A Smith Street Story
Yesterday I took a walk up my neighborhood strip, Smith Street, to visit my favorite cobbler. Smith Street is called "Brooklyn's Restaurant Row" by some but I sometimes wonder if it is where good dining venues go to die. Walking west I noticed four new restaurants, and while massive renovations led me to forget what exactly had been in the locations before, I couldn't believe I had missed all those closings.
The new venues include yet another Italian restaurant, as if 25 in a half mile radius wasn't enough. I never understand exactly what makes a restaurant succeed in our neck of the woods. An Italian venue up the street (which does offer delicious pizzas and fairly authentic pasta) not only survived but expanded to become twice its original size. What puzzles me is that the ambiance in this particular restaurant can best be described as Eurotrash meets Olive Garden rustic. The brothers who opened the place are 100% Sicilian— Last year while dining with one of my best friends, a waiter accidentally tipped a candle over into her lap, spilling hot wax all over her leg. He comped us with glasses of red wine filled to the lip but also asked if she'd like him to do it again. The restaurant usually blares loud eighties music or LiteFM tunes and the large wooden tables are crammed with heavy "Italian" china found in the home aisle of TJMax.
There are indeed fewer and fewer places I'd like to eat in my neighborhood. But standard establishments still hold cache—Esposito's on Court makes the most delicious proscuitto bread and extra-sharp provolone, Zaytoon's has mastered the art of schwarma, and my Armenian cobber must be the most talented leather-worker this side of the state. I love my cobbler because he always compliments me on my choice of shoes that I've won off Ebay for the quality of the leather and the unique styles. He can transform a $5.00 pair of vintage shoes into shiny and solid new pumps.
As I approached my cobbler's storefront I noticed newspaper covering the windows and peering through a rip I witnessed the standard woodworking and lighting of a new Smith Street restaurant. I wanted to cry. My cobbler had not been appreciated for his amazing skill, he had been outbid or lost his lease and was wandering the streets looking for employment. Then I noticed a shiny new Shoe Repair sign, two doors to the right. My cobbler had survived! I stepped into his new shop with bright white walls and air conditioning. I wanted to give him a hug but instead I just handed over my Bruno Magli pumps circa 1975 and asked for new soles and heel tips.
The new venues include yet another Italian restaurant, as if 25 in a half mile radius wasn't enough. I never understand exactly what makes a restaurant succeed in our neck of the woods. An Italian venue up the street (which does offer delicious pizzas and fairly authentic pasta) not only survived but expanded to become twice its original size. What puzzles me is that the ambiance in this particular restaurant can best be described as Eurotrash meets Olive Garden rustic. The brothers who opened the place are 100% Sicilian— Last year while dining with one of my best friends, a waiter accidentally tipped a candle over into her lap, spilling hot wax all over her leg. He comped us with glasses of red wine filled to the lip but also asked if she'd like him to do it again. The restaurant usually blares loud eighties music or LiteFM tunes and the large wooden tables are crammed with heavy "Italian" china found in the home aisle of TJMax.
There are indeed fewer and fewer places I'd like to eat in my neighborhood. But standard establishments still hold cache—Esposito's on Court makes the most delicious proscuitto bread and extra-sharp provolone, Zaytoon's has mastered the art of schwarma, and my Armenian cobber must be the most talented leather-worker this side of the state. I love my cobbler because he always compliments me on my choice of shoes that I've won off Ebay for the quality of the leather and the unique styles. He can transform a $5.00 pair of vintage shoes into shiny and solid new pumps.
As I approached my cobbler's storefront I noticed newspaper covering the windows and peering through a rip I witnessed the standard woodworking and lighting of a new Smith Street restaurant. I wanted to cry. My cobbler had not been appreciated for his amazing skill, he had been outbid or lost his lease and was wandering the streets looking for employment. Then I noticed a shiny new Shoe Repair sign, two doors to the right. My cobbler had survived! I stepped into his new shop with bright white walls and air conditioning. I wanted to give him a hug but instead I just handed over my Bruno Magli pumps circa 1975 and asked for new soles and heel tips.
posted by Rebecca at 10:38 AM
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