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Authors: Mr. Lloyd Handwerker
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utterly transform his life.
Â
5
Nickel Empire
âIâll give you a dollar and a half a day, but you have to pay if you eat a frankfurter.â Feltmanâs Ocean Pavilion, the original hot dog haven at Coney Island.
THERE MIGHT HAVE been sufficient hours crammed into Nathanâs five-in-the-morning-to-eight-at-night workdays, but there werenât enough days in the week. Because of Abrahamic traditions, the restaurant business in Manhattan was a somewhat limited affair. On Saturdays, businesses were either closed or slow because of the Jewish Sabbath, and Sundays were dead because of the Christians. What was a determined young luncheonette counterman to do? Two days of thumb twiddling wasnât an option. He needed to work .
Gradually, the whole Handwerker clan emigrated from Europe. Nathanâs older sister Anna was one of the early arrivals. Everyone was too busy to see much of each other, but Anna told him tales of a beach town in Brooklyn where she sometimes found part-time employment. It sounded like some fantasy destination, an amusement park similar to, but far outdoing, the famed Prater in Vienna.
He had first visited one memorable Saturday during his first summer in America. Nathan took a younger cousin of his, a girl whose name has been lost to history, for a day at the beach. The journey through the city from Manhattan to the sea was arduous. The train lines stretching from Manhattan all the way to Coney Island were still a couple of years in the future. Nathan and his cousin hopped aboard a subway from Manhattan to downtown Brooklyn. From there, they took a ten-cent streetcar ride along Flatbush Avenue, spending another nickel for a transfer at Prospect Park Circle to a train that ran south on Ocean Parkway.
The famous boulevard, a creation of Central Park designers Frederick Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, cut through the heart of Brooklyn. It was the kind of broad, stately thoroughfare that allowed New York to rival the great capitals of Europe for elegance. As its name implies, Ocean Parkway led Nathan and his cousin straight to the Atlantic.
A small spit of scrubland, sand dunes, and beach, Coney Island served as a barrier island for the mainland, protecting it from the crash of storms. The Lenape tribe named the place Narrioch, meaning âland without shadows,â since it faced south and was bathed in sunlight for the entire day. The first settlers from Europe, the Dutch, called it Conyne Eylandt, or Rabbit Island, for the copious number of the long-eared critters that infested the grassy sand dunes. By the time a pair of Galician immigrant cousins showed up in the seaside resort town, it had taken on its modern name.
Nathan was feeling flush. He had five dollars in his pocket, a full weekâs wages, the equivalent of $120 today. All the amusement rides were a nickel. At Feltmanâs, the sprawling restaurant and pleasure garden that its founder had developed from lowly pushcart beginnings, frankfurters in a warm bun were sold for a dime.
Nathan sponsored the whole trip. âI was glad to do it. I enjoyed it.â He recalled that his cousin âbought a whole stack of Cracker Jacks.â The snackâactually Cracker Jack, singularâhas been called âthe first junk food.â Even back then, it was already associated with Americaâs national pastime of baseball, from a well-known mention in the 1908 song âTake Me Out to the Ball Game.â Nathan later remembered getting angry and yelling at his young cousin when she flippantly gave boxes of the snack away to passersby, a willful squandering of his hard-earned money.
All told, though, it had been a fine summer outing, one of the first days Nathan had taken off in his new homeland. Back in Manhattan, he began to encounter constant mentions and references to the Brooklyn beach resort that he and his cousin had visited. Max Singer, a Coney Island businessman who owned a small stand on Surf Avenue,
Â
5
Nickel Empire
âIâll give you a dollar and a half a day, but you have to pay if you eat a frankfurter.â Feltmanâs Ocean Pavilion, the original hot dog haven at Coney Island.
THERE MIGHT HAVE been sufficient hours crammed into Nathanâs five-in-the-morning-to-eight-at-night workdays, but there werenât enough days in the week. Because of Abrahamic traditions, the restaurant business in Manhattan was a somewhat limited affair. On Saturdays, businesses were either closed or slow because of the Jewish Sabbath, and Sundays were dead because of the Christians. What was a determined young luncheonette counterman to do? Two days of thumb twiddling wasnât an option. He needed to work .
Gradually, the whole Handwerker clan emigrated from Europe. Nathanâs older sister Anna was one of the early arrivals. Everyone was too busy to see much of each other, but Anna told him tales of a beach town in Brooklyn where she sometimes found part-time employment. It sounded like some fantasy destination, an amusement park similar to, but far outdoing, the famed Prater in Vienna.
He had first visited one memorable Saturday during his first summer in America. Nathan took a younger cousin of his, a girl whose name has been lost to history, for a day at the beach. The journey through the city from Manhattan to the sea was arduous. The train lines stretching from Manhattan all the way to Coney Island were still a couple of years in the future. Nathan and his cousin hopped aboard a subway from Manhattan to downtown Brooklyn. From there, they took a ten-cent streetcar ride along Flatbush Avenue, spending another nickel for a transfer at Prospect Park Circle to a train that ran south on Ocean Parkway.
The famous boulevard, a creation of Central Park designers Frederick Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, cut through the heart of Brooklyn. It was the kind of broad, stately thoroughfare that allowed New York to rival the great capitals of Europe for elegance. As its name implies, Ocean Parkway led Nathan and his cousin straight to the Atlantic.
A small spit of scrubland, sand dunes, and beach, Coney Island served as a barrier island for the mainland, protecting it from the crash of storms. The Lenape tribe named the place Narrioch, meaning âland without shadows,â since it faced south and was bathed in sunlight for the entire day. The first settlers from Europe, the Dutch, called it Conyne Eylandt, or Rabbit Island, for the copious number of the long-eared critters that infested the grassy sand dunes. By the time a pair of Galician immigrant cousins showed up in the seaside resort town, it had taken on its modern name.
Nathan was feeling flush. He had five dollars in his pocket, a full weekâs wages, the equivalent of $120 today. All the amusement rides were a nickel. At Feltmanâs, the sprawling restaurant and pleasure garden that its founder had developed from lowly pushcart beginnings, frankfurters in a warm bun were sold for a dime.
Nathan sponsored the whole trip. âI was glad to do it. I enjoyed it.â He recalled that his cousin âbought a whole stack of Cracker Jacks.â The snackâactually Cracker Jack, singularâhas been called âthe first junk food.â Even back then, it was already associated with Americaâs national pastime of baseball, from a well-known mention in the 1908 song âTake Me Out to the Ball Game.â Nathan later remembered getting angry and yelling at his young cousin when she flippantly gave boxes of the snack away to passersby, a willful squandering of his hard-earned money.
All told, though, it had been a fine summer outing, one of the first days Nathan had taken off in his new homeland. Back in Manhattan, he began to encounter constant mentions and references to the Brooklyn beach resort that he and his cousin had visited. Max Singer, a Coney Island businessman who owned a small stand on Surf Avenue,
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