New York Pretzels

Time was, not so long ago, that every true New Yorker had eaten a hot pretzel sold on a street cart at least once.  And, if you were a tourist, that was part of your "New York experience."

As often as not, we bought those pretzels from the same carts that sold hot dogs--usually the Sabrett's brand.  You could find such carts in just about every neighborhood in the five boroughs, and, it seemed, on nearly every corner in the busier parts of Midtown and Downtown Manhattan.

By Francisco Companioni

But I've noticed that in the past fifteen years or so, those carts have been disappearing.  Or, perhaps, I just don't notice the existing ones as much, as The Big Apple's street food offerings have become more diverse.  Now it's possible to find carts and trucks from which crepes, waffles, fried chicken, various Middle Eastern and Indo-Pakistani delicacies, sushi and even Maine Lobster rolls are vended.  Back in the day, carts that sold pretzels and Sabrett's hot dogs pretty much were New York street food.

Truth be told, most of the time the pretzels weren't that good.  Usually, when you bought one, it spent hours over the warmer, so it was probably as dry as the salt crystals that coated its top.  Now, I don't claim to be a pretzel aficianado, but if I'm going to eat a big, hot pretzel, I want it to be chewy.  If I want hard pretzels, I'll stick to the smaller ones that you can buy in most grocery stores.

Anyway, as those Sabrett's carts have disappeared in New York, I've noticed another kind of pretzel.  I found this sample on a Tribeca street today:

That doesn't even come close to being the worst I've seen.  Here's something even more bent:

From Abandoned Bicycles of New York

When I worked in bike shops, we used to say such wheels were "pretzeled".  But a wheel like that can only be found in the Big Apple, I think.

The street pretzel vendors of yore didn't seem to realize that it doesn't take very long to turn something into a pretzel--which is the reason why their snacks were usually dry and hard.  But seriously: Once I parked on a street near the UN for about 45 minutes.  That's all it took to turn my rear wheel into one of those twisted treasures.  The difference is, the New York pretzels on bikes can't be made edible by slathering them with mustard!

A New Neighbor

I pedaled into wind that felt more like a boomerang of January than the first wave of summer.  Only a block from my apartment, I felt as if a season, an age, had passed. In the corner of my eye, I glimpsed this:

Even at this distance, something told me this wasn't a typical bike parked on a street in my neighborhood.  I made a U-turn so I could take a look.  

What else could have set off my radar?  I hastily snapped this photo, the one above it and another

when the bikes owner showed up.  I internally braced myself; he smiled warmly and said "hello."

Noah is from Montreal but now lives a couple of neighborhoods away from me.  He bought his 1981 King of Mercia from a woman on the Upper West said who, he said, was offered more money than he paid for the bike.  The would-be buyer was a collector; the woman, who'd stopped riding, still appreciated the bike enough that she preferred to sell it to someone who would ride it.  

Shortly after buying it, he converted it to a single speed but kept the old components. He set up the original crankset with a single ring but, of course, installed a new pair of wheels and pedals.  However, he rides the bike with the really nice Sun Tour Superbe brakes that came with it.  And he replaced the original saddle with one that really belongs on that bike:  a Brooks B-17.

In the course of our conversation, I might have talked him out of repainting his bike, even to "restore" it to its original look.  Actually, I was talking myself out of doing the same to Vera. Truth is, I can't justify spending the money, given my current finances.  But Noah said he was "glad to hear" that I'd considered refinishing  but thought better of it.  "It's really a beautiful bike."

So is his.  Refinishing it would only make it look new, or newer.  That, I think, is the real beauty of bikes like his.

Record Holder Is Gissy, Not Evel

The next time you're sideswiped by some guy delivering Chinese food on a motorized bike,  call him the  slowpoke he really is.  After all, he can't hold a candle (especially a Roman one) to this courer:





On a track neaer Mulhouse, in eastern France, Francois Gissy rode a rocket-powered mountain bike in the slipstream of a dragster.   In the process, he set a new speed record for mountain bikes--163 mph--which fell just short of the overall record of 167mph.  

With his bike and white suit, he reminds me, in a way, of Evel Knievel.  Evel couldn't jump the Snake River Canyon on a motorcycle that looked more like, well, a rocket.  What if he'd had a mountain bike--with rockets--instead?  And what if Gissy had Evel's motorcycle?

A French Evel Knievel?  What an idea!