On a bright, sunny day, Willow Street, Hoboken, looks like any other in this
compact New Jersey city, which lies across the Hudson from Manhattan. Willow
is lined with small but smart houses, most showing signs of the area’s
increased gentrification. “It wasn’t always like this,” my guide, Jimmy –
a desiccated face under a grubby baseball cap and a body that is mainly aged
sinew – informs me. “Back in Frank’s day, this was the front line.” He
indicates the streets to the west: “Italians over there,” then he points
back to the waterfront, “Irish and Germans over there. Frank would’ve had to
cross this line to get to the city, and been called wop, dago, guinea
whenever he did.”
By “Frank”, he means Hoboken’s most famous son, Francis Albert Sinatra, late
of this parish, dead some 10 years come May. I try to guess Jimmy’s age but
can’t. So I ask the next question tentatively. Had he met Frank?
“No. But I know KENHOBOKEN people who did. I heard the stories before they got
all distorted.” Like what? “That he was from a poor background. But Dolly,
his mother, ran a speakeasy during prohibition. And Frank was an only child.
He never really went short.”
Sinatra himself had mixed feelings about Hoboken. As he told Pete Hamill, the
archetypal New York journalist, years later: “Hoboken? I had some fun there.
Some misery, too.”
On the surface, Hoboken does not share Frank’s ambiguity. All over the city
are streets and parks called Frank Sinatra this and Frank Sinatra that.
“Sure,” says Jimmy, “we’re proud of him. But some say how come he stayed
away for 40 years? How come he once called us a sewer?”
Actually, the Chairman of the Board was right about the last bit. For too many
years, Hoboken was a bit of a sewer. And that’s what saved it: during its
twilight years of industrial decline, no developers built wall-to-wall
high-rises, or ruined the waterfront by making it private access.
I have come across to Hoboken mainly because I heard it was a neighbourhood on
the rise. Using a leaflet from the small but entertaining Hoboken Historical
Museum (1301 Hudson St; 00 1-201 656 2240, www.hobokenmuseum. org), I am
ticking off Frank’s favourite haunts. One of them is Piccolo’s (92 Clinton
St), a fine, blue-collar diner that does great cheesesteak sandwiches and
fries but which also contains, out back, a shrine to Francis Albert. Sinatra
had been a hero to Sparky Spaccavento, its late founder, ever since, as a
kid, he delivered meat to Dolly’s house and Frank opened the door. The
crooner gave the delivery boy a $10 tip and, as Sparky liked to say when
ladies were present, “I almost urinated my pants.”
Piccolo’s is one of the last remaining authentic Hoboken joints. If Frank were
to walk in today, he’d know his way around the menu, the wisecracking
customers and, of course, the jukebox. The current owner, Patty, Sparky’s
son, agrees to show me the room-cum-shrine. It is while I am looking at the
signed photos and the album covers in that back room that Jimmy comes in and
offers to accompany me. I agree, hoping an old-timer like him can put the
whole city into context.
Even if you aren’t a Frank fan, the chances are you know Hoboken. It’s the
setting for On the Waterfront. Like Marlon Brando’s Terry Malloy, the town
has been on the ropes; unlike that fighter, it’s bounced back and is now
punching above its weight.
So, Jimmy and I walk down to the waterfront. The piers where the ships from
Europe once docked are long gone; the promenade is now dotted with fancy
cafes and restaurants, soccer pitches, a skateboard park and lots of
joggers. But it’s the view, that sublime view, which is the draw. You can
keep your Empire States and your Top of the Rocks, because you need a little
distance truly to appreciate New York’s skyline. For me, Hoboken has the
best view of Manhattan, which, on this day, soaring into a blue sky across
the sun-dappled water, still looks as impossibly fabled as Oz. When Sinatra
sang New York, New York, as he did too many times towards the end, I am sure
it was that tantalising, jagged metropolis he was imagining.
Only now, instead of the liners and longshoremen of his day, the once-derelict
waterfront comes with latte and linguine. “Yeah, the yuppies came,” says
Jimmy, “about 20 years after they went everywhere else. So we avoided the
skyscrapers that you get in Jersey City and there are real houses here
still, proper streets and communities. But a brownstone costs $1.8m now.
Place has changed.”
Not all for the worse, though. Squint a little at spruced-up Washington Street
and parts of it could almost be an Old Town USA cliché, with small
mom-and-pop stores with elegant frontages, and destination restaurants such
as Amanda’s (908 Washington St; 201 798 0101) still holding out against the
chains. This lively strip is clean and safe, and at the weekend there’s a
full-throttle party feel. It also has the celebrated Maxwell’s (1039
Washington St; 201 653 1703), a sweaty rock’n’roll club. Talk to the bar
staff about local musicians and they won’t mention Sinatra, they’ll tell you
who from Sonic Youth and Yo La Tengo has made their home here.
But walk the streets to the west of Willow and you still see signifiers of
Frank’s youth: a traditional Italian deli here, a “Social Club” there
(although they have reverted to being just that, rather than the haunt of
wise guys), and red-sauce Italian-American joints such as Leo’s Grandevous
(200 Grand St; 201 659 9467), famous for its crotchety waitresses and the
fact that Frank’s favourite stool is on the wall behind the bar. His
high-school diploma was once next to it, but a customer/fan stole it,
although Jimmy says there are those who think this another myth, as Sinatra
never actually graduated.
One thing is certain, Sinatra certainly drank in Leo’s prewar and it is
rumoured to be one of the places he would slip across to in the wee small
hours if he were playing a gig in New York. Leo, now also dead, would serve
him ziti (a type of macaroni), while Sinatra and his cronies
contemplated important questions such as who was the worst human being
alive. According to Hamill, Frank’s vote always went to the Raging Bull
himself, Jake LaMotta. “Lower than whale shit,” he liked to say.
After a plate of pasta at Leo’s, we return to the waterfront to examine the
next stage in Hoboken’s evolution: its first decent hotel in decades –
a W, due to open in 2008, offering the usual flashy W bars and restaurants.
What would Frank think of that? I ask Jimmy. He shrugs. “A classy joint in
Hoboken? Maybe he’d be pleased for the old girl. I’d like to think so.”
I stay in the city long enough to experience a magical moment: dusk. As the
colour drains from the sky and the world fades to a soft, pixellated
twilight, the lights come on in Manhattan and the city blazes. I stand in
the Quays bar (310 Sinatra Drive; 201 656 2521), sipping a martini, and
watch the show. As true darkness falls, the waitress walks over and selects
a song from the jukebox. No, it isn’t Sinatra. It’s a local outfit called
Bastards of Melody. You know, even though Frank would have hated the music,
the name might just have made him smile. He liked a little vulgarity and,
besides, he was a bastard with melody well before those kids were born. Ten
years gone, almost. Next time you are in New York, take a trip across the
water to pay your respects.
Robert Ryan was a guest of Virgin Atlantic and the 6 Columbus hotel. His
latest novel is Dying Day (Headline £6.99)
Travel brief
Getting to New York: airlines flying to New York include Virgin
Atlantic (0870 380 2007, www.virgin-atlantic.com),
American (020 7365 0777, www.americanairlines.co.uk),
Continental (0845 607 6760, www.continental.com)
and the all-business-class Silverjet (0844 855 0111, www.flysilverjet.com).
Expect to pay from £300 in economy; from £1,000 on Silverjet.
Where to stay: 6 Columbus (00 1-212 204 3000, www.sixcolumbus.com;
doubles from £175), the new, stylish sister hotel to 60 Thompson, is
opposite the Time Warner Center. Or try the art-deco-styled Washington
Square Hotel (212 777 9515, www.washington
squarehotel.com; doubles from £95).
Getting to Hoboken: ferries cost from £3.50 each way and leave from the
West 39th Street Pier, the World Financial Center and Pier 11/Wall Street.
They land at either 14th Street (north Hoboken) or the NJ Transit Terminal
(south Hoboken). PATH trains leave from 33rd Street in Manhattan and
terminate in south Hoboken; the fare is 75p each way.
