1954: A Stranger Visits Warren's (Irish's) Candy Store

A friend of mine, Denny Ferado, told me a brilliant New York story about a unique encounter 57 years ago on 89th Street & York Avenue. Here is Denny's account.

1954: A Stranger Visits Warren’s (Irish’s) Candy Store

by Dennis John Ferado

In 1954 the city dump was at the corner of 90th Street and York Avenue right over the East River. It was only a couple of blocks from where Archibald Grace first built his mansion in Yorkville in 1799 at 88th Street and York Avenue. The bulging trucks would drive up a long ramp to the upper floor, back to the edge of the building and dump their loads down onto the waiting barges. On some nights, if the north wind was blowing just so, there would come a pungent breeze and it was unmistakable where the odor was originating from. Then there were those other nights, the magical ones. Nights when after a squall had come and gone, and there was no odor from the dump--or, the wind was blowing the other way--and the streets looked spotless and the tar all shiny-wet and black and the red taillights from passing traffic reflected off permanent storefront windows and passing faces. Nights when the air was fresh, snappy, clean and priceless. When the river ushered in something unseen but mystical through the streets and one could be affected mentally and physically. This night I was being caressed and seduced by the river’s sultry fragrance but I couldn’t shake the feeling of despair running through me. Although the combination of it all made my heart run quick, I felt misplaced. Certain nights become implanted memories rooting deep and growing stronger, never to fade away. Although the weather and the breezes were there the night the photograph was taken, we were a melancholy bunch but I don’t remember why. We had slowly, one at a time, drifted from our homes towards the candy store. Warren’s (Irish’s) was located between 88th and 89th Street just off the southwest corner of 89th Street on York Avenue. The exact spot that Saint Joseph’s Orphanage first opened its doors on March 19, 1860. On nights, like this particular one, the end of York Avenue felt like the end of the world.

Now, here we were moping around in Irish’s listening to the jukebox. Two of the songs the two older girls played often that night were “Earth Angel” by the Penguins and “Goodnight Sweetheart Goodnight” by the Spaniels. Out of the photograph’s lens and sitting at the counter were two more friends: Jimmy Whalen, (my mom, Jim’s father, Mike Smith’s mother and Irish all went to St. Joseph’s School together in the early 1920s) was sitting on the third stool from the front door going through a stack of comic books he had taken from the racks and piled in front of himself on the counter. Paddy Dougherty was at the opposite end of the counter on the last stool talking to Irish--also out of the photographer’s shot.

Gathered around the jukebox were the two older girls Pat Anello left rear, and Anita Loonan. There was Ray Hart playing the trumpet, Leon Bailey foreground bottom right, Ray Weinberg, hand over mouth in contemplation, and myself sitting on top of a stack of tied up newspaper returns, half-a-head showing behind Ray Weinberg. Sitting on a table alongside the jukebox were Billy Auger foreground left and Joey Anello, Pat’s brother.

At the front of the store, sprawled across the door sash, on guard duty, was Mugsy, Irish’s dog, a boxer. At the age of thirteen he was oblivious to the world and older than I was. He never budged from his spot at the door. Very rarely did anyone come into Irish’s who hadn’t been in there before. So when this man navigated his way around Mugsy, sat quietly on the first stool near the door next to the cash register, one seat separating himself and Jim, and ordered a cup of coffee, I took notice. Irish made one pot of coffee at 5:30 a.m., or thereabouts, when he opened the store and now it was near 9:00 p.m., and it was still on the burner. No one ever ordered Irish’s coffee it usually just evaporated from a full pot down to a quarter of a pot. I thought: This man must be a stranger. I listened to my favorite song one more time. As the last notes of “Goodnight Sweetheart Goodnight died out. I got up and walked to the front of the store and sat down between Jim Whalen and the man with the coffee. I was curious so, nonchalantly, I asked him: “How’s the coffee?”
“Okay,” he said, as I watched him stuffing a camera into his jacket pocket. He got up to leave and I turned to my friends and said: “See you guys tomorrow.” I watched the man, once more, gingerly maneuver his way around Mugsy. After he made it I jumped over Mugsy and started to walk along behind him towards 88th Street. I said: “Did you take any pictures in there?” He turned his head but kept walking while I scooted along behind and questioned him.
“I did.”
“I never saw you take any pictures.”
“Well, I did.”
“You’re quick! How come you took pictures of us?”
“I’m taking photographs of New York candy stores.” I caught up to him and said: “How come?”
“I like them.” I looked at him, and asked in all seriousness,“Photographs, or candy stores?” He said, “Well, photography but I like candy stores too.
“Me too.”
“What,” the man asked, “photography or candy stores?” Then he smiled and said, “This could go on forever.” I stayed on track. I was persistent, and asked: “Do you collect them for yourself or do you do it for magazines?
“I have something in mind.” Brazenly, I pushed on, “Do you think I’ll ever get to see them?”
“They could be in the New York Mirror or The Daily News in about 6 months or so.”
“You mean we’re gonna be in the newspapers?” I asked, excitedly.
“Well, I don’t know. It depends which photographs they decide to use--that is, if they use any of them at all. I took some at another candy store around here.”
“Another candy store.” I sensed competition, “Which one?”
“One right over here on 2nd Avenue but I can’t remember what street. Somewhere between 90th and 92nd Street.” I said: “I have a camera and I use it, sometimes. But so far I’ve only taken pictures of some friends. I’d like to take pictures all around New York City. Someday I will.”
“Where’d you get the camera?” he asked me.
“My father bought it for me a couple of birthdays ago. It’s just a Brownie. But its imported from Boston. It’s okay, I guess. I think I’d like to be a photographer. But I’ll probably have to wait until I can buy a good camera.”
“You start with something small and you practice. Then, when you can afford it you get yourself something a little better. And you keep on taking pictures, lots of them.”
He paused a minute after we crossed 87th Street. Then he went on, “It’s not how much you pay for a camera that makes a good photographer. It’s being able to see something that no one else can see, even when they’re looking at the same thing you’re looking at. That doesn’t take an expensive camera, just a good eye. So you take that picture and hope for the best, because a whole lot of it is luck.”
“Really?”
“Really!”
“But it’s just a Brownie,” I whined. We stopped at 86 Street and York Avenue, he said:“You can take some great photographs with an inexpensive camera. As long as you can see that picture when it jumps up at you.” I smiled and stuck my hand out, “Thanks, Mister.” He smiled back, took my hand and said: “My name’s Bob.” Shaking his hand I said: “I’m Denny. I’ll look for the pictures in the papers. I can’t wait. I’ve got to go. See ya, Bob.” I tore across York Avenue and headed home.

Ten years passed, I got married and was living in Queens. In 1964 or 1965 I picked up a Sunday News and in the centerfold of their color section was a collage of photographs by Robert Frank and this picture of us was among them. I remembered that night and my walk with my friend “Bob” and I saved the paper for years. Then one day it was just gone, faded into time.

Another eight years passed and in 1972 when the Rolling Stones double album, EXILE ON MAIN STREET came out I happened to pick one up. I opened it and pulled out one of the records, excited to have the new Stones’ album in my hands. The entire album and the sleeves that protect the records are collages of Robert Frank’s photographs; the entire concept for the album was Mr. Frank’s. I looked at one of the sleeves and taking up 1/2 of one side of the sleeve was this photograph of us. Everyone seemed to know who Robert Frank was but me.

In 1957 on a street outside a party in Greenwich Village Mr. Frank met Jack Kerouac who, among other things, had written “On the Road” which had a major influence on me to get out on the road. He showed Kerouac some of his photographs and asked him if he would write something as an introduction. Instantly, Kerouac said: “Sure I can write something about these pictures.” In the first paragraph of his introduction/poem to ‘The Americans,’ Mr. Kerouac specifically mentions our candy store: “After seeing these pictures you end up finally not knowing whether a jukebox is sadder than a coffin.”

For me, looking at Mr. Frank’s photographs is like listening to the blues, each picture is a living poem, a movie waiting to be filmed. Of the estimated 27,000 to 28,000 photos taken by Frank on his cross country trips only 83 were chosen for “The Americans.” My amazement grew with my acquired information; Frank had hung around with the “Beats” in the village, took their photographs and did the photography, including the jacket for the first edition of Jack Kerouac’s, “Book of Dreams.” In 1959 (the same year ‘The Americans’ was released in the U.S., it was originally published in Paris in 1958) he turned his attention to cinematography and filmed the third act of a Jack Kerouac play called PULL MY DAISY (named, in 1996, by the Library of Congress to its National Film Registry) which Kerouac wrote and narrated and was directed by Alfred Leslie. It features: David Aram, Allen Ginsberg, Peter Eglevsky, Gregory Coors and the painter, Larry Rivers and was a critical success. Allen Ginsberg and Mr. Frank stayed friends until Allen passed on in 1997. Robert Frank did more than any other visual artist to chronicle the “Beat Generation” through photography and cinematography. Over the years he has collected numerous awards and honors for his work making over 20 films. His documentary film of the Stones’ 1972 tour was stopped from distribution. Mr. Frank had captured a bit too much on film. Mick Jagger told him: “It’s a fucking good film, Robert, but if it shows in America we’ll never be allowed in the country again.”

In 1984 Frank did music videos for New Order (“Run”) and for Pattie Smith (“Summer Cannibals”). His daughter and I were close in age when I met him that night, maybe that’s why he was so nice to me. He lost that daughter, Andrea, in a plane crash in 1974. Tragedy struck again in 1994 when Mr. Frank lost his son, Pablo, to a long painful illness. In 1995 he founded the Andrea Frank Foundation which provides grants to artists. Learning more I discovered that our photograph “New York Candy Store,” hangs in galleries and museums around the world along with many other works by Frank and that the man is a genius with a camera in his hands, whether a still or a moving camera.

Robert Frank walked into Irish’s that night and captured on film what could not be put into words. I’ve had his address and phone number in my dresser drawer for many years, cannot remember how I came across them, but could never muster up enough courage to try and contact him. I did not want to disrupt his privacy nor intrude on his life.

Time marches on and in May of 2002 I decided to write him a letter and take the chance that he might not say: “Do you really expect me to remember one night that happened all those years ago?” But I wrote him a letter anyway, explaining who I was and then called him the following week. We spoke at length and I recalled to him how he had lived through Irish’s coffee; reminded him of that night when the river breezes gently urged us along the wet sidewalks of York Avenue from 89th Street to 86th Street. That night when some crazy twelve-year old kid grilled him about photography and he gave that kid some tips. I told him I just wanted to let him know that I remembered that night. I explained that I had a copy of “The Americans” and I was proud to be a tiny part of his work. He asked if I would like him to sign it for me and I said that would make me very happy. He asked me what I would like him to say on the inscription and I said: “Whatever you want would be fine with me.” He was a total gentleman and beyond gracious during our conversation. He said, he was now in his 80s and he only goes to his studio every couple of weeks and that I should drop off the book and the next time he is there he will sign it and his assistant will call me to come and pick it up. This is what he wrote:

“To Dennis J. Ferado for the memory of a crazy kid in 1954--Robert Frank”

In 1955 Robert Frank received a Guggenheim grant which permitted him to take his cross country trips and complete his masterpiece: THE AMERICANS.