John Sloan's "McSorley's Bar"

McSorley's Bar courtesy of Detroit Institute of Arts

A century ago, John Sloan--a member of The Eight, perhaps New York's most famous group of early 20th-century artists--painted McSorley's Bar, the best-known of the many paintings and drawings he would create of New York's oldest bar. As we've noted in previous blog posts, McSorley's was founded in 1854. Not only had little changed when Sloan painted his interior in 1912, but little has changed today. The saloon continues to serve only one thing, its own ale, in two varieties: light and dark. The walls are still crammed with memorabilia stretching back to the saloon's founding.

John Sloan arrived in New York in 1904, and seems to have discovered McSorley's in 1912. After two visits in the space of a week, he began painting McSorley's Back Room, which Sloan reverently described as being "like a sacristy." Soon, Sloan returned to paint what would be his most notable depiction of the saloon, McSorley's Bar, which the artist selected as his entry in 1913 Armory Show. (By the way, the man behind the bar drawing a glass of beer is Bill McSorley, son of founder John McSorley.)

In 1928, Sloan returned to the saloon as the subject of a pair of paintings, McSorley's at Home, and McSorley's Cats. While the bar was famous in the 1920s for having well over a dozen cats in residence, the cat painting was actually based on a lithograph Sloan had made in 1913, which had already been widely reproduced. Sloan's final painting of the saloon was McSorley's Saturday Night, completed in 1930. It's interesting to  note that these final paintings--which show a crowded, popular bar--were made during Prohibition, a law that McSorley's openly ignored.

As Grant Holcomb notes in his article, "John Sloan and 'McSorley's Wonderful Saloon'" (paywalled, I'm sorry to say):

In 1941 McSorley's requested an autographed picture of the artist as many visitors "learned of the old place through your famous paintings of it and always ask if we have a photograph of you."

If anyone is the neighborhood, please stop by and see if John Sloan's photo is still hanging on the wall.

Many things have remained unchanged about McSorley's in the last century, but one major change was the admission, in 1970, of women, who had been banned up to that point. Twenty-five years ago, in 1987, the bar finally added a women's restroom to accommodate female patrons.

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Knickerbocker Hotel

The other day, the New York Post reported that work is finally underway on the old Knickerbocker Hotel on 42nd Street. According to the article, the Knickerbocker, which was turned into office space years ago, will once again become a luxury hotel.

The Knickerbocker was built by John Jacob Astor IV in 1906, and soon became a hot spot in the city. The bar, known as the Forty-Second Street Country Club, not only featured a free lunch, but also one of the most talked-about paintings in the city, Maxfield Parrish's Old King Cole. The massive mural depicts John Jacob Astor IV as Old King Cole. Taking a look at the painting, you can see that the king and his attendants are all making odd faces. According to lore, this is because Parrish was in a contest with other painters to see who could be the first to depict the act of someone passing gas. Evidently, Parrish won.

Also according to legend, the bartender at the Forty-Second Street Country Club, Martini di Arma di Taggia, invented the Martini at the Knickerbocker for John D. Rockefeller. When Rockefeller found the gin in the drink too harsh, he allegedly took an olive from a dish on the bar and plopped it in the drink. (In order for this story to be true, we must forget that the recipe for the martini prototype, the Martinez, was published in a bartender's guide twenty years before the hotel opened.)

The Knickerbocker opened just two years after the completion of the first line of the IRT subway, and as one of its amenities, there was a private entrance to the hotel from the 42nd Street subway station. This entrance is still there--if you go down to the shuttle stop--which is the only part of the Times Square station that is original--you'll see the sign for the Knickerbocker emblazoned above a door in the corner. You don't suppose they'll reopen this when the new hotel is finished, do you?

By the way, the Old King Cole mural left the Knickerbocker when the hotel was converted to offices, bouncing around New York until it found a home at the St. Regis, where it can be seen today.

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Inside the Apple

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Happy Birthday, Alexander Hamilton

Today marks the birthday of Alexander Hamilton, America's first Treasury Secretary, and the man who hoped that his adopted hometown, New York, would be the capital of the United States.

Hamilton was born on January 11, 1757 (though some sources argue for 1755), on the island of Nevis in the Caribbean. In 1773, Hamilton began attending classes at King's College in New York (which would change its name after the American Revolution to Columbia College). When the Revolution began two years later, Hamilton joined the New York militia and soon rose to become one of George Washington's most trusted aides.

During the drafting of the U.S. Constitution, Hamilton saw the value of moving the fledgling country's seat of government to New York, which was fast becoming its largest city and biggest port. As we write in Inside the Apple:

In May 1787, the Constitutional Convention began in Philadelphia, which...had long served as America’s political center. But congress itself had not been meeting in Philadelphia since June 20, 1783, when the State House had been surrounded by mutinous Pennsylvania soldiers looking for their Revolutionary War back pay. Under the Articles of Confederation, the federal government lacked the power to disburse the mob—and Pennsylvania’s executive committee refused to do so—forcing congress to flee to Princeton, New Jersey. Over the next two years, the seat of congress moved a few times until finding a home in New York City. 

As part of the new Constitution, the states agreed to have a capital city that was not governed by a state, thus heading off another Pennsylvania debacle, and Alexander Hamilton’s preference was for that city to be his own. Pierre L’Enfant, who would achieve great fame as the master planner of Washington, D.C., remodeled the old British City Hall on Wall Street to serve not only as the meeting place for congress and the new chief executive but also continue to house New York City’s government office....

Washington initially made only three cabinet appointments: General Henry Knox became Secretary of War, Thomas Jefferson—still serving in France as America’s foreign minister—became Secretary of State, and Hamilton was appointed Secretary of the Treasury and de facto Prime Minister. When Jefferson returned to America in 1790, he hurried to New York to assume his post—and to see what damage of Hamilton’s he could undo. He vehemently opposed Hamilton’s ideas regarding a central United States bank and a federal assumption of the debts the states had incurred during the war. But, it seems, he opposed locating the nation’s capital in New York even more. 

On June 20, 1790—exactly seven years after the Pennsylvania militia had forced the Continental Congress to flee Philadelphia—the capital was forced to move again, this time at a dinner party. At the dinner, which was hosted by Jefferson and James Madison at Jefferson’s home on Maiden Lane, the two Virginians told Hamilton that they wielded such sway in Congress that they could block Hamilton’s controversial banking measures. Conversely, they promised to ensure Hamilton’s bills went through as long as he didn’t oppose their quest to move the federal capital to the South. Hamilton, realizing that the needs of the Treasury Department outweighed his New York City pride, acquiesced. In August 1790, congress met for the last time on Wall Street.

What most people remember about Hamilton today is not how he lived but rather how he died, slain in a duel by Vice President Aaron Burr. If you want to pay your respects to this New York founding father, you can head downtown to Trinity Church, Wall Street, where he is buried, or head uptown to Harlem, where his home, Hamilton Grange, is open for visitation.

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Read more about Alexander Hamilton in
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Jarmulowsky's Bank

A couple of days ago, it was reported that the Jarmulowsky Bank Building at 54 Canal Street—once the tallest building on the Lower East Side—has finally sold. It was purchased by DLJ Real Estate Partners for $36 million, who are likely going to turn it into a hotel.

The bank, completed in 1912, was not only the tallest building in the neighborhood, but served as a symbol of the Lower East Side’s prosperity. The bank’s founder, Sender Jarmulowsky, was born in the Russian empire (in what is now Poland) in 1841. Orphaned at age three, Jarmulowsky was originally on track to become a rabbi, but he had other ideas. In 1868, he and his new (and wealthy) wife moved to Hamburg to start a passenger ship ticketing business.

The ticket business was simple: Jarmulowsky would purchase blocks of steerage tickets and then sell them on credit to Eastern European Jews eager to escape the increasingly harsh conditions of czarist Russia. Because Jarmulowsky could buy tickets in bulk and do so when prices were at their lowest (tickets were good for up to one year), he could make a profit while selling tickets at their high-season prices.

In 1873, Jarmulowsky emigrated to New York and established a ticket business on the Lower East Side—with a staff that spoke Yiddish and Russian—so that New Yorkers could buy passage for relatives in Europe. By 1878, Jarmulowsky had set up shop at the corner of Canal and Orchard streets; because so much money was flowing through his business, Jarmulowsky’s soon became an outright bank.

In 1912, the current Jarmulowsky Bank building was erected by the firm of Rouse & Goldstone, who are best-known for their apartment buildings, including Marjorie Merriweather Post’s massive digs at 1107 Fifth Avenue. It is rumored that the cupola (which, alas, is now gone) was added to Rouse & Goldstone’s original plans in order to make certain the bank was taller than the nearby Forward building.

At the height of his career, Sender Jarmulowsky was beloved in the neighborhood. He was the founding president of the Eldridge Street Synagogue and (in the words of one local Yiddish newspaper) “living proof that in America one can be a rich businessman but also be a true, pious Jew.”

Jarmulowsky died in 1912, soon after the building’s opening. His sons Henry, Louis, and Meyer took over their father’s operation. Because the passenger ship ticketing side of the business was increasingly difficult to run (big steamship companies began insisting that people purchase passage directly from them), the sons began investing the bank’s deposits in real estate. Though Sender Jarmulowsky had always been able to weather financial panics, his sons could not. When World War I broke out, nervous investors tried to pull their money—money the Jarmulowskys didn’t have. On August 4, 1914, the state took over the Jarmulowskys’ holdings, causing panicked investors to riot in front of 54 Canal Street. Over 3,000 depositors marched on City Hall, where some were beaten and arrested by police. A month later, a smaller mob marched on Meyer Jarmulowsky’s apartment building on Fort Washington Avenue, causing the banker to flee out his fourth floor window, over the rooftop to an adjacent building, and down to a waiting taxicab below. Such shame was brought on the family, that later generations changed their name to Jarmel and Jarmuth.

The bank never occupied more than the lower few floors of the building; the upper floors were designed to be garment factories, which they remained until the last decade. Though the building has been vacant for a few years, there were until recently still sweatshop exhaust pipes peeking out of some of the upper windows.

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Read more about the history of the Lower East Side in
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Happy New Year!

Thanks so much to everyone who has followed our blog this year. 2012 promises to be a fun year for Inside the Apple--we'll be posting articles on an array of topics, including a series related to the 200th anniversary of the War of 1812.

We welcome suggestions. Sometimes readers will send in photos of buildings and ask, "What's this?" Sometimes, questions will come up on tours that we can't answer and the results end up on this blog. If you notice something around the city--or have a nagging question you've always wanted answered--put it in the comments or send it along to info@insidetheapple.net, and we'll try our best to answer.

In the meantime, we hope you have a great New Year's Eve. We will be watching the ball drop--as always, from the comfort and safety of our own home. If you don't know why it's a ball that drops, read our post from 2009 that explains it all.

Best wishes for 2012
Michelle & James Nevius

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The Odd Couple

When we heard yesterday that Jack Klugman would be returning to the stage in Twelve Angry Men (he is the only cast member from the original 1957 film still living), our thoughts immediately turned to Klugman's most famous role--that of New York City sportswriter and notorious slob Oscar Madison in The Odd Couple.

Based on Neil Simon's hit play and film of the same name, the television show ran from 1970 to 1975. Klugman played opposite Tony Randall's Felix Unger, a photographer and neat freak. Though produced on a sound stage,* the opening credits were filmed on location around New York, and like many shows of that era, they provide a glimpse into the city of the time.

* Season one was filmed on the movie's set; subsequent seasons were in front of live audience  in Hollywood.

The two men live in Oscar's apartment at 1049 Park Avenue, from which they are seen emerging in the opening credits (above). A coop building from 1919, it hasn't changed much over the years, though we doubt Felix and Oscar were paying $8,100 a month rent (which at least one apartment is currently going for). Even adjusting for inflation, that would be about $1,500 in 1970, which still seems high. In the fourth season episode "The New Car"--filmed partly on location in New York--the characters inexplicably move to Central Park West and 74th Street, presumably into the San Remo.

Oscar is a writer for the New York Herald; the only problem with this is that the Herald had gone out of business in 1924, purchased by its rival the Tribune. (As the New York Herald Tribune, it continued publication until 1966; the International Herald Tribune is still in business.) The Herald was published from a wonderful Stanford White building on Herald Square, which is also gone. In the credits, we see Oscar getting out of a taxi in midtown, near Times Square.

Perhaps the best part of the original credits shows Felix and Oscar learning to dance at a maypole celebration on Sheep Meadow in Central Park. In the background the Century (25 Central Park West) and the old Gulf and Western building (now Trump International Hotel) loom over them.

Maypole celebrations in Central Park go back at least as far as 1909, and by 1914, the New York Times was reporting that 7,000 girls from sixty-eight public schools had come to the park to erect maypoles and dance. Indeed, maypole celebrations still take place each year in Central Park, though we're guessing nowhere near as many people show up.

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We'll be back before the ball drops to wish you a Happy New Year, but in the meantime, hope you are having a wonderful Hanukkah, that you amaze your friends with feats of strength tomorrow at Festivus, that you have a Merry Christmas, and a wonderful Kwanzaa.

Michelle and James Nevius

www.insidetheapple.net

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Twenty-Three Skidoo

Here's another gem from the Inside the Apple archives. This postcard was made in 1908 and shows two birds ("Bird's eye view"--get it?) outside the Flatiron building at Fifth Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Because of the Flatiron's unique shape and its location along a broad crosstown thoroughfare, strong winds swirl near its base. When the building first opened, men used to flock to Madison Square to watch women walking by in the hope that the air currents would sweep up their skirts and reveal a glimpse of stocking.

This is exactly what is depicted in the postcard above: the gentleman in the background is giving a knowing wink as the lady's skirt and petticoats blow up, revealing her ankles. How risque!

In real life, there were a number of police officers posted to the Flatiron to encourage ogling men to move along. One common phrase they employed was "twenty-three skidoo!" Skidoo is a relative of skedaddle and means "to move along" or "go away." The number 23 was long thought to be a reference to the Twenty-Third Street; thus "23 skidoo" meant "stop hanging out on Twenty-Third Street."

However, it turns out that "23" was already a slang term for "get lost" before there was a Flatiron building, cited at least as early as 1899. What seems plausible is that the police wanted to get rid of men in front of the Flatiron, so combined two already existing phrases that each meant scram--"twenty-three" and "skidoo"--into a phrase that had a double meaning. Soon, "23 skidoo" was one of the most popular phrases in America--it is still sometimes employed today, over a century later.

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Read about the building of the Flatiron in Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City

(Which, by the way, makes an excellent holiday gift -- read all about where to purchase it here.)

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John Lennon's Murder

Today marks the thirty-first anniversary of John Lennon's murder at the hands of Mark David Chapman.

Though Lennon is most famous for living--and dying--at the Dakota on Central Park West, when he first moved to New York, he and wife Yoko Ono lived in Greenwich Village. You can read about their time in the Village in our blog post from 2008 or in Inside the Apple. (Which, BTW, continues to make an excellent gift this holiday season.....)

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Repeal!

On December 5, 1933, at 2:00 p.m., the 18th Amendment -- Prohibition -- was repealed, finally ending the so-called "noble experiment."

As we write in Inside the Apple:

The 18th Amendment, passed by Congress in December 1917 and ratified by the majority of the states in January 1919, was the outgrowth of years of temperance crusading in America. While there was always a moralistic tone to the temperance movement, there was also a genuine desire to improve public health. In no era did Americans drink as much as they did in the late 19th century. Alcohol was cheap, it was served at saloons that acted as de facto community centers, and it was considered by most immigrant New Yorkers to be safer than water. In Tompkins Square Park, in the middle of Kleindeutschland, Henry Cogswell, a crusading dentist from San Francisco, set up a temperance fountain in 1888 to provide clean drinking water and convince the Germans there to stop drinking beer—and stop feeding it to their children. Similarly, a working dairy was planned for Central Park directly next to the German children’s playground (called the “Kinderberg”), where children would be provided with free, uncontaminated milk. (The rustic Dairy was built, but no cows were ever brought to the park and it ended up as a restaurant. Today’s it’s the park’s gift shop.)

Read more about repeal in our blog post from 2008, or if you haven't seen it already, take a look at Ken Burns's Prohibition, which tells the sad story of the 18th Amendment from start to finish.

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And don't forget to pick up a copy of Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City

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Mantle Men and Namath Girls

Would you hire a temp from these guys?

In 1968, the ad agency Lois Holland Callaway thought so. Deciding that the time was right to diversify (and that New York was always filled with people looking for work), Lois Holland Callaway launched an employment agency.

To be the public face of the company, they picked Yankee great Mickey Mantle and Jets quarterback Joe Namath and named the new venture Mantle Men and Namath Girls. It seemed like a winning bet: the telegenic Mantle had already appeared in commercials for the company, including a well-known spot for Maypo cereal ("I Want My Maypo...I Want It!") and Namath was arguably the most famous sports figure in New York. The pair did personal appearances to hype the company, appeared in all of the print ads, and even made television commercials (a first for an employment agency). Soon, Mantle Men and Namath Girls had a dozen offices in the city and the suburbs; within a year it was the second-largest employment agency in the world.

(c) Bettmann/CORBIS

What the company didn't count on was a souring economy. According to George Lois, one of the company's founders, the recession of 1969--the worst since the Korean War--killed the venture. While more people out of work meant more business in the short term, it also meant fewer jobs, and Mantle Men and Namath Girls had grown too quickly to sustain itself. Lois Holland Callaway sold the company and by 1974 it had filed for bankruptcy.

The experience obviously didn't make Joe Namath shy away from advertising. In the 1970s, he went on to star in ads for Noxema shaving cream and Hanes' Beauty Mist pantyhose, which helped cement his status as a pop culture icon.

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For more about New York in the 1960s, pick up a copy of our book

Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City

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