There are certain habitual New York experiences that feel exactly and effortlessly right—that inspire, especially in an eager young transplant, a feeling of “this is why I’m here.” One of the first New York habits I developed, as a college freshman, almost ten years ago, was eating hot dogs at Gray’s Papaya. Though “my” Gray’s remains the one on the Upper West Side—despite the fact that I’ve lived in Brooklyn for more than half the time I’ve lived in New York, and that I long ago misplaced the “I’m a Polite New Yorker” button I bought there, and transferred dutifully from tote bag to tote bag—I empathize with those mourning the location on Sixth Avenue in the Village, which appears, as of yesterday, to have gone out of business, owing to a rent increase.
Why do we love Gray’s Papaya? Because we love the hot dog, which you’ll never convince me is anything but delicious; I don’t care what goes in it or what kind of water it came out of. (I take mine with ketchup and relish, despite my mother’s insistence that ketchup is for children and that adults must eat mustard.)
Because we love eating quickly, while standing up, or even on the go, and what better to wolf down while dashing to the subway or the movies than a hot dog, especially one as crisp, compact, and conveniently packaged, in a scalloped paper shell, as a hot dog from Gray’s Papaya?
Because we love brusque, efficient, no-nonsense service, as expertly embodied by the men in paper chef’s caps who grab the glistening franks from their neat rows on the griddle and shove them into squishy buns without pomp or circumstance, and by the wordy, old-fashioned signs hanging inside and out: “NO GIMMICKS! NO BULL!”; “WE ARE GETTING KILLED BY GALLOPING INFLATION IN FOOD COSTS. UNLIKE POLITICIANS WE CANNOT RAISE OUR DEBT CEILING AND ARE FORCED TO RAISE OUR VERY REASONABLE PRICES. PLEASE DON'T HATE US.”
Because at Gray’s Papaya, you can still order an indulgent two hot dogs plus a medium-sized drink for less than five dollars. The Recession Special (which was honestly the first thing I thought of when the recession hit in 2008) makes you feel, for at least as long as it takes you to eat your dogs and wash them down with a Styrofoam cup of chalky, not-quite-cold papaya juice (which I always order, because it feels like the right thing to do), like the city is affordable and accessible, like you belong.
I won’t particularly miss the Gray’s Papaya on Sixth Avenue. I can’t recall eating there more than once or twice, mostly because I feel a magnetic pull toward Joe’s Pizza whenever I’m in need of a quick, cheap meal in that neighborhood. But I mourn that Gray's nonetheless, and I rue the day that the Gray’s on the Upper West Side, or Joe’s, for that matter, meets the same fate. Gray’s Papaya doesn’t necessarily have the best hot dog in New York, nor Joe’s the best pizza. Food in this city is getting better and more exciting, at a rapid clip. But the experience of eating is about much more than how good things taste. In New York, at Gray’s Papaya or any culinary institution, it’s about remembering what came before you, and remembering why you’re here.
Photograph: PYMCA/UIG via Getty
