This afternoon I wandered aimlessly
from my place through Hipster Hook and along various side-streets in Brooklyn
when I chanced upon this:
I simply had to stop. After all, how
often does one see old bicycles and wheels posted above an entrance to an estaminet
with a Pabst Blue Ribbon neon sign in the window?
For years, I’ve been hearing about
the “bike cafes” and “bike bars” in Portland and a few other places. A few have opened here in New York during the
past two or three years. I’ve been to a
couple such places. It was a bit
difficult to see inside the windows of Red Lantern Bicycles on Myrtle Avenue,
just a few blocks from the Brooklyn Academy of Music. But once I stepped inside, I felt as if I
could hang out there all day.
At the bar, a friendly young man
named Bradford held court. I ordered a
French-press coffee, even though I normally don’t drink coffee these days. I could have ordered a cappuccino (which I
occasionally drink) as well as other kinds of coffee- and tea- based beverages
or a variety of beers they had on tap and in bottles. They also make their own almond milk and
other kinds of non-dairy beverages which can be added to your coffee or tea.
I parked my bike and sauntered
around the store, where I met Chombo. I
did a double-take: For a moment, I
thought I’d stepped back about 30 years and met a young Frank Chrinko, the
proprietor of Highland Park Cyclery, where I worked. While his appearance was similar, Chombo’s
demeanor was very different: Outgoing and articulate, he patiently explained
why one crankset was more expensive than another and what, exactly, would be
involved in the fixed-gear conversion a customer was considering for his Fuji
from the same era in which I worked at Highland Park Cyclery.
One enters the store in the bar/café
area; the bike shop is in the back. But
they seem to work together very well; while one or two customers seemed to be
there strictly for one or the other, most seemed to flow between the two, as I
did.
While I was there, a young woman
named Raven entered with two of her friends.
“I’m not really a cyclist,” she demurred, almost apologetically. I tried to reassure her that there was no
need to explain herself that way: She is
riding a bike; that is what matters.
And, to my mind, no one with her sense of style has to apologize for
anything!
Somehow it made sense that I would
meet her and her friends, Zack and Mary, at Red Lantern.
