White Castle, Spinach Pie, and the World's Best Dumplings

I've been having memories come back from high school and from a few years afterwards. This was a time where I was a regular bar-goer and an avid drinker. When I was in high school, there were many late nights that ended with a run to Bay Ridge for White Castle. I'd go with my friends who all worked at Bonanza, a fast food steakhouse that was next to the old Hylan Cinema in New Dorp, where The Gap is now. It was a quick jump over the bridge (the Verazzano) after a night of drinking -- and not eating for about six hours -- so it became a guilty pleasure and a habit for a while. With those guys most of the time we'd head to the Victory Diner in Dongan Hills.

We hung out in Park Hill at Studio B or "Popalice's" (sp?) as it used to be called, a neighborhood that was almost exclusively black with some Hispanic people and a small percentage of others. Every weekend, the bar was packed with white kids most of whom went to the local Catholic high schools. The drinking age was 18 at the time -- this was around 1980 -- so the place had plenty of 16 and 17 year olds in it (including me). It was this weird white enclave. Park Hill was a high crime area (and later was the HQ of the Wu Tang Clan) and most of us had so few black students in our schools that you knew the two of them by name. Sometimes, when I would introduce him to people, my friend Tony would say, "Hi. I'm the black guy." So with the combination of the reality of the crime in the area and the suspicion/paranoia that a lot of the bar crowd had toward the people who lived in Park Hill, it sometimes felt like being in West Berlin during the Cold War, especially when we hung outside the bar. But inside it was our home base, the most comfortable place outside our own homes, or, for those like me, much more comfortable than the constant turmoil of the house where I lived.

So typically, three am would roll around and my soft-spoken friend Jim would say, "Anybody up for the VD?" Then a chant would start amongst us slowly and build in tempo and volume until the entire bar thumped and resounded (girls clutching their boyfriends, pieces of the ceiling chipping and falling away, mice in the empty field next door running for cover) with the sound of, "VD! VD! VD! VD!," our affectionate name for the place with the best fries (well-done, of course) and cheeseburger deluxe around and a particularly oily and excellent spinach pie.

About six years later (circa 1986), I'd be hanging out at Jim Hanley's Universe, the comic book store I worked at, with the rest of the crew and a rotating cast of friends- of -the -store special guest stars. The shop was in Eltingville, which is in the end of Staten Island farthest from Brooklyn. We'd close the store around 10pm and head off like a shot to Wo Hop, an all-night Chinese joint on Mott Street in Chinatown which is still there and is still a favorite late night haunt for those in -the -know. We had to trek across most of the Island, through Brooklyn, and then right over the Manhattan bridge. For the weak and faint of heart, this might have seemed like a long haul. But we knew that at 10:30 at night we could zoom over there with little or no traffic and on a good night (or if Paul, with one of his dreaded Falling -Apart -Mobiles and his frighteningly heavy foot, was driving) we could get there in 40 minutes flat.

We'd walk in and be loudly and cheerily greeted by Steven, our friendly, favorite Chinese waiter (not that they had waiters that weren't Chinese) in the upstairs part of the place. We'd pig out on the good, cheap food and finish with big grins on our faces, happier than any dinner at The Four Seasons could make us. The dumplings, wrapped with a thin noodle instead of wads of doughy nonsense, were inevitable and tasted like heaven.

The Molly Ringwald Story

About seven or eight years ago I was on the R train going downtown during the winter. I believe it was around 12 midnight on a weeknight. Either at 8th St or Bleeker or 14th St, this tall, cute woman got on the nearly empty car I was in and sat down about 12 feet away in the next section of seats. She was wearing a short white down jacket or vest and a combination of white and bright red clothes (red sneakers, white pants, red shirt, red, wool, dorky-girl hat with never-used chin ties hanging from the sides). I briefly thought I'd chat her up but then said, "Fuck it -- it's late and I'm tired." I then noticed she was looking at a schedule for The Anthology Film Archives. I thought, "Hell, I'd talk to a guy reading the schedule."

I slid over and asked her if there was "anything good in there." She turned and answered me and I saw that it was Molly Ringwald, totally beautiful in person.

Now, I've met some celebrities including some people who are kind of heroes of mine, and I don't usually get flustered. But this was so unexpected, and let's face it -- it was Molly Ringwald -- I struggled not to be tongue tied but I was. We chatted for a minute or two and it was pleasant enough but I felt like I was sweating like Chris Farley and Meatloaf on a rain forest marathon race.

Anyway, I happened to get off at the same stop as her (Prince Street) and I saw her give me that look over her shoulder that said, "PLEASE don't try to follow me and talk to me, I HATE THAT." I skulked away in the other direction, lumped together with stalkers, heavy breathers, and the Legion of Socially Inappropriate by one of my favorite celebrity crushes. "No ice cream for you," I thought.