Fulton Fish Market
On the Lower East Side of Manhattan, on a small stretch of South Street just next to Pier 17, and in the long shadow of the elevated FDR Drive, resides the singular Fulton Fish Market.
For 170 years this stinking citadel has stood guard over the venerable and timeworn South Street Seaport, devastating many an unsuspecting olfactory, and driving away all but the most determined visitors. Year round, surly men with iron hooks and Wellington boots yell in unintelligible fishmonger patter, while wholesale buyers for restaurants and supermarkets huddle around frosty bins and boxes, picking the best of each catch.
On summer days, the stench is absolutely intolerable, and the pavement around the market continually slicked with water and putrefying fish offal.
And we love it - because it's there, it's always been there, and it's memorable. It's something you take away with you as a visitor to New York, or something you comment on with a smile as you pass if you're a resident. It's a glimpse into the city's past; the epicenter of an antiquated culture and process that goes back to the very foundations of the island.
I once bobbed up at a raucous happy hour at a fisherman's pub down by the market. What's remarkable is that the happy hour started at 6 o'clock in the morning, just when the nighttime fishing crews come ashore, cold and looking for something to improve their circulation. Don't ask me how we wound up in that particular spot at that time of the morning - I wouldn't be able to recall.
The market has it's own tales to tell, with its own regular characters. It has gone through political upheavals, booms and depressions, urban exodus and influx, and has even defended itself against the likes of the New York Mafia. City Council, drooling over the potential revenue to be had from the real estate upon which it sits, has tried frequently over the last hundred years to close it's doors. And for a hundred years it has been unsuccessful. The market has grown up with Manhattan, and many believed it would die with it.
On Monday, however, this New York institution is closing up shop in Manhattan and moving to a new, 21st-century facility in the Hunts Point section of the Bronx. Hunts Point is infamous for its drugs and gangs, but especially for the notable accomplishments of its vast and rampant prostitution enterprise. I can only assume that the city transacted this move at rock-bottom prices.
We'll be sad to see it go, and sincerly hope that the developer who bought the spot will build within the spirit of the historic district.
For 170 years this stinking citadel has stood guard over the venerable and timeworn South Street Seaport, devastating many an unsuspecting olfactory, and driving away all but the most determined visitors. Year round, surly men with iron hooks and Wellington boots yell in unintelligible fishmonger patter, while wholesale buyers for restaurants and supermarkets huddle around frosty bins and boxes, picking the best of each catch.
On summer days, the stench is absolutely intolerable, and the pavement around the market continually slicked with water and putrefying fish offal.
And we love it - because it's there, it's always been there, and it's memorable. It's something you take away with you as a visitor to New York, or something you comment on with a smile as you pass if you're a resident. It's a glimpse into the city's past; the epicenter of an antiquated culture and process that goes back to the very foundations of the island.
I once bobbed up at a raucous happy hour at a fisherman's pub down by the market. What's remarkable is that the happy hour started at 6 o'clock in the morning, just when the nighttime fishing crews come ashore, cold and looking for something to improve their circulation. Don't ask me how we wound up in that particular spot at that time of the morning - I wouldn't be able to recall.
The market has it's own tales to tell, with its own regular characters. It has gone through political upheavals, booms and depressions, urban exodus and influx, and has even defended itself against the likes of the New York Mafia. City Council, drooling over the potential revenue to be had from the real estate upon which it sits, has tried frequently over the last hundred years to close it's doors. And for a hundred years it has been unsuccessful. The market has grown up with Manhattan, and many believed it would die with it.
On Monday, however, this New York institution is closing up shop in Manhattan and moving to a new, 21st-century facility in the Hunts Point section of the Bronx. Hunts Point is infamous for its drugs and gangs, but especially for the notable accomplishments of its vast and rampant prostitution enterprise. I can only assume that the city transacted this move at rock-bottom prices.
We'll be sad to see it go, and sincerly hope that the developer who bought the spot will build within the spirit of the historic district.
posted by SD at 1:16 AM
3 Comments:
You said:
"I once bobbed up at a raucous happy hour at a fisherman's pub down by the market. What's remarkable is that the happy hour started at 6 o'clock in the morning, just when the nighttime fishing crews come ashore, cold and looking for something to improve their circulation. "
Let me guess, Jeremy's?
I love that place and miss it immensely.
I actually don't remember the name of it, and I haven't been back since. But at the time, there were not that many bars down there - so it probably is Jeremy's.
Thanks for visiting!
paris cafe,boys
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