In the spirit of tradition, my mother, my brother and I first made our way to 116th Street. But this time, rather than grab a slice of pizza, we sprang for The Wharf, a waterfront restaurant that a friend had called a hidden gem. He wasn’t kidding. It is, in fact, hidden, behind a Lukoil gas station. Too bad it’s so hard to find, because the fish was fresh and the view of Jamaica Bay refreshing. The nun drinking Budweiser out of a wine glass at the table next to us also seemed to thoroughly enjoy her meal.
After lunch, we strolled down 116th Street to the boardwalk. During Rockaway’s peak, 116th Street had been compared to Fifth Avenue. But you won’t find any high-end stores or even a Starbucks there now. At Fashion Wave, a clothing and accessories shop that has the look of a Dollar Store, Daniel and I argued over whether to buy a Mets or a Yankees beach towel. (My mother settled it. Neither.)
We walked past the longstanding dive bar, appropriately called Sandbar, where people were drinking beer at outdoor tables. But we wanted sand, not a bar. We found a square of sand on which to park ourselves on the beach, but we didn’t last long without an umbrella in the 90-degree heat. I looked at the red and yellow umbrellas around me with envy.
Better to explore the boardwalk, we decided. We headed south, passing playgrounds with swings and handball courts and skate parks, our conversation occasionally interrupted by the bell of a Mr. Softee truck. My mother, a real estate buff, pointed out all the shiny new white condo buildings with balconies overlooking the boardwalk. “You deserve to live here,” said a sign on one.
I was more into people-watching. Or animal-watching, in some cases. We stopped to play with Alex, a parrot perched on the shoulder of owner Laura Flannery, a former Marine turned limousine manufacturer who has lived off the boardwalk for 10 years.
Flannery, proudly rocking a Yankees sweatshirt, said that she loves living in Rockaway because of its diversity. Once called the Irish Riviera, when immigrants from the Emerald Isle dominated its neighborhoods, Rockaway is now home to Hispanics, Africans, Indians, you name it.
“Everyone dwells together well,” Flannery said. “It’s a lovely place to live. I like the beach community. Isn’t it amazing that this is here in the middle of an urban environment?”
We ended our day not at one of the splashy new eateries but at the venerable drinking spot Connolly’s Bar, where the bartenders have Queens accents as heavy as the Guinness they pour.
Daniel and I ordered beers, apparently not the most popular beverage at this dark basement tavern. When I asked the bartender what so many people were sucking through straws out of small styrofoam cups, he handed me two cups with a little taste of each drink: a pina colada and a frozen lemonade. Daniel declined when the burly bartender offered him a cup of the frilly concoction. “I prefer beer,” he said.
“Connolly’s is world-famous for this,” the bartender insisted.
He proceeded to tell us how a crew of motorcycle riders once walked into the bar decked out in their leather paraphernalia and ordered round after round of pina coladas.
That’s the beauty of Rockaway Beach: It may be tough, but it’s got a soft side, too.
Loading...
Comments