Goodbye Notes to Cup & Saucer
The Cup & Saucer luncheonette on Canal and Eldridge closed this past week due to the landlord nearly doubling the rent. After the shutters came down one last time, neighbors and friends hung posterboard and pens to gather goodbye and thank you notes.
click to enlarge and read
Among the heartfelt goodbyes and good-lucks, they ask to "Save Chinatown" and "Support the SBJSA," the Small Business Jobs Survival Act, the bill that could have stopped the closure of the Cup & Saucer, as well as many, many others.
It wasn't lack of love that killed the Cup & Saucer.
As I went to leave, a man in construction vest and hardhat walked up and stared at the notes. It's a familiar scene, the devoted regular who hasn't heard that his or her favorite place has shuttered, the New Yorker who shows up to find it gone. They always have the same look of confusion and loss.
"Did you eat breakfast here?" I asked the man.
"I used to eat breakfast here," he replied. "Guess I don't anymore."
We shook our heads. He turned to go and then turned back. He had something else to say.
"This is probably going to be some CVS or Duane Reade or some other useless fucking thing," he said, frustration in his voice. "I live in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, and all the little shops are gone. There's nothing left. The rents are totally out of control."
I told him what the rent went up to on the Cup & Saucer: "Almost sixteen grand."
He shook his head and waved his hand, brushing it all away. And then he went, looking for another place like this, a place he won't be able to find.
click to enlarge and read
Among the heartfelt goodbyes and good-lucks, they ask to "Save Chinatown" and "Support the SBJSA," the Small Business Jobs Survival Act, the bill that could have stopped the closure of the Cup & Saucer, as well as many, many others.
It wasn't lack of love that killed the Cup & Saucer.
As I went to leave, a man in construction vest and hardhat walked up and stared at the notes. It's a familiar scene, the devoted regular who hasn't heard that his or her favorite place has shuttered, the New Yorker who shows up to find it gone. They always have the same look of confusion and loss.
"Did you eat breakfast here?" I asked the man.
"I used to eat breakfast here," he replied. "Guess I don't anymore."
We shook our heads. He turned to go and then turned back. He had something else to say.
"This is probably going to be some CVS or Duane Reade or some other useless fucking thing," he said, frustration in his voice. "I live in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, and all the little shops are gone. There's nothing left. The rents are totally out of control."
I told him what the rent went up to on the Cup & Saucer: "Almost sixteen grand."
He shook his head and waved his hand, brushing it all away. And then he went, looking for another place like this, a place he won't be able to find.
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