Push open the door, and feel the fragrant cloud of coffee and newsprint surround you like a warm, familiar welcome. The grill sizzles and snaps, interrupting voices of every range and pitch that tumble together in crisscrossed conversations along the crowded lunch counter. With a couple of paces, you step across the black and dingy-white linoleum squares, hop onto the slick, blue vinyl top of a silver stool, and wait for Vinnie to notice you.
The sign over the doorway read Luncheonette, but back in the 1960s and ’70s everyone called it Vinnie’s or simply, “the candy store.” It was the second store from the southeast corner of Eastchester Road and Mace Avenue in the uppermost reaches of New York City, the northeast Bronx.
Stretch out your arm to your immediate right as you entered, and you could touch the tiered candy rack—fully stocked with all kinds of confections—without moving from the doorway. To the left of the entrance loomed the telephone booth, a sturdy box constructed of heavy dark wood with a folding door of thick glass. Back in the days of one phone per household, Vinnie’s telephone booth provided solitude and the strictest privacy—a priceless commodity.
On the other side of the phone booth, beneath the plate glass window, stacks of weeklies and dailies ensured that the store’s signature scent of ink and newsprint would never fade: the New York Daily News, the Bronx Press-Review, The New York Times, and smaller specialty papers. Late in the afternoon, as the stacks of morning editions diminished, bundles of the New York Post and the New York World-Telegram hit the pavement outside the door, and Vinnie added those to the newsstand.
Vinnie’s greeting-card section needed improvement, but you could ferret out a decent one if you were desperate enough. His magazine stand was lacking as well. You might find your favorite magazine one month—but not necessarily the next.
A rear corner of the store drew kids like a magnet. In that shadowy space near the school supplies you would find wonderful things: comic books, jump ropes, construction paper, poster paints, craft kits, jacks, yo-yos, Mouseketeer ears, Mexican jumping beans, and small pink rubber balls, each one stamped with the word Spalding, essential for playing catch, stoop ball, stick ball, king queen jack…
With salt- and pepper-colored hair that sprung like brush bristles from his scalp, Vinnie stood at average height in a stocky build. Wearing his ubiquitous white T-shirt with an apron tied around his middle, he grilled burgers, toasted muffins, made BLTs—but we kids paid little attention to the food menu. For us, Vinnie’s was mostly for treats, rarely for nourishment.
Vinnie’s was where the barber next door stopped for coffee and a toasted corn muffin (“with very little butter”) in mid-morning; it was where the cashier from the Associated Food Store bought cigarettes; where commuters heading for the Number 9 bus stop picked up their morning newspaper; where we kids found hot chocolate in January, class packs of Valentine cards in February, flipflops in July, notebooks in September, and cardboard witch masks in October. It was where, as eighth graders, we stopped for reinforcements—gum or a bag of M&Ms—on our way to take the three-hour high school entrance exam, and where we stopped for an egg cream (for consolation) on the way home.
Vinnie turned a pained expression on us kids when we’d bluster in, making it clear he was not delighted to see us. Yet, despite the perpetual scowl framed by fierce dark eyebrows, we weren’t afraid of him. As we grew out of childhood, and especially later as our teens turned into our 20s, his scowl softened a bit as he stopped perceiving us as potential trouble.
At some point we noticed that Vinnie had acquired a rotund, white-haired helper. Dressed like Vinnie in a white apron over a white T-shirt, the elder gentleman’s main purpose—it seemed to us—was to stand guard at the candy display. You couldn’t linger for long when you stopped to survey the vast, colorful array. A decision was coaxed out of you by luminous blue eyes, inches from your face, that didn’t blink until you had made your selection and handed over the money.
Vinnie turns his pained expression on you as you spin around on your stool. Sliding a dime, a nickel, and a penny toward him, you ask for a chocolate egg cream. Without a word, he nibbles the buttered roll he holds in one hand while his free hand reaches for a glass to place under the fountain. He pumps out a few squirts of chocolate syrup, adds a splash of milk. Shifting the glass to the seltzer dispenser, he fills it up, stirring constantly with a thin, long-handled spoon. You watch closely, impressed by his one-handed style. Slowly, a creamy white foam rises atop the mocha-colored drink.
With a final flourish he plunks in a straw, then sets the glass before you.
© Barbara Cole 2020. All Rights Reserved.