This story turns ugly rather quickly. From the New York Public Library scrapbook, The Hippotheatron and New York Cirque:
That’s 14th Street between Irving Place and Third Avenue, with an out-chapel of Grace Church next door.
As the name suggests, that weird building was a theater for horse shows, constructed in 1864. The NYPL has this flyer dated as 1864, but the name “Hippotheatron” was apparently not used until 1869, when it was already on its third owner. P. T. Barnum bought it in November 1872, and it burned down a month later. Four owners in eight years suggests that maybe making money from a building suitable for nothing but horse-shows wasn’t so easy. This is as good a place to warn about reading the newspaper accounts: the fire did not harm any people but killed a distressingly large number of animals, caged in the building for the shows. Given that the theater apparently had had well over 1000 people inside for some shows, this was the least-terrible bad outcome.
The structure of the building was interesting. The walls and roof were sheet iron; the roof was supported on a series of tension-rod girders supported at the perimeter and an intermediate ring of columns:
That engraving actually undersells the building’s size: the center performance ring was 43 feet, 6 inches in diameter; the building as a whole was 110 feet in diameter and the conical roof was 75 feet high. The way that the tension-rod girders run from the columns to the peak only would have worked if there was a compression ring there, but finding photographic proof of that is probably impossible. There was definitely some kind of ring beam there, as it was needed to support the peak cupola.
The biggest question in my mind is what, exactly, was burning? The newspaper accounts blame “gas” which probably means coal gas used for the lights, but that only provides the initial flame. The roof and exterior walls were iron and therefore not flammable. My guess is that the fuel for the fire was some combination of a wood floor, straw on that floor, and wood seating tiers.
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NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY OLD STRUCTURES ENGINEERING JOURNAL
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Is the Bronx the land of the forgotten amusement park? The borough’s death toll of defunct parks is impressive.
Starlight Park, which opened in 1920 beside the Bronx River and lasted into the 1930s, thrilled visitors with its roller coaster, bathing pavilions, and shooting gallery. Freedomland‘s attractions celebrated American history; this Disney-like park had a short run in the 1960s in Baychester. (Co-Op City took its place.)
And from the late 1890s to the 1940s, a spit of land jutting into the East River where it meets the Long Island Sound was once the site of a popular summertime resort district known as Clason Point. (Or Clason’s Point, as vintage maps have it.)
“Clason” came from Isaac Clason, a Scottish merchant and ship owner. In the early 18th century, Clason purchased one thousand acres of land in this corner of the southeastern Bronx, states Rob Stephenson in his Substack newsletter, The Neighborhoods.
Much of Clason’s land was devoted to farming through the 19th century. Then in 1892, a railroad builder named Clinton Stephens bought 25 acres near the waterfront and “began to develop the area as a recreation destination,” writes Stephenson.
“Stephens established ferry service from Manhattan and College Point in Queens, and soon weekend revelers were availing themselves of the casino, dancehalls, and drinking establishments that populated the point,” he adds.
Boats and steamers brought heat-addled city residents to Clason Point from Long Island, Mott Haven, and Manhattan, states the 2010 AIA Guide to New York City. A trolley arrived in 1910 for even greater access to this burgeoning seaside paradise.
Think of Clason Point as the Bronx’s answer to Coney Island. Bringing Coney-like attractions here was a canny move by developers like Stephens, since late 19th and early 20th century New Yorkers now had the leisure time to take day trips to seaside destinations in Brooklyn and Queens.
A ferry ride to Clason Point from the Lower East Side, Yorkville, and Bronx neighborhoods like Mott Haven was likely faster than a boat trip or railroad journey to Coney Island or Rockaway Beach.
The revelry sounds a lot like Coney Island, as well as “Little Coney Island,” a rollicking dance hall and pleasure garden district that popped up at the time on today’s West 110th Street.
“The attractions were dance halls and hotels, picnic grounds and a bathing pier, restaurants, a salt water pool, and places with names like Dietrich’s, Gilligan’s Pavilion and Killian’s Grove, Higg’s Camp Grounds, and Kane’s Casino,” wrote Philip Lopate in a New York Times article in 2000, quoting. from the 2010 AIA Guide to New York City.
Clason Point actually had two separate parks. One was the privately owned Clason Point Park, which appears to be the original resort opened by Stephens. Another, the delightfully named Fairyland, operated on leased land, according to a 2014 writeup on hubpages.com.
Despite Clason Point’s popularity and accessibility, there were a few drawbacks. The saltwater pool earned the nickname “the Inkwell” because it was filled with unfiltered polluted East River water. “One hates to speculate exactly what was in that ink,” comments the hubpages.com post.
Also, some of the rides malfunctioned—in one case with tragic results. In 1910, two of the cars on the roller coaster collided high in the air. Rescue workers had to retrieve stuck passengers with rope and a 75-foot ladder, according to a 2012 article by Bill Twomey in the Bronx Times.
Then, in June 1922, with approximately 80 passengers riding the 100-foot-high ferris wheel, a sudden storm toppled the ride.
“The wind appeared to lift the upper half of the wheel and toss it with its merrymakers into Long Island Sound,” reported The Evening World. “The collapse of the lower half followed, burying those in it under the wreckage.” Seven passengers were killed, and scores sustained injuries.
The ferris wheel disaster and filthy salt water pool didn’t spell the end of Clason Point (below, an abandoned dance hall) so much as Prohibition and the impending Great Depression did.
“Fairyland went out of business in 1935, as did some of the other independent amusements,” states the hubpages.com post. “In 1949 the entire property was sold to developers who removed all the remaining amusements and converted the area into a private country club.”
Today Clason Point lives on as a New York City Park—the appropriately named Clason Point Park.
Visiting amusement parks was just one way city residents cooled off during the sweltering summer seasons of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Click here and listen to Ephemeral New York and Carl Raymond, aka The Gilded Gentleman, on August 20 in a podcast episode titled “In the Good Old Summertime: Where the Gilded Age Played.”
We’ll delve into all the ways city residents found relief from summer heat in the Gilded Age, from the tenement districts to upper class townhouses. You’ll be glad we live in the age of air conditioning!
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YVONNE SMITH COLER COLLECTION
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Painter George Benjamin Luks was born in August 1867 in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. According to the 1880 census, his father was Polish and his mother born in Bavaria. The family then moved to the coal mining borough of Pottstown, Montgomery County, PA, where his father worked as a physician.
Living in the midst of a community of struggling Eastern European families, Luks was directly confronted with the toughness of the immigrant experience. It would determine his career as an artist.
In the Steerage
Luks began his studies at Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. Dissatisfied with the conservative standard of teaching, he left for Europe and spent time in Düsseldorf (a number of American painters had received their training at the city’s Art Academy). He visited London and Paris.
On his return in 1893 he became an illustrator for the Philadelphia Press. Meeting at John Henri’s studio, Luks was a member of the “Philadelphia Five” (with John Sloan, William Glackens and Everett Shinn). These painters rejected the “genteel” approach of contemporary artists and turned to the harsh depiction of ordinary life.
In 1896, Luks moved to New York City where he was employed as an illustrator by the New York World. A tough character, he embraced the gritty side of the metropolis in art and life.
His former Philadelphian associates had also settled in the metropolis and encouraged him to further explore his painted themes of “New York Street Life.” He joined a group of artists (later referred to as the Ashcanners) who rebelled against conventional academicism and “pleasing” impressionism.
These painters believed in the worthiness of working-class life as artistic subject matter. An urban realist, Luks focused on cityscapes and street scenes. In a series of paintings he captured the energy and hardship of the tenement districts and their occupants.
In 1900, in the middle of a period of mass movement from Europe to the United States (the Great Atlantic Migration) Luks created “In the Steerage,” a painting in which he depicted a group of migrants lined up against the rail of an ocean liner arriving in New York Harbor after an arduous voyage across the Atlantic. Migrants tended to crowd on deck once the Statue of Liberty was sighted.
Steamships made their first stop at a pier on the mainland. There, First and Second Class passengers were free to disembark without medical checks or personal questioning. Afterward, steerage passengers were crowded onto a barge or ferry and taken to Ellis Island (the “Island of Tears”) for inspection and examination.
In bold colors and brushwork George Luks communicates an emphatic image that reflects both the exhaustion of a long stay in steerage and the anxiety about what the future may hold.
Precarious Passages
The steerage was located immediately below the main deck of a sailing ship where the control strings of the rudder ran. In the early days of migration passengers were placed in the cargo hold where temporary partitions were erected to accommodate people and livestock. As soon as a ship had set its passengers on land, the furnishings were removed and preparations made for a return cargo of cotton or tobacco to Europe.
Early steamships of the 1830s and 1840s were expensive to run and only attracted those travelers who could afford the fare. The Irish Potato Famine and the repression that followed the failed 1848 uprisings in Europe, forced many families to flee in search of a new beginning. Within a decade, a huge migrant market was created. Fledgling ocean liner companies competed to exploit the opportunities offered by this desperate mass of humanity.
The transport of boat people (“self-loading cargo”) became a money-spinner as some steamers could hold over 2,000 passengers in steerage. Carrying them in the cheapest manner was enormously profitable. The word steerage now began to refer to the lowest category of long-distance travel. Destitute migrants needed to make the transatlantic crossing at minimum cost.
Scottish novelist Robert Louis Stevenson had sailed in 1879 from Glasgow to New York to research “Steerage Types” and give his travelogue The Amateur Emigrant a sense of authenticity (the book was not published until 1895).
He described a very uncomfortable journey in company of the poor and sick, supplying an abundance of details about bedding arrangements, food rations, etc. In 1906, American investigative reporter Kellogg Durland sailed as a steerage passenger and delivered a blistering attack on the miserable state of affairs on board.
In a cut-throat market, the price of transatlantic travel was made affordable to even the poorest travelers, but conditions were atrocious. Crammed in cargo holds, migrants were treated as cattle. They slept in rows of shared bunks on mattresses filled with straw or seaweed. On stormy days, all hatches were sealed to prevent water from getting in, making the already stuffy air below unendurable. For millions of migrants, steerage conjured up images of squalor, abuse and disease.
Passengers had to bring their own food for the duration of the voyage, which could last as long as three weeks. Many starved to death during the voyage, their corpses flung over the side. Infectious disease (cholera and typhus; measles among children) was another cause of high mortality.
Early ocean liners were a new generation of slave ships. British and American governments introduced (advisory) legislation in the 1850s to prevent overcrowding, provide toilet facilities and guarantee rations of food and water, but ship owners responded slowly and reluctantly.
The migration statistics in the period between 1860 and 1914 are staggering; some fifty-two million people left different parts of Europe for America. It was the intensity of competition for a share of the lucrative market and not government intervention that forced upgrades.
Liners became bigger, faster and more refined. Because of negative connotations, companies re-marketed steerage as Third Class, but the journey remained a testing experience.
SS Kaiser Wilhelm II
With the rise of a global travel industry, rival companies started competing with each other to make fast and luxurious crossings. Oceanic transportation boomed. To reach New York in record tempo was a race for glory and customers. Bremen-based Norddeutscher Lloyd (NDL) became one of the largest shipping companies in the world.
Its liner Kaiser Wilhelm II was launched at Stettin in August 1902 in the presence of the German Emperor and joined her sister ships on a scheduled service between Bremen and New York City. In 1904 she won the “Blue Riband” for the fastest eastbound crossing of the North Atlantic.
Offering berths to 1,888 passengers, the ship’s interior was designed by Bremen’s most prominent architect Johann Poppe. He turned the liner into a floating Grand Hotel with a range of stylish amenities for affluent passengers. The First Class dining saloon was three decks high and decorated in German (Bremen) Baroque revival style. Displaying a life-size portrait of the Kaiser, it could seat 554 diners.
The golden age of ocean travel in the early twentieth century coincided with the emergence of the illustrated poster. Advertisers were driven to outdo their competitors with ever more appealing imagery. Shipping companies employed graphic artists to visualize leisure and modernity. Promotional posters transformed long distance travel into an alluring experience in the public imagination.
Glamour would remain central to promoting the image of ocean liners throughout the 1920s, although in reality these ship served the needs of a diverse public. NDL’s flagship Kaiser Wilhelm II mirrored society’s inequalities by offering extremes of luxury and comfort to a minority of wealthy travelers, whilst transporting large numbers of poor emigrants under the most basic of circumstances.
Edward Alfred Steiner was a Professor of Theology in Grinnell College, Iowa. Born into a Jewish Slovak-Hungarian family and educated in Vienna and Heidelberg, he had settled in the United States in 1886. He penned a number of books in which he detailed the experiences of immigrant Jews (although he had converted to Christianity himself).
In 1906, Steiner published On the Trail of the Immigrant in which he described the conditions in the steerage aboard SS Kaiser Wilhelm II where nine hundred passengers were packed like cattle. The flow of air was blocked, creating an unbearable stench.
A division between sexes was ignored, which meant that young women quartered among married passengers lacked privacy and protection. The food was miserable. Steerage on the world’s most prestigious ocean liner had barely improved.
Slumming at Sea
According to the Oxford English Dictionary the word “slumming” was first used in 1884 to refer to an increasing number of people who visited London’s poorest areas for either social observation or out of curiosity. By the 1890s the idea of “slumming it” in the East End had become a pastime for wealthy youngsters. The sight-seeing mania soon reached New York City. It was taken to sea as well.
First Class passengers would lean over their promenade deck railing and throw candy and pennies to children on the deck below. Slumming from above meant mixing with steerage passengers.
One of these slummers was photographer Alfred Stieglitz. In the spring of 1907, he and his family boarded the Kaiser Wilhelm II to visit relatives and friends in Europe. His wife Emmeline demanded luxury and Alfred purchased First Class tickets for their week-long passage on her account.
Once at sea, Stieglitz hated the stifling snobbishness of the quarters. He preferred to spend time at the end of his deck from where he could observe the crowd confined below. To his photographer’s eye, the ship’s steerage provided a framework for recording a moment of human drama. Using a hand-held Auto-Graflex camera with glass plate negatives, he captured the scene in a single picture.
Alfred was not able to develop the plate until he arrived in Paris and kept the photograph in its original plate holder until he returned to New York several weeks later – and put it aside.
Four years later “The Steerage” was first presented to the public when Stieglitz published the image in a 1911 issue of Camera Work devoted exclusively to his “new” style photographs, together with a Cubist drawing by Pablo Picasso. It then appeared on the cover of the magazine section of New York’s Saturday Evening Mail (April 20, 1912).
In 1913 “The Steerage” had its gallery debut, coinciding with the momentous Armory Show which introduced international avant-garde art to New York (George Luks was also well represented at the exhibition). Stieglitz intended to demonstrate that his photographs could rival the European vanguard.
Widely praised as a modernist masterpiece (Picasso was an admirer), “The Steerage” emboldened him to put his photography on a par with Cubist painting.
Golden Door & Returned Cargo
Stieglitz’s photograph captured the so-called steerage promenade. Every day at the same time passengers were herded on deck for their quarters to be cleaned. First Class travelers gathered on the upper decks to observe the spectacle. Looking at “The Steerage,” the photographer invites us to peek at the mass of migrants below. We are all invited to turn into slummers.
Stieglitz was aware of the fierce debates about immigration at the time and the ghastly treatment to which steerage passengers were subjected. His own Jewish father had joined the mass exodus from Germany, arriving in America in 1849 and making a fortune in the wool trade, but the photographer had mixed feelings about immigration.
Sympathetic to the plight of new arrivals, he objected to admitting the uneducated and marginal to the United States. Stieglitz may have felt for his subjects, but he denied that his work contained a statement. He was not promoting a social cause. He claimed that his only concern was to advance photography as a fine art.
At the time, the immigration service channeled millions of arrivals through the “Golden Door” of Ellis Island’s main inspection building, but some twenty percent of incomers were detained for health or legal reasons. Some recuperated sufficiently to enter America, but others were returned to their homelands.
When Stieglitz took his famous shot, the Kaiser Wilhelm II was sailing on its return journey from New York to Europe. It is a visual record of people who had been turned away by officials for reasons of ill-health, “moral disease” (that is: politically suspect), old age or excessive poverty and forced to go back home (the criteria for refusal were summarized in the 1907 Immigration Act, signed into law by Theodore Roosevelt).
How can one interpret this photograph other than as a critique of migration policies? Stylistic mastery reinforced the message, but questions remain. Were all passengers in this photograph to be considered “returned cargo”?
Being sent back from Ellis Island even more destitute than they were on the day of departure, what happened to these lost souls once they had disembarked in their countries of origin? Information is scarce, history has kept silent.
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CREDITS
Illustrations, from above: Robert Henri’s “Portrait of George Luks,” 1904; George Luks’ “In the Steerage,” 1900 (North Carolina Museum of Art); Fritz Rehm, poster for the Norddeutscher Lloyd (NDL), 1903; Alfred Stieglitz’s “The Steerage,” 1907; and Lewis Hine’s “Climbing into America, immigrants at Ellis Island, 1905” (The New York Public Library).
JUDITH BERDY NEW YORK ALMANACK
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Blackwell’s Almanac: Anatomy of an Artwork: How Diana Cooper’s “Double Take” Came to Be Lady Day Sang the Blues and Lived Them Too – Billie Holiday The New York City Chewing Gum War of 1939
Text by Judith Berdy Thanks to Bobbie Slonevsky for her dedication to Blackwell’s Almanac and the RIHS Thanks to Deborah Dorff for maintaining our website Edited by Deborah Dorff All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
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Chelsea Green, opened in 2019, was the first new park built in Chelsea in 40 years. The park features an engaging play area with shaded seating, along with a lawn area made from synthetic turf. In keeping with the artistic feel of the neighborhood, an area of the park is home to performances and displays of public art.
Walking west on 20th Street yesterday, I spotted a lovely park mid-block, just big enough for neighborhood families.
The playground is visible thru a fenced in garden of sunflowers.
Tucked in between the city scene the park fits perfectly.
The innovative playground serves all ages
Down the slide!!
The blue sky shines down.
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JUDITH BERDY NYC PARKS DEPARTMENT
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DETENTION CENTER MURALS REIMAGINED AS BUILDING IS DEMOLISHED. BY ARTIST RICHARD HAAS “IMMIGRATION ON THE LOWER EAST SIDE OF NEW YORK”,1989
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JUDITH BERDY PHOTOS WERE TAKE FROM UNDER THE CONSTRUCTION SHED, WHERE MURAL REPRODUCTIONS BLOCK THE DEMOLTION SITE,
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An automaton is a machine designed to operate on its own by responding to predetermined instructions. By the mid-eighteenth century, a number of talented craftsmen operated in Paris from where they exported clockwork automata and mechanical singing birds around Europe and beyond.
The undisputed master in this domain was Jacques de Vaucanson. In 1735, he constructed a life-sized flautist that produced twelve melodies. His masterpiece was unveiled in May 1764 when he presented a “Canard Digérateur” (Digesting Duck) to the public.
The bird consisted of a copper exterior with more than a thousand moving parts. As well as flapping its wings and quacking, it appeared (by a design trick) to have the ability to eat kernels of grain, then digest and defecate them.
De Vaucanson was a man of the Enlightenment. He combined his studies in anatomy at the Paris medical school with an interest in mechanical inventions. Like the philosophers of his day, he was intrigued by the “man and machine” issue.
In 1747, Julien Offray de La Mettrie published L’homme machine (Man: A Machine) in which argued that all living beings are machines fueled by food. The human body is the “living image of perpetual movement.” He proposed the slogan: “You are what you eat.” Linking mechanical technology with food consumption would later acquire a specific relevance.
Are You Being Served?
The Enlightenment marked a turning point in the history of cookery. As gluttony gave way to refinement, settings were improved. Tables were laid with crockery; cutlery and (crystal) glasses became part of the ritual. Round tables inspired convivial interaction. Consumption was associated with well-being.
Throughout his work, Jean-Jacques Rousseau (a vegetarian) discussed food, suggesting that a nutritious “natural” diet would boost the formation of a wholesome character. The word restaurant itself was derived from the verb restaurer (to reconstitute). Early Parisian restaurants reflected the health awareness of the era. These establishments focused on selling a slow cooked bone broth (bouillon) as their main dish.
One of the first restaurant proprietors was A. Boulanger, a “bouillon seller,” who opened his business near the Louvre in 1765. In his establishment, soups were served that had the reputation of restoring strength to those who suffered poor health. Its sign bore the motto: “Venite ad me omnes qui stomacho laboratis et ego restaurabo vos” (Come to me, all of you whose stomachs hurt and I will restore you). The proprietor called himself a healer or “restaurateur.”
Boulanger was not content to serve just bouillon. He also offered leg of lamb in white sauce to his clients. As his action infringed on the monopoly of the powerful caterers’ guild, he was taken to court. The case ended in a judgment favoring Boulanger, thus lifting all restrictions on eating establishments.
Bouillon restaurants started to expand their offering and the popularity of eating out began to spread. In 1782 chef and culinary writer Antoine Beauvilliers opened La Grande Taverne de Londres on the Rue de Richelieu in Paris. It was dubbed Europe’s first luxury restaurant.
The French Revolution accelerated the development towards the democratization of dining. The political events of the 1790s released kitchen staff from aristocratic patronage. As the nobles fled or faced the guillotine, their private chefs found themselves unemployed. They had to offer their skills to the public at large, setting up as independent restaurateurs catering to a new bourgeois clientele. By 1804 Paris had more than five hundred restaurants.
The word waiter in the sense of a “servant who waits at household tables” dates from late fifteenth century. In reference to inns and taverns it dates from 1660s, predominantly referring to someone who serves drinks. The proliferation of hotels and restaurants caused a transfer of workers in domestic service to the hospitality sector and contributed to the emergence of serving staff as a distinctive (hierarchical) occupational group.
Automat
From the outset, there has been an uneasy relationship between restaurateurs, waiters and clients. For owners, waiters were an expensive and often troublesome addition to the cost of running a business. For clients, their intrusive hovering around the dinner table was a source of continuous irritation.
Tipping was another disturbing issue. As small acts of generosity, tips had their origins in domestic service. Ever since the Tudor era, visitors to private homes would give sums of money (known as “vails”) at the end of their stay for service rendered by the host’s staff. Tips supplemented the wages of domestic servants.
The giving of vails was probably a uniquely British phenomenon and it is not known how the habit spread to restaurants and hotels. In hospitality, the expectation grew that the customer would subsidize the worker’s income (allowing employers to refrain from paying serving staff a fixed wage).
Towards the end of the nineteenth century the idea of the automaton re-emerged and was given a new direction. Researchers began to explore ways of developing a “waiter-less” system of service in order to improve efficiency, raise client satisfaction and reduce staff numbers.
The concept of an automatic restaurant was proposed in Germany. The word “automat” was introduced to describe any type of coin-operated dispensing apparatus.
The world’s first such restaurant was established in June 1895 on the grounds of Berlin’s zoological garden by a company named Quisisana that manufactured automat machines and equipment. On the first Sunday of operation it sold 5,400 sandwiches, 22,000 cups of coffee and 9,000 glasses of wine and cordials.
The firm’s name maintained the “healing” connotation of the term restaurant as it is derived from the Italian phrase “qui si sana” (here you become healthy).
In 1896 a new firm named “Automat” was founded as a joint venture between the Berlin engineer Max Sielaff, an inventor of different types of slot machines, and the Cologne-based chocolate maker Stollwerck. The company presented itself to the public at the Berlin Industrial Exposition that same year and was an instant hit.
Its “waiter-less” restaurant was designed by Sielaff and provided hot meals, sandwiches and drinks in a lavish dining room with stylish stained glass windows.
How did the Automat function? The walls of the establishment were lined with small windows, each of which contained edibles or drinkables. Customers inserted a coin to unlock the window, allowing them to pull out a meal or drink. The food came ready-made. No waiters. No tips.
The fame of automatic restaurants spread rapidly after one such premises won a gold medal at the Brussels World Fair of 1897. The German prototype was sold all over Europe and would soon reach the United States.
A Toxic Profession
Delmonico’s opened its doors in 1837, comprising lavish private dining suites and an enormous wine cellar. The restaurant, which still remains housed at its original Manhattan location, is said to be the first in America to use tablecloths. Delmonico’s employed an army of waiters.
With the rapid expansion of the hospitality sector, resentment against waiters increased. An 1885 editorial in The New York Times condemned servers as one of the “necessary evils of an advanced civilization.” Waiters were accused of rude mannerisms. A particular driver of anti-waiter sentiments was the expectation of tipping. The practice was despised as a European import and maligned as “offensively un-American.” Waiters were a strain, the prospect of having to tip them was an insult.
Affluent citizens were accused of having initiated the custom at resorts such as Saratoga Springs or Newport, guaranteeing good treatment for the stay. The word “tip” was British English (many critics blamed England for the practice), Americans tended to use the term “fee” which inspired a popular quip in the 1870s, “When you have feed the waiter of the summer resort, then he will feed you.” Attempts to eradicate tipping failed. Instead, entrepreneurs took an interest in European experiments with waiter- less restaurants.
Frank Hardart was an immigrant from Sondenheim, Bavaria, who had settled in Philadelphia working in hospitality. In 1888 he responded to an advertisement placed by Joseph Horn who was seeking a business partner. Horn & Hardart (H & H) founded a chain of establishments that catered to urban workers with a reputation for fast food and fresh coffee. Public esteem encouraged their willingness to experiment.
In 1901, Hardart traveled to Berlin and having seen the Automat technology in operation, the entrepreneurs shipped the machinery to America and opened a restaurant on June 12, 1902, at 818 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. The first H & H Automat Lunch Room in New York City was established a decade later (July 1912) on Times Square to feed Broadway’s theatre crowd. A second Manhattan location opened its doors shortly after on Broadway and East 14th Street.
Those who entered the premises were stunned by an impressive vending machine with rows of windowed compartments containing different menu items, including sandwiches, macaroni cheese, chicken pot pie, baked beans or coconut cream pie. Having made a choice, the customer dropped a nickel into a coin slot, turned a knob, lifted up the door and removed the food.
Unlike Manhattan’s sophisticated dining rooms, Automats were simple and democratic. But they were not without decorum. Many H & H premises were Art Deco designs with elegant marble counters and floors, stained glass, chrome fixtures and carved ceilings. Food was served on china plates and consumed with proper cutlery. French-drip style coffee was always hot and freshly brewed.
Just before the outbreak of the Second World War, at the height of the Automat’s popularity, the company had over eighty locations in Philadelphia and New York City, serving some 350,000 customers per day. In the second half of the twentieth century, Automats began to lose their prominent position with the emergence of more convenient fast-food restaurants. The last H & H Automat closed in 1991.
Depression Cocktail
H & H restaurants were integral to Manhattan’s cityscape. The Automat was an institution, a metaphor for a lifestyle in the spirit of the Ford assembly line. The “nickel-in-the-slot eating place” became an American icon (in spite of its European roots), celebrated on stage and screen. Movie stars like Audrey Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, Gene Kelly and Gregory Peck all dined there. In Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Marilyn Monroe in the role of Lorelei Lee sang “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” (Verse 1):
A kiss may be grand but it won’t pay the rental On your humble flat or help you at the automat.
Although Automats originated as a high-tech form of food service, they reflected New York City’s fast-paced and multi-national society where people from all walks of life gathered briefly to eat without being bothered by waiters before hurrying on with their day to day business. Smart but impersonal, H&H was a place of autonomy and instant gratification.
During the Great Depression, Automats offered cheap sustenance or a warm coffee to many impoverished people. They also offered shelter. The absence of waiters meant that homeless or unemployed New Yorkers could come in from the cold (or heat) without being requested to leave the premises. Some of them consumed a “Depression Cocktail” consisting of free ketchup mixed into a glass of water. The Automat could be a place of loneliness and lingering.
In 1927, there were fifteen Automats in New York City. On Valentine’s Day that year Edward Hopper opened his second solo show at the Rehn Galleries on Fifth Avenue. It was here that he first displayed his painting “Automat.” Like in other works, forlornness is the central subject of this painting.
In an evocative scene of introspection, it depicts a woman at a restaurant table staring downward over a cup of coffee on a seemingly cold night. The reflection of artificial light in the window glass highlights her melancholic solitude.
The sparsely furnished interior is reminiscent of the Automat at Times Square. An establishment associated with vending machines and crowds is reduced to a sober scene without any others. Her self-conscious presence in an empty public space, puts the onlooker in the uncomfortable position of being an intruder.
Hopper’s painting communicates a narrative about modern life. Alienation (the state of being withdrawn from the urban world) was a theme that preoccupied sociologists of the 1920s and 30s.
Many Americans felt disconnected from traditional values and their sense of uncertainty is reflected in literature. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and other novelists created disillusioned characters who felt lost in society. Hopper’s work linked with perceptions of alienation and disaffection. In “Automat” he captured the psychological make-up of the American social landscape of his age.
CREDITS
NEW YORK ALMANACK Illustrations, from above: Edward Hopper’s “Automat,” 1927 (Des Moines Art Center, Iowa); Jacques de Vaucanson’s ‘Canard Digérateur’ (Digesting Duck), 1764; Mathurin Roze de Chantoiseau in Paris, 1766; Horn & Hardart’s Automat on Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 1904 postcard; Mark Twain dining at Delmonico’s, 1905 (Museum of the City of New York); and a typical Automat on 8th Avenue, 1937.
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On the corner of Broadway and 20th Street stands what is left of the elaborate 1870 Lord & Taylor store — a busy cast iron montage of pillars and balconies, deep-set windows and dormers, and the dramatic Second Empire mansard cap over the corner that most distinguishes the building.
The structure was Lord & Taylor’s third. Cousins Samuel Lord and George W Taylor opened their first dry goods store in 1826 on Catherine Street. By the outbreak of the Civil War they had moved to Grand Street and Broadway and in 1869, having established a reputation among Manhattan’s carriage trade, needed a yet larger store. Upscale stores like Tiffany’s and Lord & Taylor’s rival Arnold, Constable & Co. had relocated northward to the Union Square area that same year.
Purchasing land from the Goelet family (895-899 Broadway) and the Badeau family (the corner lot at 20th Street only a block south of the new Arnold, Constable store), Lord & Taylor prepared for their move. James H. Giles was commissioned to design their emporium. A Brooklyn architect who was responsible for a few lower Manhattan cast iron buildings as well as the earlier gothic-style Christ Church in Williamsburg (where he even designed the organ cabinet), Giles went all-out for the new store.
His five-story extravaganza, costing half a million dollars, departed from conventional cast iron designs. Rather than creating a facade pretending to be stone, his was unabashedly cast iron. Architectural critics of the day praised the innovation; one of the few criticisms being the overall beige color rather than a polychromed paint scheme.
Shoppers ride the hand-hoist elevator on Lord & Taylor’s opening day in 1870 – NYPL Collection
Thousands of shoppers crowded into the new store on November 28, 1870 through the impressive main entrance on Broadway, south of the corner building we recognize as the Lord & Taylor building today. Hand-hoisted elevators carried customers from floor to floor to sample the latest in imported merchandise. The emporium enjoyed tremendous success in the new location, prompting further additions towards Fifth Avenue. This growth was due in part to Lord & Taylor’s innovative marketing — they were the first, for instance, to install Christmas windows — the start of a treasured New York tradition.
As other large retailers moved further uptown so did Lord and Taylor, building their present location at 38th Street and 5th Avenue in 1915 and abandoning the grand cast iron structure. Almost immediately the old store changed. That year the main section on Broadway lost its cast iron facade and was refaced in stone. Little by little, only the corner building at No. 901 Broadway was left intact. The 20th Century was not kind to No. 901 Broadway. Used for loft space and manufacturing for decades, by the 1980s it was grubby and rusting and largely empty. Despite landmark status, the future for the old Lord & Taylor store was grim.
A series of owners, starting with Darius Sakhai in 1995, reversed the trend. The upper facade was restored and tacky storefronts replaced. In 2006 Joseph Sitt paid $17.375 million for the building and three years later resold it for just under $25 million. Although still not completely occupied the surviving sliver of Lord & Taylor’s 19th Century emporium seems to have a brighter future.
CREDITS
DAYTONIAN IN MANHATTAN
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THANKS TO ALL OUR READERS THAT SHOPPED A WONDERFUL FIRST YARD SALE AT COLER.
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NYC MANHOLE COVERS:
HISTORY AND HOW THEY’RE MADE
PART 2 MICHELLE YOUNG
UNTAPPED NEW YORK
ISSUE #1280
MONDAY-WEDNESDAY, JULY 29-31. 2024
The High Bridge was once part of the Croton Aqueduct system that brought in fresh water to New York City
So, for urgent public health reasons all around the world, sewage systems had to be developed and systems built to bring in clean water. This is how we get some of the oldest manhole covers left in New York City. In 1842, the first Croton Aqueduct was completed bringing fresh water down to the city from Westchester County by means of gravity. It was one of the largest engineering feats of the 19th century. The system opened to great fanfare with a celebration that included a parade down Broadway, the ringing of church bells and the shooting of canons. Gravity-powered fountains in City Hall Park and other places in Manhattan shot water 50 feet up into the air. Manhole covers were needed to access the new exciting system underground.
Tracking historical ephemera, like the oldest manhole covers, is one of my past times. For years, a Croton Aqueduct manhole cover on Jersey Street next to the Puck Building in Soho was often cited as the oldest manhole in New York City. It had the words “CROTON AQUEDUCT D.P.T. 1866” on it. Sadly, roadwork in 2017 wiped away its existence so you won’t find it there anymore. The quest then remained to find the next manhole cover that could be crowned the oldest
NYC’s oldest manhole cover dates to 1862 and sits across from the Port Authority Bus Terminal
Turns out, another Croton Aqueduct manhole cover — even older than the Jersey Street one — had been here all along. Dating to 1862, as evidenced by the cast-iron numbers, this manhole cover is even better preserved because it sits on a sidewalk. It is however, located in a far less charming spot —across from the much-despised Port Authority Bus Terminal next to Times Square on 40th Street and 8th Avenue.
Another one from the same year was found in Central Park and then in 2021, reader Don Burmeister, who runs the site A Field Guide to New York City Manhole Covers, tipped us off to an even older one! Dating to 1861 and located in Central Park this manhole cover currently holds the title of New York City’s oldest in our book.
NYC’s oldest manhole cover dates to 1862 and sits across from the Port Authority Bus Terminal
Turns out, another Croton Aqueduct manhole cover — even older than the Jersey Street one — had been here all along. Dating to 1862, as evidenced by the cast-iron numbers, this manhole cover is even better preserved because it sits on a sidewalk. It is however, located in a far less charming spot —across from the much-despised Port Authority Bus Terminal next to Times Square on 40th Street and 8th Avenue.
Another one from the same year was found in Central Park and then in 2021, reader Don Burmeister, who runs the site A Field Guide to New York City Manhole Covers, tipped us off to an even older one! Dating to 1861 and located in Central Park this manhole cover currently holds the title of New York City’s oldest in our book.
A ConEd “Millenium” manhole cover the agency put out for the year 2000. It was designed by Karim Rashid, who won a competition.
To learn more about manhole covers, I spoke with Lisa Frigand, who worked for ConEd for 34 years starting in 1978. She retired as the Manager of Cultural Affairs at ConEd in 2012 but is still involved in the arts, making her own ceramics and embroidery. She tells me that when she was working at ConEd, the company had about 250,000 manhole covers and that they weigh between 200 and 300 pounds each. A spokesman at ConEd confirmed her estimate, telling me that the company manages approximately 265,000 structures which include manholes, service boxes and transformer vaults. But then the NYC Department of Environmental Protection also gave me their numbers, and they have about 350,000 manhole covers across the five boroughs! So for now, I’m crowning the DEP with having the most number of manhole covers in the city!
A good number of manholes covers have the words MADE IN INDIA on them in large, all capital letters. Have you ever wondered why that is? To get down to the bottom of this, I spoke with Natasha Raheja, an anthropologist and professor at Cornell University and the director of the documentary Cast In India, which is an exploration into how manhole covers in New York City are made. Her quest to understand the connection to India took her to Howrah, a city in West Bengal, where some of the NYC Sewer manholes are being manufactured. In our latest podcast episode, Natasha explains what materials manhole covers are made from, how they’re manufactured, and some additional fun facts. You can watch Cast in India on Apple TV, Google Play, Kanopy, and Amazon Prime (in select countries).
Manhole covers are also made in the United States. ConEdison tells me that it gets most of its manhole covers from a foundry in Michigan called East Jordan, but they work with a few other US-based foundries as well.
New York City is a fountain of inspiration for artists. Even the most mundane of objects have been turned into art, and the manhole cover is no exception. In the year 2000, nineteen custom manhole covers appeared in Greenwich Village with a cryptic phrase on it: “In Direct Line with Another and the Next.” The words looked like they had been almost stamped onto a generic looking manhole cover. The letters were in all capitals, but everything was a little crooked. If you came across it, you might look around you for something it might reference, perhaps in direct line with it. But it wasn’t quite as direct as that.
On the rim of the manhole cover, you would see the names of three organizations involved: The Public Art Fund, Con Edison and Roman Stone Company. It was an art initiative from the Public Art Fund, a non-profit dedicated to putting art in public spaces. The design itself came from Bronx-born artist Lawrence Weiner, whose text-based art has been in museums and public spaces all around the world. He was one of the pioneering artists who began using language as art. New Yorkers may remember his more recent installation in 2009 on the piers of the Battery Maritime Building, where the ferries to Governors Island leave from. It read: “AT THE SAME MOMENT” in large red lettering.
Lisa Frigand, whom we spoke to earlier, was actually instrumental in getting Lawrence Wiener’s manhole cover project executed, when she was Manager of Cultural Affairs at ConEd. She worked with Roman Stone Company, a foundry on Long Island, to get the manhole covers designed to spec and made. I asked her what the phrase, “In Direct Line with Another and the Next” meant to her — and you can hear her answer in the podcast episode! You can find at least one of Weiner’s manhole covers remaining, as part of the Whitney Museum’s collection – it’s embedded in the floor near the entrance to the museum.
One of the most pressing questions I had about manholes is what it’s like to go down one. In 2009 I missed my own opportunity to do just that. Self-made urban archeologist and local icon, Bob Diamond, had discovered and excavated the famed Atlantic Avenue tunnel in Brooklyn and was giving tours. Built in 1844, it’s considered the world’s first underground transit tunnel. Chalk it up to being in my 20s and in a rock band at the time. I was out late performing and just couldn’t get up in time to go. I thought, I’ll be able to go again, but this is New York City and all off-limits things get shut down eventually. Fortunately for us, Justin Rivers did make it and you can hear all about his experience in the podcast episode.
Before we close out, have you figured out yet why are manhole covers round? My contact at the DEP says, “The principal reason that manhole covers are round is so they won’t fall into the manhole.” If a manhole is square, rectangular or even oval, it can fall into the manhole if you insert it at an angle or vertically. Yikes!
Over the last 160 years, New York City’s underground has become increasingly complex. We spoke today about the most common manhole covers you can find in the city, the NYC Sewer manhole covers and the ones for ConEd. But you’ll also find manhole covers for the subway, for the water system, and for telecommunication companies like Verizon and its subsidiaries, which include companies it acquired like the New York Telephone Company and Empire City Subway (ECS for short). Empire City Subway has nothing to do with the modern subway, but was formed after the Great Blizzard of 1888 which took down much of the city’s overhead electrical infrastructure. The aim of the company was to build underground ducts for telecommunication services.in.
An Empire City Subway manhole cover on Hudson Street
When companies go defunct, sometimes their manholes covers remain for a long time afterwards, becoming part of the city’s historical record. While the number of manhole covers in New York City is a constantly fluctuating number, what’s clear is that they continue to be an object of fascination for New Yorkers. Look down next time you’re walking around and see what you discover about New York City’s history and how the city works. Cowabunga!
