The first public house of any account started on the East Side was the Hell Gate Hotel. It was built on what is now Ward’s Island, and sports like McGowan, Randall, Vermilyea and Waldron were its steady patrons. At that time there was a wooden bridge extending over the Harlem river from the mainland and the island, beginnin’ from about where One Hundred and Fifteenth Street ends now. From this bridge there was fine fishin’ which was eagerly enjoyed. It used to be the custom to make up parties and spend the day at and around this Hell Gate Hotel, and there was a good deal of cock fightin’ going on all the time durin’ the season.
Durin’ the second war with England the bridge was held by the State militia, who fortified Mill Rock and Halsey’s Point at Astoria. A few years after the war the bridge was carried away almost entirely by an ice gorge. But the Hell Gate Hotel held its own, and, in fact, remains to-day in a dilapidated and partly repaired condition. Lewis Lyons kept it last as a hotel.
Another hotel–the Bandamula Point Tavern, was located where the Dry Dock is now, Tenth street and the East River. “Old Vanzant,” as everybody for some reason called him, (though he wasn’t very old and his real name wasn’t Vanzant) a tip-top honorable fellow, very popular, was the proprietor, and kept things lively. This place rivaled the old Hell Gate Hotel for fishin’. Some said the fishing was even better here than there; while in the immediate vicinity of the hotel was a piece of ground that was the great resort for target companies, then all the rage. Quoit pitchin’ was a feature, and occasionally a prize fight.
Near the tavern Jim Sandford and Bill Hatfield, two noted pugilists of the time, had a desperate encounter, which was talked about for years, till the Hyer-Sullivan and other fights of that sort threw it into the shade.
At that time, too, “King Pin Hall” flourished like a green bay tree. This place was located on what is now Second avenue, between First and Second streets. It was a great resort for sports and politicians, especially the latter. All the old-time Alderman patronized his place, and it became a sort of political exchange for people of all shades of politics. In this particular respect there is no place exactly like King Pin Hall in New York to-day.
Hadley and Loring were the proprietors, and knowin’ that politicians, no matter to what party they belonged, were generally good judges of liquors, kept the very best the market afforded–a fact which kept King Pin Hall always the king pin of halls, or saloons.
Some of the sports around King Pin Hall invented a novel way of combinin’ fun and charity. They subscribed, or pulled together, and bought a load of bricks, which they had deposited near the hall; then they bought a grindstone, and kept that outside the hall door; then they would get chairs, and in fine weather would sit outside the wall near the bricks and the grindstone.
If any poor man came along who wanted some money, or any tramp passed by who thirsted in vain for a drink, then the boys would gratify ‘em. They would offer the poor man or tramp his choice of jobs, either he would carry the bricks from one side of the street to the other at the usual rate of the proportionate day’s pay per hou–about ten cents an hour at that rate the–or he could turn the grindstone and take his chances on sharpenin’ any knives, etc., that might be presented to him.
Of course turnin’ the grindstone paid the best, but it was uncertain; there might be several parties who wanted knives sharpened or there might not be; but carryin’ the bricks to and fro was a certainty, and a man could by an hour’s work always earn a drink.
But then he would have to work an hour to earn it. A few honest, hard up poor devils really took to the brick racket for a day’s wages and got one dollar a day, but as there was no special fun in this sort of thing it was not encouraged. One old fellow, nicknamed “Grindstone Charley,” generally turned the grindstone racket into two drinks per day, mornin’ and evenin’, but was never known to do any kind of other work whatsoever.
Another popular tavern at this time was the Old Sycamore Hotel. This occupied the site of Skidmore’s present coal yard, Thirteenth street and Fourth Avenue. It was so called from an old sycamore tree which stood near it, and which tree outlasted the hotel. Harry Collins kept the place. Harry was a crack sport of the olden time, considered an A1 target marksman and cockfighter–at that period, almost equal to two patents of nobility. Harry was rather vain of his two accomplishments, and no matter what he commenced talkin’ about would wind up with somethin’ about shootin’ or cockfightin’. Of course no man in ancient or modern times ever resembled Harry Collins in this particular. Harry Costar and Joseph Marks, two well-known men about town, used to patronize “the Old Sycamore,” and were considered, and considered ‘emselves, its swell patrons.
Joseph Marks was very proud of a pet horse and a pet greyhound who were very fond of him and of each other. Marks fed ‘em both every day, and the warmest kind of attachment spraying up between the trio. The horse was very fast and the dog was very fleet, and the sports at the tavern used to wonder which was really the swifter of the two animals. Finally Marks was persuaded to let a race take place between the two. The race was publicly announced, chiefly through the exertions of Harry Collins, who naturally regarded the affair as the one great sportin’ event in the world’s annals. Large sums of money were bet on the result, and all was excitement and anticipation. As for Joseph Marks, he bet on his dog.
The match was for fifty dollars a side, the race was for one mile, and the event came off on the Third avenue terminatin’ at a pear tree, near the Old Sycamore.
The horse was in charge of the boy who tended Marks’s stable. The dog took charge of himself. Marks stood near the pear tree, which was the terminus of the race. The avenue was lined with spectators, who waited patiently, and meanwhile made small bets, mostly on the horse. Marks had his agents takin’ up quietly as many bets as they could against the dog.
The contest began, and for about nine-tenths of the distance, the horse kept just a little ahead of the dog. Then just towards the last Marks called out to the dog, and the dog saw Marks. He immediately gave one bark, and one bound, got a new lease of life into his legs, and came up to the pear tree and his master, about four lengths ahead of the horse.
The dog won and Marks scooped in the money on the bets.
[Editor’s notes: Very few sources even mention the place name Bandamula Point, but the column above drew from an article, “The Old Fishing Grounds of the Knickerbockers,” which appeared in the August, 1884 issue of The American Angler. Not only does this article provide a map locating Bandamula Point, it also corrects the name of the tavern owner to Van Ranst, which makes more sense, as the Van Ranst family owned property just across the East River in Bushwick. Today Bandamula Point is a curve in FDR Drive across from the Bushwick Inlet and Greenpoint.]
