NYC Roulette Explosion!

CAFÉ ANNE goes totally random!!!

Hello everyone,

Welcome to Issue #160 of CAFÉ ANNE!

It’s been a while! First, a correction. In the last issue, I said I’d be taking a week off to file my nails. The truth is, while I was filing my nails, I was also visiting family in Buffalo where, at the urging of my little brother, I enjoyed a sensational creation—the Buffalo chicken wing fried shrimp! With blue cheese dressing. WOW. Then, upon returning to Brooklyn, I discovered there are eight places spots within walking distance where I can enjoy the same wonderfully horrific creation. Why do I ever leave NYC?

Meanwhile, readers followed up on last issue’s story about Millie Healthy Bodies—the rug cleaning/supplements store in Park Slope—with tales of their own favorite NYC combo shops.

“Down the street from my apartment is a beauty salon that also fixes watches and has art leaning up against the wall outside on the sidewalk selling for $10-25 per poorly done, amateurish painting,” wrote Dane in Brooklyn. “Which, believe me, one of these days I'm going to buy one because damn it, I support local artists!”

“Now I’m sad I never put you on the case of a mysterious store in my old neighborhood—Kettle and Thread,” wrote Hilary of a shuttered shop in Kensington. “Sometimes you went in, they were serving coffee, sometimes you went in, they were knitting and told you to leave.”

Sheri, meanwhile, cited the Vivi Bubble Tea/mobile shop in Sunset Park: “The bubble tea is in the phone store!”

And apparently the combo shop is not just a NYC space squeeze phenomenon. “There is (or was, not sure if it's still there) a café near Waterloo Station in London which for some reason had a load of mattresses at the back,” wrote Helen in the UK. “Grab a cup of coffee, a bacon sarnie, and a memory foam mattress all at the same time!”

In other news, huge peak spring NYC flowers shoutouts to new paid subscribers MP, Emma S., Metakrome, Anne D., Susan V., Savanah J., Pamela C. and long talker Harry B. That’s enough $$$ to pay off the Parks Department ranger when he catches me cutting all the cherry blossoms to decorate my living room.

I am, of course, very excited for this week’s issue: it’s a celebration of all things random including a random scoop of ice cream, a random block in the Bronx and a random NYC senior citizen answering a random question. Please enjoy.

Regards!

Anne

I Survived East Village Ice Cream Roulette!!

I saw it on Instagram, of course. Surprise Scoop opened last month in the East Village: "The World’s First Flavor Roulette Ice Cream Shop – Where Every Scoop is a Surprise!" Yes, you can have it their way. They pick the flavor for you.

I love all things random, so of course I had to go. And I invited my neighbor Shelly, because while I am a cake-and-donut lady, Shelly really, really loves ice cream.

We took the train into the city Wednesday afternoon. "What do you think of the idea?" I asked Shelly, as we waited on the R platform at Court Street.

"I have to assume they're not trying to kill people by giving them listeria or fentanyl ice cream," she said. "Otherwise they couldn't stay in business, right?"

"Do you know what I thought would be funny?" I said. "You go up to the window to order and the surprise is whether or not they shoot you."

The first real surprise was how bare bones the shop is. The purple storefront, on First Avenue between St. Marks and 9th Street, looked like it'd been fashioned from plywood and hand-painted by a small child.

Inside, the space was empty, except for a lone trash can—no people, no tables, no chairs. Grunge music blared from a tiny speaker. A small window cut into the back wall was shuttered tight and labeled "PICK UP HERE."

Shelly was the first to order from the digital kiosk. There was just one option on the menu: a scoop of ice cream, flavor to be determined, whipped cream and cherry optional.

Next came the consent agreement: "I understand that I will not know the flavor and I'm okay with that," it read. "NO EXCHANGES OR REFUNDS."

I'd never seen an ice cream waiver before, but there is a first time for everything.

The second surprise? The price of a scoop. Ten dollars! But I was prepared because I'd read the reviews online. "Walking home from this place after giving them my $10 was the biggest walk of shame I’ve ever done in my life," one patron had written.

Now it my turn to order. "Should I indicate any preferences?" I asked when prompted.

"No fentanyl," Shelly suggested. So I typed that in and swiped my payment card (they don’t take cash).

A few minutes later, a voice boomed over the speaker. "Order 103."

The window on the back wall slid open and a scoop of ice cream in a small, brown cardboard container appeared on the ledge. Before the door slid shut, I yelled "WAIT!" and snapped a photo of the young man lurking behind the wall.

We waited several minutes for the second order.

"What's taking so long?" I wondered.

"Maybe they're taking out the fentanyl," said Shelly.

After my order appeared on the ledge, we took our ice cream outside and sat on a bench under a street tree. We sampled Shelly's first. It was very good ice cream. "Banana," Shelly guessed. And then, "pineapple."

My serving had generous helpings of something gooey mixed into a vanilla base. "Sugar cookie!" we agreed.

We’d gotten lucky. Online reviewers have reported receiving more troubling flavors including Hot Cheeto and Everything Bagel.

But there's only one way to determine your flavor for sure, and that is to post your order number on Instagram and tag the business. Surprise Scoop promises to respond and let you know if you guessed correctly.

So this enterprise isn't so much an ice cream shop as an Instagram contraption. Whoever is behind this scheme found a way to reduce staff to the minimum, charge $10 for a $6 ice cream and get unlimited free advertising. If they’re getting rich, they deserve every last penny. I am dying of admiration.

And for some customers, it's a five-star experience in more ways then one. "If you are an introvert and you want take-away ice cream but do not want to interact with anyone," noted one online review, "this is your ice cream place.”

CITY BLOCK ROULETTE

If I Want to Rent a Bulldozer I Know Just Where to Go!

Illustration by Lucy Stafford

I've meaning to try the "One Block Walk" experiment since I read about it in Rob Walker's Art of Noticing newsletter. The idea is that when you travel to a new city for work, you walk around the block where your hotel is located and photograph whatever catches your attention. It's a quick way to ensure that you see something beyond the airport, office and your hotel room.

But why wait to travel? You could do this right here in NYC. And to make it even more of an adventure, I decided, I could choose a city block totally at random and write about it.

There are roughly 120,000 blocks in this town. To play my first game of City Block Roulette, I used Google's random number generator to select latitude and longitude points within the city limits. Then I converted the resulting GPS coordinates into a street address.

This took a few tries. The first set of coordinates put me in the middle of the Clearview Expressway in Queens. Were the fates trying to kill me? The second had me drowning in Newark Bay.

But the third result sounded intriguing and possibly not life-threatening: 681 Brush Avenue. In the Bronx!

The location was a mere 90-minute journey from my home in Brooklyn Heights. Taking the 4 train and Q44 bus the next morning, I felt super excited. Where was I going? What might I discover?

And here is where the bus dropped me off:

I walked a few blocks south passing a cement plant, a city bus lot and the world’s most isolated fruit stand. My chosen location turned out to be a Caterpillar dealership.

I had nowhere to go but in.

I expected a warehouse filled with bulldozers and backhoes, but what I found was a big office space. Everyone looked up, and one man waved me over to his cubicle.

"My name's Anne and I'm here because I'm playing a game,” I said.

"Nice!" he said.

"The game is to pick a random block in New York City and write about what I find," I continued. "Can I write about this place?"

"I guess so, but you gotta talk to this guy," he said, indicating a second fellow. "He's the boss."

Bulldozer central!

The boss, Mohammad, escorted me to his desk and issued a warning: "We work here, we don't play games!"

But he did take a few minutes to explain the business. The company, H.O. Penn, does sales, service and parts for heavy machinery. The most popular? "Excavators, back-hoe loaders and skid steer loaders," said Mohammad.

"So if I want to get my bulldozer repaired, I bring it here," I said.

"If you don't want to bring your machine here, we can send a technician," he said.

Good to know!

I also chatted with Henry, the parts manager, who works in the back. He's been with H.O. Penn for fifty years! And the company has been around even longer. "We celebrated our 100-year anniversary in 2023," he said. “We had a picnic out in the back."

"What was at the picnic?" I asked.

"Food!" said Henry.

My next stop was the brick warehouse next door. I couldn't find an entrance, so I snuck around to the back where I found a parking lot jammed with yellow box trucks bearing the name, "OPERATIVE CAKES."

Reader, this was the most intriguing business name I've ever seen in my life.

My sleuthing was interrupted by two fellows who approached me in the parking lot. One was a talker. The second stood silently behind, arms folded.

"Can I help you with something?" asked the talker, doing his best to sound not helpful.

I explained my quest. "And all the trucks say Operative Cakes," I said. "What is that?"

"It's exactly what it says," said the man. "It's a cake business."

“What kind of cake?" I wondered.

"All cakes.”

This conversation wasn't going anywhere, so I circled back to the front in hopes of finding an entrance. Finally, I spotted a solid metal door and an intercom. I pressed the button.

It took a while before a lady's voice answered, "Good afternoon!"

I introduced myself and explained I was writing about the area and wanted to learn about Operative Cakes. But the lady said she was just the receptionist and everyone had left for the day. As if on cue, the door opened and a man walked out pushing his bicycle, giving me a glimpse of the interior. So of course I snapped a photo.

"Anne?" the voice came again from the intercom.

"Yes?"

"Do not take pictures of the inside."

I continued my survey of the block. On the east side, overlooking the Hutchinson River Expressway, was Herc Rentals.

"We do construction equipment. We do excavators, we do boom lifts, we do backhoes. Anything, honestly that could be used on a construction site," said Prez, the manager.

The most common rental, he said, was a scissor lift, available for $800 a month.

I imagined driving a scissor lift up and down the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. I'd have to get an aerial certification first, but Herc offers classes every second and fourth Tuesday of the month. "There's a separate class for forklift certification," said Prez.

Good to know!

The final side of the block was Senger Place, which featured a row of bungalow homes. I was admiring the astroturf lawns when I spotted a fellow pulling up to the curb in a very cool old car.

Tommy, who lives on the block, was happy to talk about his ride—a 1981 Monte Carlo with 400,000 miles.

Tommy and his 1981 Monte Carlo!

"It was originally my aunt's car," he said. "She bought it '81. She passed away in 2014 and I took it over and I've been working on it ever since."

"Are you going to keep it the rest of your life?"

"I'm going to die in this car," said Tommy. "I'll never buy a new car. They're garbage! They're made of crap. And they're so easy to steal. This car, I leave it open all day long, nobody steals it."

"Why do you think nobody steals it?"

"Nobody wants this car. They want the new cars!"

Tommy has it all figured out. He drives a city school bus for special needs kids: "They're quiet. You'd never even know they were on the bus." He works just two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon, but gets paid for a 40-hour week. He loves the neighborhood because it's private and quiet.

"What do you do for fun?" I asked.

"For fun?" he said. "Not much. Sit home, get drunk!"

His latest find is Upstate Vodka, made with New York State apples.

"How did you even discover that?"

"On Instagram!" said Tommy. "And then there's another company I get wine and alcohol from, it's called 'Good Fucking Wines'. And the bottle says, 'Good Fucking Wine'. And then you got 'Good Fucking Vodka,' 'Good Fucking Bourbon,' and 'Good Fucking Tequila.'"

They all live up to the name, Tommy confirmed. And then he asked if he could take me to dinner.

I admired Tommy for this—people should ask each other out more! But I am not a drinker, so I told him I have a boyfriend.

Walking back to my bus stop, I felt very pleased. I’d met an interesting fellow! I'd learned all about my construction equipment options in NYC! And I even had a new mystery to solve: What goes on inside Operative Cakes?

Stay tuned!

Senior Citizen Roulette: Arnie

Arnie!

For my final randomness excursion of the week, I decided to play a quick game of Senior Citizen Roulette. This is a regular newsletter feature in which I find a random NYC senior out in the wild and ask him or her a question from a list of submitted by readers. The questions are numbered, and the senior picks a number at random.

I found Arnie sitting on a park bench outside Brooklyn Borough Hall, enjoying a beautiful spring afternoon. He lives in Brookyn Heights and is 94 years old! He is a retired medical malpractice lawyer who used to do a lot of pro bono work representing plaintiffs.

So you have to pick a number, 1-43.

Thirteen.

Lucky 13! Here’s the question: “Do you believe in God?”

Yes.

Why?

It's a profound question, but I have faith. (Long pause). I have a firm belief that there is some cause, some builder, some architect who constructed the world.

It's just too perfect. To me, right now is as good a place as we could be at. If we need food, food comes from the trees and the ground. If we need air, we just go outside. If we need water, it comes from the sky. It's too perfect a universe. Something had to organize this, to create the life that we have.

I love your response, but I think a lot of people would look around at what's happening these days and say, 'How can you call this perfect?'

Sure, and it's a legitimate question. There's an awful lot of difficulty. But the world is too good. We need sustenance, the water and the minerals from below, and it's all just so available to us. We've been given so much.