The cost of not keeping up with the times

[Christiern]

April 23, 2005

ABOUT NEW YORK

At Howard Johnson's, a Final Few Scoops of Pistachio



By DAN BARRY
HE longtime manager of the last Howard Johnson's in the city had only a moment to spare. He seemed distracted, even harried, as though he sensed a clamor for menus from all those empty orange-and-brown booths surrounding him.

First, he wanted to know something: What is this about?

When posed inside the time warp that is the Howard Johnson's, this question takes on greater weight somehow; it is mystically dipped in a metaphysical Frialator before being presented with garnish on a chipped ceramic plate. What is this about?

One answer came from the aquarium-like view of Times Square that his restaurant's large windows offered. There, on the other side of the glass, the Broadway parade flowed past, its participants oblivious to the massive HOWARD JOHNSON'S sign above, blinking in neon orange and blue and featuring that familiar trio: Simple Simon, the Pieman, and a salivating dog.

People did not stop to read the sun-faded advertisements whose words strive to be Rat Pack cool, yet ache with Perry Como earnestness. It's Happy Hour from 4 to 7, with all drinks just $3.75 - "except for premium brands." May we suggest a decanter of manhattans, or martinis, or daiquiris? Your Host of Broadway Welcomes You.

Around the corner, on West 46th Street, another ad promotes the seafood at Howard Johnson's - "A Wish for Fish!" - with an artist's rendition of a clam strip platter that even Simple Simon's slobbering dog would pass up. Oh, and free hors d'oeuvres served from 4 to 9.

What is this about? What is this about?

For nearly a half-century, this Howard Johnson's has been an orange-and-blue stitch in the crazed Times Square quilt, dispensing clam strips and milkshakes to the wide-eyed masses.

In many ways it has served as a mooring for visitors adrift in the asphalt Midtown sea.

Here was a Howard Johnson's, nearly identical in ambience and cuisine to the hundreds of others scattered like rainbow sprinkles along the highways of America. Daddy, can we stop? The answer was sometimes yes and sometimes no, but you had to ask. After all, they had 28 flavors of ice cream.

Today, only a dozen or so of the restaurants remain. And soon that will be minus the one with the best location of them all, the Howard Johnson's in Times Square.

The owners, the Rubinstein family, have signed a contract to sell the four-story, mid-19th-century building to a Jeff Sutton, who has no interest in muscling scoops of ice cream from ice-flecked tubs. "It's unlikely it would be developed as anything but a great retail box," said Mr. Sutton's broker, C. Bradley Mendelson. "And there will be a great signage component."

Human nature almost demands that you weep for Howard Johnson's, as it prepares to take its place beside other sentimental Times Square discards: the Horn & Hardart Automat, Hubert's Museum, on and on.

But if you were honest, you would admit to liking the thought of Howard Johnson's more than the reality of it.

If you went there at all, it was either to affect ironic hipness or to imagine your parents there, in their happy times before you, sipping ice cream sodas after a show.

In the encroaching shadows of a late afternoon, Times Square continued its brassy and boisterous assault upon the senses. Over here, teenage girls screamed for a television camera; over there, two men handed out fliers, one for Falun Gong, the other for a strip club.

But inside the all-too-quiet Howard Johnson's, Happy Hour ticked away without chuckle or grin. No one sat at the bar in the back, nursing a Rob Roy, or a Rusty Nail, or an Apricot Sour. No one set aside dignity to ask for something called the California: Amaretto, peach schnapps, coconut and pineapple.

A man walked in and asked the waitress point-blank, "They're closing this place, right?" Stunned by his forwardness, she could only say, "Yeah."

The waiter at the ice cream counter seconded his colleague. "I think it's going to be at the end of the summer," he said, looking through the window at all the people not coming in for a scoop of butter pecan.

Happy Hour crept along. A middle-aged woman sat in one booth, alone, eating French fries and staring down 46th Street. In another booth, the tortilla-shell remnants of a long-gone someone's lunch sat untouched for more than an hour. The restaurant's manager appeared, disappeared, reappeared, then asked: What is this about?

The imminent closing of this Howard Johnson's, of course.

"We know nothing as of now," he said, then hurried off to tend to phantom customers. And you wished him 28 flavors of happiness.

Edited April 23, 2005 by Christiern

[Brownian Motion]

Horn & Hardart Automat

I miss this place. To an eight-year-old it seemed the zenith of cool. Hojo's i could care less about.

[JSngry]

By DAN BARRY

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...something called the California: Amaretto, peach schnapps, coconut and pineapple.

Edited April 23, 2005 by JSngry

[Christiern]

I agree, Brownian, Horn & Hardart was a great place--kept me alive for awhile. In my very lean early days as an immigrant in New York, I would go to H&H, get a cup of hot water (those cups were super thick), drop in some ketchup, and imagine that it was tomato soup.

When I finally made it out of New York and arrived in Philly with $7, I had $2 left over after paying a week's rent on a room. Again, H&H came to the rescue for there was a day-old shop near the rooming house and I lived on cheap (but good) bread for a week, which is the time it took me to land a job as producer at WCAU.

They also had the greatest coffee.

[Big Wheel]

I was only 6 when my grandma took me to the Automat on my first trip to NYC, and barely remember it, but do have a fond memory of heading to that HoJo's on my second trip about 10 years later.

[Big Al]

So THAT'S what an "automat" is! I never knew what those were called!

[BERIGAN]

Sad about Howard Johnson's...I read a story a few years back in the Delta Digest of all things about how there were few HoJo's around anymore. Anytime my parents and I went to Florida, there always seemed to be one around. If I remember correctly, the hotels are still out there in decent numbers, without restaurants, and just called Howard Johnson.

[GA Russell]

My father's uncle worked for Howard Johnson about a hundred years ago when Howard was selling hot dogs from a pushcart on Cape Cod!