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\n Illustration: Maanvi Kapur\n <\/p>\n
Officially, Alex Vadukul<\/a> is the features writer for the New York Times\u2019 \u201cStyles\u201d section, but readers know him as the paper\u2019s go-to nightlife reporter and tracker of this city\u2019s vanishing haunts. Fittingly, he says he\u2019s \u201ca night-owl eater\u201d who favors the greasy spoons and dim-lit pubs befitting a properly ink-stained wretch. Vadukul has been writing for the Times for over a decade, and in many ways he inhabits a New York that is fighting to survive, but \u2014 as you\u2019ll see in this week\u2019s Grub Street Diet \u2014\u00a0manages to find pockets of history hiding in unexpected places (like Union Square). \u201cNew York is always offering up its stories,\u201d he says. \u201cThey\u2019re like weeds sprouting out of the sidewalk. You just have to slow down to yank them out.\u201d<\/p>\n Wednesday, September 30 Then I walk to work, navigating the morning bustle of midtown to reach the newsroom of the New York Times. I don\u2019t eat breakfast, and today is no different. I also rarely eat lunch. I guess I like running on empty. It keeps me nervy, which keeps me focused, and I\u2019ll productively ride this gut-grumbling wave of feral discomfort throughout the day as I roll calls with sources, chase story tips, and throw down words onto the page.<\/p>\n Arriving at my desk at the Times, I nod to my fellow reporters, and then I go fetch a cup of coffee. This particular coffee machine hates to see me coming because I put it through daily abuse, pushing it to its limits to spit out a concoction of two espressos topped by a cappuccino. It\u2019s a nuclear caffeine bomb that keeps me going all day.<\/p>\n Over time, I\u2019ve slowly transformed my desk into my own personal, ink-stained arts-and-crafts project \u2014 the entirety of its surface is lined down with old Times pages and it\u2019s stacked with my first editions of books by fabled city reporters like Gay Talese and Meyer Berger. I also have a shelf filled with vanished New York restaurant ephemera such as matchbooks from Toots Shor\u2019s and the Stork Club and shot glasses from Elaine\u2019s. It\u2019s because my desk is decorated in fragile, absorbent newspaper that it has become so riddled with brown coffee rings.<\/p>\n As I start rolling calls for a story, I can feel the coffee sloshing around my empty stomach, and I embrace its stinging jolt. Eventually, I head to the cafeteria for a go-to snack, two hard-boiled eggs. I gulp them down without salt or pepper and then get back to writing at my desk.<\/p>\n I may be a timid eater during the day, but I\u2019m a big eater at night, and my evening stroll to seek out dinner, often at the old places and the vanishing haunts, is a cherished ritual. After leaving the newsroom tonight, I take a mind-clearing walk down to the Old Town Bar<\/a>, where I\u2019ve been a regular for years and which has been dutifully run by the Meagher family for decades. The Meaghers and their staff have always been good to me, letting me hole up for hours as I type away on my glowing laptop. A few years ago, they even hung up a portrait of me from a magazine story, and I\u2019m always shamelessly trying to find ways to point it out to friends.<\/p>\n Jen offers me my favorite corner seat and hands me the menu. I always hope to surprise her by ordering something different, to show her I\u2019m not just a predictable creature of routine, but I rarely succeed. I order the turkey Reuben I\u2019ve ordered so many times before, accompanied by potato salad and two beers. Then I put in my earplugs \u2014 I always keep a pair in the coin pocket of my jeans \u2014 to block out the saloon while I read a packet of news clips I\u2019ve compiled regarding a story I\u2019m looking into.<\/p>\n When I finally settle up to leave, I look at the framed pictures hanging along the walls of writers and journalists like Pete Hamill, Frank McCourt, and Jim Dwyer, and I\u2019m always glad to see them keeping an eye on the place.<\/p>\n Thursday, October 1 It\u2019s not long before my editor, the great Jim Windolf, swings by to ask me how I\u2019m doing, by which he really means, \u201cHow\u2019s that story coming along?\u201d Before we later meet, I white-knuckle down two more of those hard-boiled eggs. Like a blander version of Popeye\u2019s spinach, they give me some extra pep to present Jim with a highly expressive, gesticulation-filled story pitch that convinces him a new idea I have might be a good one. He wants to assign it.<\/p>\n Then I head down to Chinatown to interview a story source. After that, I need to track down an out-of-print book for research on a different story, so I go to the Strand, but they don\u2019t carry it. Since I\u2019m now near 14th Street, I make a pit stop to Rainbow Falafel<\/a>, a hole-in-the-wall that\u2019s one of the last vestiges of 1990s Union Square. The burly guy who slings pitas from behind the tiny counter never recognizes me even though he\u2019s served me since I was a teenager. I order a cup of five falafel balls slathered in white sauce and extra-hot sauce. I finish them on the street corner beside a trash can. I decide that my heart would break if this little stand ever closed. Still seeking that book, I head up to Argosy on the Upper East Side, but I strike out again.<\/p>\n That evening back in my neighborhood, I prep for another dinner ritual: movie night. If left to my own devices, I\u2019d probably just watch movies all day. On a good week, I try to watch one film per night. I hit up one of my local spots, a little sushi joint called Nobi<\/a>, where I pick up an order of salmon don and steamed vegetables. Then I visit my deli to buy two canned beers. Finally at home, I\u2019m craving a comfort movie, so I put on Ghostbusters. When it ends, I\u2019m reminded of just how great that final scene on Central Park West is, where crowds of New Yorkers cheer on the proton-gun-wielding heroes as they trudge through the creamy guts of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.<\/p>\n Friday, October 2 To meet Jeff, I need to leave the newsroom and walk down the block to enter a nearby office building, where I then take an elevator to the basement floor, so I can reach the Morgue. The Morgue is the dusty and cavernous steel-filing-cabinet-filled bunker that\u2019s home to the Times\u2019 archives. Jeff is the resident librarian of sorts, assisting reporters with tracking down ancient news clips and helping photo editors unearth decades-old photo negatives and microfilm reels. If you\u2019ve ever read an obit about a powerful figure in the Times and noticed a striking portrait of them that you\u2019ve never seen before, there\u2019s a good chance Jeff was the guy who fished it out from obscurity from one of the hundreds of filing cabinets in the Morgue.<\/p>\n I love visiting Jeff down here. There\u2019s barely any cell service and there\u2019s a quiet, peaceful hum to the place. Old blues tunes usually pipe from a little CD radio Jeff keeps on his desk, and today he\u2019s got some Muddy Waters going. I\u2019ve brought with me a banana and a cup of black coffee, and we sit together for a while grousing about the\u00a0journalism life and trading war stories. He also offers me some thoughts about a story he\u2019s helping me research. We say good-bye and I step back out into the disorienting rush of midtown.<\/p>\n After I make some last calls back at my desk, I head down to Old Town Bar again, where I have Friday dinner plans with some ink-stained friends. I order one of their signatures, the Pataki sandwich. Also known as \u201cThe Governor\u2019s Choice,\u201d it\u2019s named after George Pataki, and it\u2019s a wondrous combination of mushrooms and melted Muenster served between dark pumpernickel planks. I\u2019m so hungry that I also order the tuna melt, which is served with pickle slices on the side. Then I wash down the stresses of the week with a cold one.<\/p>\n Saturday, October 3 I\u2019ll call my mother first, speaking with her in Italian, to check on my family in Milan. Then I\u2019ll always take at least one long walk by the river, which I find restorative and mentally healthy. And strolling neighborhood after neighborhood, I inevitably find myself working my beat, chatting folks up and collecting string.<\/p>\n Eating guides my weekend wanderings, and today I decide to continue my investigation into a stretch of First Avenue facing Stuyvesant Town that\u2019s crammed with bagel spots. Within three blocks there are four of them: Tal Bagels, Ess-a-Bagel, Gotta Getta Bagel, and a sleepy little spot called David\u2019s Bagels. Why are there so many bagel spots here? Do Stuy Town people just love bagels that much? Who is David? Is there a David?<\/p>\n I enter David\u2019s Bagels to discover an old-school operation. Aside from the bagel display window, a plain cash register, and a couple of empty tables, there\u2019s not much going on. Being something of a bagel snob, I have low expectations as I approach to give my go-to order: an untoasted sesame with lox spread, capers, tomatoes, and onions, along with a black coffee. I sit by the window and stare at a swaying Stuy Town tree as I take my first bite. It ends up being a terrific bagel with perfect chew and a light, sweet aftertaste. I ask the counter lady if there is a David. She says there is but that he\u2019s not in today.<\/p>\n I eat the bagel\u2019s second half on a bench in the skate park of Tompkins Square. The sound of skaters coasting across the concrete is hypnotic and I grow pensive as I sip my coffee. I start thinking about the stories I\u2019ve covered in the East Village over the years.<\/p>\n I remember the artist Anton van Dalen, who was one of Alphabet City\u2019s last pigeon keepers, and how his flocks soared in circles over the park. I remember being 23 and interviewing him at his rooftop coop for what was to be a long profile, back when I was still trying to break into the Times, and how he backed out of the story after our meeting, expressing that he\u2019d decided I didn\u2019t harbor the best of intentions for his pigeons. I resented him at the time, but years later, I really respect that he cared about his pigeons so much.<\/p>\n Leaving the park, I pass Ray\u2019s Candy Store<\/a>, the gnarly late-night outpost known for its deep-fried Twinkies and egg creams, and I remember interviewing its then 85-year-old owner, Ray Alvarez. Late one summer evening, as Ray served ice cream to teenagers, he told me tales about deserting the Iranian navy as a young man before swimming to the shores of Virginia to start his life in America. He then pulled out a tattered copy of the Rubaiyat from beneath his takeout window and read me poetry from it.<\/p>\n My thoughts grow only more nostalgic as I enter Chinatown. On Baxter Street, I peer into the window of what was once Forlini\u2019s, the historic red-sauce institution that served the local court-district crowd until it was discovered by young writers and artists who turned it into their own downtown Elaine\u2019s. Forlini\u2019s closed in 2022, and now it\u2019s a Mexican spot called La Di\u00e1spora. I look for any surviving traces of Forlini\u2019s and finally find one high up on the building\u2019s side in the form of a faded Forlini\u2019s parking sign. I can also see a 28-year-old me, standing nervously outside Forlini\u2019s with a notebook, reporting one of my first big Sunday Metro cover stories.<\/p>\n By the time I reach the Financial District, my thoughts have gotten downright heavy, so I head to the old Pearl Diner<\/a> to perk myself up. The tiny, neon-lit Pearl has always perfectly captured the feel of a truly Nighthawks-y diner, and since I\u2019m in a noirish mood, I want to sit with a steamy cup of black coffee at its counter. But turning onto its street, I discover that its neon sign has gone dark and the diner is boarded up. Turns out it closed a few months ago.<\/p>\n With all these weighty matters of vanishing New York on my mind, it feels like no coincidence that I\u2019ve ended up by the South Street Seaport, which was once the journalistic domain of Joseph Mitchell. His best-known author portrait depicts him wearing his suit and fedora as he leans against a doorway on Water Street. That old doorway is still there, and as I walk past it, I give it a little salute.<\/p>\n If you don\u2019t know the story, Mitchell famously ended up having a legendary case of writer\u2019s block, in which he stopped publishing in The New Yorker after 1964, despite going to work in his office at the magazine for another three decades. Endless debate has ensued among Mitchell scholars as to the cause of this block, but among the most enduring theories is that he had become so pained by seeing the New York he wrote about slowly disappear that he fell into a torturous creative paralysis.<\/p>\n When I finally head back home, I stop in Curry Hill, where my Indian father always used to bring me when he craved a taste of home. Among his favorites on the strip was Haandi, the late-night cabbie institution, where yellow taxis are always parked outside. I order chicken kebabs, biryani, and spiced okra. I need another comfort-movie tonight, so I put on the 1997 space-horror classic Event Horizon, which I\u2019ve watched countless times. I fall asleep on my couch just as all hell starts breaking loose on the ship.<\/p>\n Sunday, October 4 Thankfully, there are few more delight-inducing fall traditions than the Blessing of the Animals, which occurs today and which always gets celebrated with a little extra flair in the churches of the East Village and the Lower East Side. I just know that seeing a bunch of cute cats, dogs, turtles, rabbits, lizards, and gerbils getting blessed will lift my spirits somewhat on this dour day.<\/p>\n So I stroll down to Veniero\u2019s on 11th Street, picking up a bag of raspberry butter cookies, and I nibble on them while strolling through the drizzle to catch the ceremony at Trinity Lutheran Parish. I arrive as it\u2019s ending, but just in time to see throngs of East Villagers leaving with their happily blessed tail-wagging pets. One woman has arrived late with her corgi, but she\u2019s not giving up, and she\u2019s trying to call the pastor on her cell phone to arrange one last blessing.<\/p>\n Then I hit the foggy East River, starting to walk down a route I\u2019ve walked countless times before. While the weather has kept ros\u00e9-sipping picnickers out of the river\u2019s park, it has created only opportunity for the city\u2019s urban anglers, who all know that fish get extra feisty in the rain. I encounter rows of fishermen perched along the water, waiting for the bells on their fishing rods to jingle. As I walk the Chinatown stretch, I see one angler reel in a fat striper. The fish smacks the concrete after he heaves it over the metal fence. I don\u2019t think he\u2019s planning on releasing it back into the water.<\/p>\n I\u2019m starving by the time I reach Manhattan\u2019s south end, so I dash into the Staten Island Ferry Terminal to order one of my favorite hot dogs and a pi\u00f1a colada drink from the criminally overlooked Len\u2019s Papaya<\/a> stand. Unless you ride the ferry, I guess there\u2019s not much reason you\u2019d know about this obscure Gray\u2019s Papaya imitator, but as Gray\u2019s locations have shuttered across the city over the years, Len\u2019s has quietly been holding it down in the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, serving up snappy franks since the 1990s.<\/p>\n The rain has finally cleared and joggers are hitting the river path for their night runs, so I decide to push myself, to keep walking north back up the island\u2019s Hudson River side. I finally tap out as I\u2019m nearing the Meatpacking District. My feet are beat and I\u2019m starving all over again.<\/p>\n But as I get off the river path to go find dinner, I\u2019m faced again with the specter of a vanishing New York. I pass the shuttered Hector\u2019s Diner, which for decades serviced everyone from butchers to club kids to construction workers, until it became one of the last holdouts of the old bloodstained Meatpacking District. It closed to little notice last year. A block away, I pass the ghostly Liberty Inn, a discreet building that was Manhattan\u2019s last hourly motel until it closed after five decades in 2023. I wrote about its final days, spending an afternoon with its elderly owner, Edward Raboy, who opened up to me about what it was like running his hot-sheets motel as the gritty area transformed into a luxurious strip mall around him.<\/p>\n Not long before he ended up selling the building for over $20 million, Raboy told me, \u201cSo much has changed since the 1970s, back when I called this area the \u2018Wild West Side.\u2019 It\u2019s now turned into an almost sedate kind of place. What was then appropriate for a hotel like this doesn\u2019t make sense quite the same way anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n I decide to end my walk with a meal on a bench by the river, something that always clears out my mind for the week ahead. I head into Chelsea Market as they\u2019re closing and order a fish sandwich with tartar sauce, along with a fizzy lemonade, from the Lobster Place<\/a>. Then I cross back over the West Side Highway with my takeout bag to a favorite bench. The river is dark and glassy now, and I dunk my sandwich into the tartar sauce as I watch boats and barges go by.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve always liked this bench because it offers a view of a calming red light that shines onto the water from across the way in New Jersey. It\u2019s deep and crimson and looks like it\u2019s blazing out from an ancient lighthouse or something. It originates from the glowing marquee of a W Hotel in Hoboken, but I\u2019ll take what I can get.<\/p>\n I\u2019m always calmed when I stare into this watery red light. It gets me thinking about that last line from Gatsby \u2014 about how we beat on, like boats against the current, always borne back ceaselessly into the past.<\/p>\n EAT LIKE THE EXPERTS.<\/p>\n Sign up for the Grub Street newsletter.<\/p>\n Vox Media, LLC Terms and Privacy Notice<\/p>\n
After waking up alone in my prewar studio apartment in Kips Bay, I begin my morning ritual, which is steeped in monasticism. If I have early-morning copy due \u2014 usually while haggard from reporting a deadline dispatch or nightlife column into the wee hours \u2014 I\u2019ll chug a double espresso in the shower to get the caffeine into my bloodstream as fast as possible before I start writing. Today isn\u2019t one of those days, so I pick out what to wear from my closet, which takes little thought, because for years I\u2019ve worn a regular outfit of cotton button-downs, black jeans, and sneakers, and my closet is filled with neatly hanging multiples of these clothes.<\/p>\n
Today I need to head out to do some reporting, so I need as much of that nervy city energy as I can get. Walking breakfastless again through midtown, the streets feel especially noisy and traffic jammed. When a bike messenger nearly hits me on Seventh Avenue, I feel oddly exhilarated. I start mainlining coffee as soon as I get to my desk.<\/p>\n
Another breakfastless midtown morning. Another day at my ink-stained desk as I nurse cups of coffee while I tinker with a story. Except today I have a lunch date with one of my favorite colleagues, Jeff Roth, who is the archivist of the Times.<\/p>\n
I sometimes get a little self-conscious when people ask me if I have big weekend plans, because more often than not, I\u2019m doing the same thing, which is taking long, mind-clearing walks around the city.<\/p>\n
It is a menacingly drizzly and gloomy day. So I\u2019m forced into a pensive mood all over again. I decide that taking another long, mind-clearing walk is the only remedy.<\/p>\n