Weekend History: The Tricks to Shopping on the Upper West Side 80 Years Ago

Broadway and West 83rd Street, circa 1937. Photo via MCNY.

By Lyla Ward

(excerpted from: Broadway, Schrafft’s and Seeded Rye: Growing Up Slightly Jewish on the Upper West Side)

Broadway in our neighborhood was retail heaven in the Thirties and early Forties. There were grocery stores; bakeries; haberdasheries; lingerie shops; shoe stores for men, women, and children; fish markets; stationery stores; shoe repair shops; candy stores; drug stores; milliners; and then ten blocks further on there were grocery stores, haberdasheries, lingerie shops, shoe stores . . . . Each mini-neighborhood had its own retail support system, and each family knew which store was “the best.” Fortunately for the store owners, opinions differed: my mother thought the lox was less salty at the little appetizer store on the west side of Broadway; my friend, Selma’s, mother thought the lox was less salty at the little appetizer store on 91st Street—so both stores stayed in business.

Although my mother’s rating system covered quality stores in most categories—she bought my father’s white-on-white shirts only from Briggs’s on Broadway and 85th Street, and my father bought her alligator bags (no talk of endangered species, then) only from The Plymouth Shop on Broadway and 82nd Street—when it came to products that might affect my brother’s, sister’s, or my physical well- being, the “best” took on a new meaning. Shoes to support the malleable bones in our feet were such an item. In her view (and what other views were there?) Indian Walk was the only shoe store fit to fit our feet.

I can’t say I remember when I traded my booties in for my first real shoes—high white lace-ups—but I was told these and all others of descending height were bought at our local Indian Walk Shoe Store. Before school opened in the fall (always after Labor Day), and in the spring, before Easter, I could look forward to getting new shoes. Possibly because I knew the ritual would end with an Indian Walk balloon tied to my wrist, I participated willingly in the process.

Until I was nine or ten, for school days I had my choice of brown oxfords with brown shoelaces or brown oxfords with brown shoelaces—nothing less would do to hold my bones together. If I was so bold as to suggest I might possibly like a different style, my mother described in graphic detail what could happen to a child’s foot if left unsupported: had I seen any ducks recently? Noticed their splayed feet? It wasn’t until saddle shoes came into style, and Indian Walk and my mother declared them safe, that I got any relief from the drab brown everyday shoes.

If our feet were a major concern, imagine where our stomachs stood. Food, undisputedly vital for our health and well-being, had to be of the finest quality. That’s where Citarella came in. At that time only a neighborhood fish market, it stood at first place in the Betty Blake consumer report. I don’t think Mom had spoken to any fishermen personally, but she was convinced Citarella’s fish was rushed from hook to store without passing “Go.” According to her, you could “taste the freshness.” I would have been happy to take her word for it and skip the fish. When we asked “What’s for dinner?” and the answer was “Fish,” a general groan went up. Nevertheless, once a week there it was on the plate where the steak should have been. Our complaints went unheeded—fish, after all, was brain food; and the Halibut Ring she made from a recipe in the Settlement Cookbook, another ”best” in her book, combined so much cream and butter and eggs, we couldn’t help thinking how great it would be if only it didn’t have the fish.

Though all food was not as vital to our health, the rye bread from Cake Masters was incomparable, as was tub butter from Daitch’s (where else was it creamery fresh?) and sturgeon from Barney Greengrass (in a class by itself). Mother said so, and in our family it was generally agreed, when it came to food, clothes or home goods, Mother knew “bests.” Oh, and by the way: Was that fish thing fact or fiction? Hard to prove—it might just be coincidence that we all turned out to be so brilliant.

Lyla Ward’s Broadway, Schrafft’s and Seeded Rye: Growing Up Slightly Jewish on the Upper West Side is available at bookstores throughout the city, and on Amazon.