of the youngest people in the room, took a circuitous route to becoming a deli man. Born in Haifa in 1978, he arrived in the Bronx two years later with his father, who immigrated with hopes of becoming an entrepreneur. A business broker helped the family find Liebman’s, which had foundered under a string of owners after Joseph Liebman sold it in the late ‘50s. 

Though Dekel’s father (also named Joseph) was of Romanian descent, he knew little about the Ashkenazi foodways of New York. “I don’t even think he knew about delis,” Dekel said. “In Israel, there’s no deli culture.” Joseph Dekel added Israeli dishes like falafel and hummus to the menu, but took pains to preserve the deli classics, too. 

For his part, Yuval Dekel was a metalhead. He was the drummer for Irate, a well-loved New York City thrash band, touring up and down the East Coast, throughout Europe and Japan, and playing at iconic downtown clubs like CBGB in the ‘90s. 

“It was pretty hardcore,” Dekel laughs. “Very serious moshing going on. Quite a different environment from this.” 

But during his entire stint as a metal drummer, Dekel also supported himself by working as a baker at Amy’s Bread and the original U.S. location of Le Pain Quotidien, developing a serious commitment to artisanal foods. When his father died in 2002 and Dekel took over Liebman’s, his first priority was the quality. He wanted to make sure that every dish on the menu, from sandwiches to stews, got its due.

“One thing that differentiates us from — let’s say Katz’s — is we pay a lot of attention to not just the pastrami,” Dekel said. “Don’t get me wrong, I spent years figuring out how to make our own. But there’s this whole other side to us, which is basically a full-service kosher diner.”

Liebman’s excels in the kinds of homey dishes that tend to be afterthoughts for the best-known pastrami pushers. Stuffed cabbage, stewed in a sweet-and-sour sauce and piled with melting onions and plump raisins, falls apart at the slightest pressure from a fork. On Fridays, Dekel serves cholent, the slow-cooked Shabbat stew. 

That’s not to say the deli classics can be missed. Dekel began curing his own pastrami several years ago, after the number of high-quality suppliers had dwindled. The deli slices it thin so that slivers of the smoked meat’s dark crust are evenly interspersed on a sandwich. On the Liebman’s Favorite platter, pastrami is piled high on an open-faced slice of rye, accompanied by fries — thick-cut, pleasantly greasy shards of potato — and kishke (stuffed derma) slathered with brown gravy. It’s an unbelievably hefty plate of food that reminds you the object of a Jewish deli is excess. 

Daintier deli classics abound. Liebman’s tender matzah balls float in a rich broth slicked with beads of schmaltz. Hebrew National franks sizzle and blister on a foil-lined griddle in the front window, ready to be garnished with sinus-clearing brown mustard, sauerkraut, coleslaw or — a Liebman’s favorite — a scoop of potato salad. Old timers pick at artfully arranged cold cut platters of sliced tongue, corned beef and kosher salami.

Homemade knishes are of the circular variety, bearing little resemblance to the squared-off “Coney Island” knishes provisioned by wholesalers to hot dog carts across the city. Like all knishes, they are dense starch-delivery systems. But a Liebman’s knish is well-seasoned, and its crust is flaky and pastry-like.

With all of his attention focused on food, Dekel says he struggled with the business side of the operation originally. But a loyal base of customers helped him through his mistakes, and the deli has hit its stride again, getting attention from critics and influencers, and even making an appearance on “Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown” in 2014. Dekel is planning to open a Westchester County location this year, marking the first expansion of Liebman’s in its seven-decade history.

It seems only right that Liebman’s should be the last deli in the Bronx. A mid-century time capsule, it was reinvigorated by Israeli cooking and by Dekel’s do-it-yourself spirit. 

“In some cases, being the last one standing doesn’t mean you were the best,” he says. “But I happen to think that we deserve it.”

[colorfulfoxengineer]

Anime & Manga counterparts!

[myborderland]

Susan Meiselas Tina with Julia on Mott Street. Little Italy, New York CIty, USA. 1978. © Susan Meiselas | Magnum Photos

[wikipediapictures]

Corky Lee

[historysisco]

I've always loved these buildings located on Alexander Avenue between 138th and 139th Streets in the Bronx. You don't really see too many of these types of row houses in the Bronx. I've mainly seen them in Brooklyn, particularly in Fort Greene.

According to the Historic District Council (HDC) Mott Haven Historic Districts webpage:

"Designated July 29, 1969

Alexander Avenue, once known as “The Irish 5th Avenue” and “Politicians’ Row,” features numerous handsome residences and public buildings from the turn of the century. One of the earliest, if not the earliest, series of row houses in the Bronx can be found here, built between 1863 and 1865."

There's nothing like coming across some history while getting your steps in on the streets of the Bronx and New York City.

#AlexanderAvenue #MottHavenHistoricDistrict #ArchitecturalHistory #RowHouses #BronxHistory #NewYorkHistory #NYHistory #NYCHistory #History #Historia #Histoire #Geschichte #HistorySisco

For Further Reading:

Mott Haven Historic District from the Museum of New York City website

[clairelsonao3]

Happy STS!

What's a bit of dialogue or a scene that you're really proud of, but hasn't found a home yet in any of your stories?

Happy STS! Thanks for the ask!

Well. I did NOT intend to exhume this today (or ever), but since you asked:

CW: Minors living alone and committing nonviolent crimes, mention/implication of parental loss

Above the Chinese fireworks shop was where the pickpockets lived, multiplying like mouselings in the garret. All that summer, they slept on flour sacks and in milk crates, half-naked on the bare metal roof; they drank sawdust whiskey and ate black bananas and melted moon pies; they cussed out old ladies and bet on the horses and smoked cheap cigars and dumped rotting garbage over the heads of passersby, howling with laughter at the screams below. 

They were all orphans, or might as well have been. The street was their mother, their sister, their sweetheart, and their friend. They were all boys, except for one. 

Each one plied his racket. Swing did the glim drop; Fisheye the quick-change; Avenue the pigeon fold. Popcan, just five, as curly-headed and big-eyed as a cherub on a Valentine card, cried until some society girl came to wipe his tears, and Swing could slit her reticule with his jackknife, raining pennies from heaven. For a good three-week run in July, Polo Grounds was king of them all, making two whole dollars a day flipping cards between two milk crates on Cherry Street — find the lady, find the lady, find the lady — until the bulls clubbed it to smithereens and he had to start from scratch next to Mr. Alberelli’s banana cart on Mott. 

Dodger, the tallest one, with the most artful hands and grayest eyes, had earned the right to climb up on the fire escape every night alone, to watch the schooners roll into the India docks, their masts shrouded in clouds as purple-black as amethyst smoke, leaning toward a place and time none of the rest of them could ever reach and knew better than to try. 

But even he looked skyward when Mr. Chung tore the hot air apart with his purples and reds and yellows, testing his wares, Shanghai-style, bang-bang-boom, as if it and all the Lower East Side, and all New York City, and all the world, was a nickelodeon playing just for them. And those swells on Park Avenue, they all said, couldn’t be living half so good.

This was meant to be the opening of my Oliver Twist-inspired YA historical romance I conceived of IDK how long ago. There are a couple more scenes written, but it didn't get much further than this. I guess it’s now my first official Tumblr fiction, since it doesn’t currently live anywhere else and I'm not sure it ever will.

[ortodelmondo]

USA. New York City. 1976. Little Italy. Dee and Lisa on Mott Street. © Susan Meiselas/Magnum Photos