People in New York think that they know all about New York of course, yet I doubt if many know that one of the finest halls, architecturally speakin’, in the world, has been used for a quarter of a century as a restaurant in the Bowery. Christ Church in this city, the Long Room in London, one place in Paris, and St. Peter’s Church in Rome are said to be the only four places in the world built like this Bowery restaurant. Yet this place is now, and has been from its start, nearly thirty years ago, an all-night eatin’ house. Its peculiarity consists in the fact that it is very high, about twice the height of an ordinary room or hall, and is lighted wholly from the top, which is composed of a series of domes surroundin’ a central dome, a little larger than the others.
It stands next to where Charley White’s old Melodeon used to stand, nearly opposite the old Bowery Theatre. Crook kept the place for years and made a deal of money off of it, then left it and went into speculatin’ and lost it again. Then a short, lame, enterprisin’ individual by the name of Nelson took hold of it, made a fortune, left it, lost the fortune, and came back to the old place again. It has seen a great many changes, was once a swell place of old New York, and yet it has been for years forgotten, save by its customers.
Talkin’ of restaurants reminds me that the time was when Guerin was better known than Delmonico in New York. Guerin was in fact the chief rival of the original Delmonico. But he and his history are now numbered among the forgotten facts. Guerin was a Frenchman of rather miserly personal habits, who came over to this country and started a cafe in New York on Broadway, between Pine and Cedar streets, right opposite the old City Hotel.
Had Guerin been a really liberal-minded man and improved his property and let his establishment expand with its trade, he might have become one of the rich men of New York, but he wouldn’t spend a cent for improvements; he wouldn’t even keep his place clean. He just took in all the money he could, and then let the dingy old den, for it got to that after a while, to somebody else. Finally the whole establishment was “wiped out,” and the very name of Guerin with it.
Before Guerin’s time there was a famous old New York restaurant which has long been forgotten, save by a few old, very old “rounders.” On State street, near Pearl, there used to be a two-story house, very plain looking outside, but the coziest place inside. This was Pete Bayard’s, and everybody from Philadelphia to Boston, who was anybody, and cared anythin’ for good livin’, knew Pete Bayard’s and was aware by happy personal experience that it was the only place to get real turtle soup in New York. Pete was good on oysters and clams, better yet on wines and liquors, but best of all in his turtle soup. I heard an old fellow say the other day, smackin’ his lips at the recollection, that he would be willing to die “next year” if only he could get one more bowl full of Pete Bayard’s turtle soup and wash it down with a bottle of his old port.
This old fellow, whom I have just quoted, remembers distinctly the day when what is now the Harlem Railroad sent its first “train,” such as it was, along its tracks, such as they were. Quite a crowd was congregated at the Vauxhall Gardens, which stood about where the Cooper Institute stands, and my friend was one of the foremost and most excited men in the crowd, for he held a little of the stock (a good deal for him) of the road at the beginnin’.
The cars on this first Harlem train were more like boxes on wheels than cars, and the locomotive was about as much smaller than the present L road engines, as these are smaller than the big freight locomotives on the Erie and Central. There was an “upgrade” on what is now Union Square which it was all the locomotive could do to get over–in fact one locomotive “burst” on the grade once, doin’ a deal of damage.
The original Harlem Railroad ran from Prince Street and the Bowery to Yorkville Hill. There it had to wait for the “tunnel” to be made–which tunnel was regarded as the biggest affair of the kind in the world when it was first started. “Harlem” was one of the earliest railroad shares put on the market, and gave the stock operators their first chance to learn how to play football. George Law played ball with it awhile. An operator called Hurd followed, and “Harlem” kept goin’ up and down–generally down–till rough old Vanderbilt and John M. Tobin got hold of it and made it what it is.
At any rate, the crowd that “openin’ day,” standin’ near the Vauxhall Gardens, cheered loudly as the train went on, and my friend cheered louder than any of the rest, though he didn’t cheer quite so loudly when he lost–on the wrong sid–in the famous Harlem corner years afterwards.
Writing of the Vauxhall Garden, it was quite famous as a resort in its day–a people’s garden. It occupied most of the block now bounded by Fourth Avenue ,Fourth street, Lafayette place and Astor place, the main entrance bein’ on Fourth avenue opposite Sixth street, which was surrounded by a high board fence.
The night of the Astor place riots was a great night for Vauxhall Garden. It was turned into a sort of hospital for the victims of the affair. One old gentleman who was shot in Astor place was carried into the Garden and laid on the billiard table in the saloon. He died on the table I believe, and the Garden itself gave up the ghost not long afterwards.
There were three places in old New York, each of which was regarded as representing a different kind of cookin’, eatin’, and drinkin’. Downing’s, in Broad street was largely patronized by those who held that a negro could beat the world in cookery.
Then there was Clark and Brown’s, on Maiden lane, an “English” house, where they dealt in beefsteaks, chops, English plum puddin’, Yorkshire puddin’ and all those kinds of things.
And then there was the Auction House, on Water street, near Wall, which prided itself on being particularly “American.” This Auction House was great on its “pies.” The proprietors of the old Auction House were willin’ to swear that there were no pies in the world like Brown’s. George W. Brown, the proprietor of the place, who havin’ been “old merchant” and failed, made another fortune in caterin’ to young and old American in pies. It was called the Auction House because all the big auctioneers had their stores near it.
There used to be a good deal of rivalry between these three places, or rather between the patrons of ‘em.
Downing’s cellar was not at all showy, but quite comfortable and decidedly popular, especially among the old Custom House people, the Custom House being right close to it and runnin’ through to Cedar. The big and small politicians of old New York used to love to “loaf” at Downing’s and eat Saddle Rock stews.
Jonathan Coddington christened Downing “the Prince of Saddle Rocks,” a title which stuck to him until he died. Old Downing liked notoriety, but he had the good sense not to let his liking interfere with his discretion. He never forgot that he was only a cook, and he was always civil to white folks, high and low, and never let his politics interfere with his purse. In this respect he showed better sense by far than his son George T., who tried to mix offices and oysters together and failed.
Old Delmonico, Delmonico the first, came to New York during Downing’s time and at one time was of a good deal less account than Downing. But Delmonico had three good things about him which carried him through–he could work, he could wait and he could see ahead. These three qualities put together took him to the front, and when he got there he kept him there. He began in a little cook shop on William street, between Fulton and Ann streets, opposite the North Dutch Church, and did his own cookin’ and waitin’ on customers. He didn’t have as good a chance at the start as Guerin, but he had more faith in New York, and wasn’t so much afraid of spendin’ a dollar.
To tell the truth, the original Delmonico’s wines are by many good judges who are still livin’ pronounced to be superior to the Delmonico wines now. In fact, although champagne wasn’t as well known thirty and forty years ago as it is now, the madeira and the sherry, as well as the port, were infinitely superior. “Our wine has no body now; it is all gas,” growled my old friend the other day, and I don’t know but what he was half right. There is a good deal of “gas” in everything to-day.
[Editor’s notes: The column writer could not resist a racist dig at Thomas Downing’s son, George T. Downing, who was far from “failed.” George T. Downing ran successful restaurants in several large eastern cities. He was an abolitionist, Underground Railroad operator, advocate for black schools, and recruiter of African-American soldiers for the Union Army. George T. Downing, was, in fact, one of the greatest, most successful and influential African-Americans of the 19th century. Was the insult in the column above made by Harry Hill, or his ghost-writer Isaac Reed? Harry usually keep his political and ethnic opinions discreet, so while he was not without prejudice, this slap might better be attributed to Reed.]
