It’s with sheer fucking joy mixed emotions that tonight I tell you that the Papaya Wars are over. There’s still a couple left I didn’t go to, but I just can’t stand this anymore feel it’s time to end the battles and let the obvious winner emerge victoriously. I’m happy to see peace, but as in all wars, sadness accompanies the final pounding of the war drum. There’s losers and casualties that have piled up, some places fared better than others and lots of hot dogs gave their lives in the name of the Papaya Wars. Let’s have a moment of silence for them. Jesus Christ, I think I’ve finally lost my fucking mind.
Okay, off to the winning battle field!
We'll be taking the subway to the final battle field.
The back escalator is always much more calm than the front one.
I couldn't believe it, as soon as I got to the tracks there was a train about ready to take off. I jumped in and we're ready to go, no waiting! A magical night indeed!
Okay, just a few blocks and we'll announce the victor in the Papaya Wars!
But first, a little neon in the night.
One block away!
And here we are, The Papaya King, the winner of the Papaya Wars!
The King is the original, after all, the first Papaya dog stand in Manhattan. All others are heirs to this throne of hot doggery. Let's go in and proclaim The King the winner. The employees will probably be thrilled!
Well...the soldiers here must be a little shell-shocked. They looked at me like I was nuts when I told them that they had won the Papaya Wars and reluctantly posed for this photo with the banner I had specially made for the occasion. This guy said he'd only pose for the photo if I didn't photograph his face. Must be some sort of intelligence-gathering operative. I complied to the orders.
And now time for the last Papaya meal. I brought the secret ingredient for the Screwdapaya drink.
And here's the last supper. War is over (if you want it) and soon so is the meal.
I have to confess tears are welling up as I take my last Ebony and Ivory ketchup and mustard shot.
Okay, it's out the door to see the public's reaction to the end of the Papaya Wars.
Wow, word travels fast! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
The Final Papaya Wars Standings. As always the rankings go from worst to the best.
9. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya: Because it’s not there anymore. 8. Papaya Dog in Times Square: They don’t have beer and I forgot to bring vodka. Plus my corn dog was borderline cold and they have a cracked window in there which can only mean bad luck to all who enter. 7. Papaya Dog at 6th Avenue and 4th: They’re liars! 6. Gray’s Papaya at 6th Ave. and 8th St: They don’t have beer but I did remember the vodka for my patented Papaya Wars Screwdapaya drink. New York Magazine delcares this the best of all Papaya’s but then tell’s us it’s endorsed by Mario Batali. Thinking about Super Mario in his shorts and orange clogs always cause me to lose my appetite, so that’s going to drag this place down in the ratings. And they get points knocked off for hopping on the dollar pizza wagon train that just keeps growing and growing. Plus I’ve got jury duty at 8:45 tomorrow. In the fucking morning tomorrow. KHHAAAAAANNN! 5. Chelsea Papaya: It’s clean, people were nice in there, but there’s no beer. 4. Gray’s Papaya on the Upper West Side: It brings back good memories and the signage is nice, but there’s no beer here and I don’t know if I’ll ever get that horrible taste of the papaya drink out of my mouth or mind. 3. Papaya Dog at 14th and 1st: The staff is super-friendly, it’s clean and the hot dogs are great there. However, they robbed me of my patented Ebony and Ivory ketchup and mustard shot! War is hell. 2. Penn Station Papaya: They’ve got beer! 1. Papaya King on the Upper East Side: They’ve got vodka...okay, you’ve got to bring it yourself and sneak it in, but still, this is the original Papaya King in New York City. They've been in the same spot on this block since 1932. The Beatles ate here on their first trip to New York when they appeared on the The Ed Sullivan Show. So does this put the King in first place? Yeah, yeah, yeah.
The Winner of the Papaya Wars! Papaya King 179 E. 86th St. (Near Third Ave.) 212-369-0648
Okay, time for round 7 of the Papaya Wars! A couple of weeks ago I went to the Papaya King on the Upper East Side. They’re the original Papaya King and have been on the block for close to 80 years. If you’ve been following the Papaya Wars, you’ll remember I came here a couple weeks ago. I thought it was open 24 hours like the rest of the Papayas, but was saddened to find it closed. It turns out they close at midnight during the week and are open till two in the morning Friday and Saturday. The next day I put up a tweet on Twitter saying I was sad that this place was closed when I got there. A little later on in the day, this tweet hit the Twitterverse:
It was the King himself, apologizing! I thought that was nice, so I agreed to give the Papaya King a second chance. I’m getting out of work earlier tonight, so I should be able to make the 12:00 pm deadline. Onwards to the King!
Let's hail a cab and head up to the Upper East Side.
Taxi!
And here we are. Deja vu, let's see if they're open and maybe have a deja chew.
The door's are open, time for tonight's Papaya Wars to begin. Banzai!
"A Tropical Oasis in the Concrete Jungle." Sounds good to me, it's still freezing cold out here.
Okay, tonight we find out if this is just a boast or fact from The King.
The counter here is long and sparkling clean. Let's check out the dogs.
They look good here and the aroma is doggidly delightful in here.
And here Amzad serves up a Papaya drink and a dog. Amzad's the manager here and has worked for the King since 1996. He says it's a great place to work. I have to admit, this is the friendliest Papaya I've been in yet. let's try the dog and the drink. If you recall the last Papaya drink I tried didn't go down too smoothly.
We'll camp out over here, this place really is the cleanest Papaya I've ever seen.
Here's my dog and I ordered the orange drink from advice from my friend and co-worker, Joey D. They don't have beer here, but this time I came prepared...
Say hello to my little friend! I poured this into the Orange Papaya drink and a new drink was given birth to: "The Screwdrapaya." Both the dog and drink were delicious, good call, Joey D! Sorry there's not an ATM shot in here, I'll try tomorrow.
They have some great vintage photos of the place. Here's one from 1955, hot dog history!
Here's a shot of the counter back in 1950.
The King has been in this same spot since 1932. I found out from Twittering with the King that the Beatles ate here on their first trip to New York.
And if you're a Seinfeld fan you'll remember the King was a guest star on one of the episodes.
Here's the script on the counter.
Here's a shot of the Papaya King from the '70's. I wonder if Travis Bickle ever ate here?
My patented Ebony and Ivory Papaya shot, this time with brand names. No generic condiments at the Papaya King!
One last glance out the window and time to end this week's battle of the Papaya Wars.
And I'm happy to testify that yes, they are tastier than filet mignon! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
This Week's Papaya Wars Standings. As always the rankings go from worst to the best. 6. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya: Because it’s not there anymore. 5. Chelsea Papaya: It’s clean, people were nice in there, but there’s no beer. 4. Gray’s Papaya on the Upper West Side: It brings back good memories and the signage is nice, but there’s no beer here and I don’t know if I’ll ever get that horrible taste of the papaya drink out of my mouth or mind. 3. Papaya Dog at 14th and 1st: The staff is super-friendly, it’s clean and the hot dogs are great there. However, they robbed me of my patented Ebony and Ivory ketchup and mustard shot! War is hell. 2. Penn Station Papaya: They’ve got beer! 1. Papaya King on the Upper East Side: They’ve got vodka...okay, you’ve got to bring it yourself and sneak it in, but still, this is the original Papaya King in New York City. They've been in the same spot on this block since 1932. The Beatles ate here on their first trip to New York when they appeared on the The Ed Sullivan Show. So does this put the King in first place for now? Yeah, yeah, yeah.
There’s still a few more Papayas in town to check out in this hot dog battle, so stay tuned to the Papaya Wars here every Monday, exclusively at MAD and see if the King can hold on to his crown! Papaya King 179 E. 86th St. (Near Third Ave.) 212-369-0648
Neon Lights/My Favorite Concert @11:09 pm Chelsea I thought tonight I’d take pictures of neon lights on the way home and then write about my favorite concert in my life. I wrote about this once in a MySpace blog (anybody remember MySpace?) so I apologize if you’ve read it before. But I’m going to write it fresh tonight. I like re-writing stories, you always remember something different than the first time you wrote it. Anyway let’s look for neon, Leon.
We'll take a stroll down 7th Avenue towards my home base and fortress of solitude.
I've noticed a lot of deli's have three line neon signs. Kind of like deli haiku. Except they don't worry about the whole five, seven, five thingy.
More deli haiku.Sandwiches, bagels, coffee. Simple and to the point.
Nice! They've taken deli haiku to a higher level and done it in a sweeping circular motion. Impressive!
Oh, geez. I hate to be critical, but Chinese Food, do you have to insert your phone number in your version of deli haiku? It's so...commercial. If you just want to advertise, please stay away from the deli haiku style.
When you're ready to leave, this place will literally give you the boot! I'm killing myself over here, I smell ya!
This place is right next door and I don't know, they're kind of trying a little too hard. "While U Wait" and "Same Day Service," just spell neon redundancy to me.
Food groups are always represented in the world of neon. Pizza!
Love the steam coming off of the chicken!
Hello Burger!
And a bottle of Negra Modelo to wash it all down with.
Hey Papaya King? You seeing this over here? Live and learn, my friend!
And Sleepy's lives up to her name. The neon here is shut down for the night, they close early...hey, do you think she's sleeping with the Papaya King? Careful Papaya King, Sleepy's husband is 1-800-MATTRESS. He claims they leave off the final "S" for savings, but I think it's a code for shotgun. Watch out, King, you don't want to get your hot dog blown off!
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The Papaya Dialogues!
And speaking of the Papaya King, our conversation continues at Twitter. When I came home tonight, there was a Tweet from the Papaya King waiting for me. Here it is:
It's nice that he likes the blog, but on he's got to try a little harder. Here's my reply:
Stay tuned for further Papaya Dialogues with the Papaya King here at MAD. Now onto the weekly Tuesday Night Short Story. Enjoy!
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My Favorite Concert In the summer of 1979 I moved into an apartment in Indianapolis, Indiana from my hometown of Peoria, Illinois. I was 21-years-old and I had taken a job with a Safety Products company and would be selling safety products there. That was my “territory.” A couple weeks after settling in, my brother Jim came to see me for a weekend and I had tickets for the two of us to go see Cheap Trick in concert.
Cheap Trick has always been one of my favorite bands and I was psyched to go. The concert was on a Saturday and my brother showed up on Friday. I can’t remember what we did that Friday night, but I’m sure it involved drinking and if I remember correctly I think we were doing speed as well. And I’m not glamorizing or recommending booze or drugs, but in my defense, I was 21-years-old, it was 1979 and I was a complete mess and an idiot at the time. I’m happy to say I’m not so much of a mess anymore.
Anyway, the fateful night came and we went to a bar before the show and had many drinks. Then we went to a liquor store and Jim got a bottle of Jack Daniels and I got a bottle of Southern Comfort for the show. We piled back into my car and drove to the arena where the concert was being held. The seating was “festival seating” meaning first come, first served. There was a throng of kids piled up at the door and it was turning into an ugly mess. (About six months later, 11 people were trampled to death at a Who concert and that put an end to “festival seating.”)
We stashed our bottles inside of our jackets (nobody searched you back then and nobody really cared what you brought in as long as you weren’t obvious about it walking past, “security”) and wormed our way into the crowd. After about twenty minutes being pushed, jostled and being way closer to this smelly fat guy than I ever wanted to be, the doors were flung open. I remember feeling like I wasn’t even in control of my movements, my legs and body just jerked along with the mass movement of the crowd. We found seats off to the side of the stage that weren’t too bad and sat down. Jim was on the aisle and I was seated to his right. As soon as we sat down two kids came bounding up to the aisle and pointed at the two seats next to us.
“Those seats taken?” One of them asked.
“Nope,” I replied, “knock yourself out, Ringo.”
I don’t know why, but when I called him Ringo, Jim and I both cracked up. We got up, let the two kids in and we all settled in our seats. Soon the entire arena was one big marijuana cloud and people were pulling out bottles and cans of beer. Security guards looked the other way, as long as you weren’t killing anyone. These were rent-a-cops making minimum wage and all they wanted was to get the show over and collect their dough. Unless you hassled them, they pretty much left you alone.
After about a half an hour the house lights went off and people started hooting and hollering and the first band came out. I can’t remember the name of them, but they were a low-level Southern rock band who had a minor hit at the time. They were horrible and nobody was really listening. It was then that we sat down and pulled out our booze. We each had bought a fifth of our particular brand. I know it sounds like a lot, but my brother and I were always of the mindset that it is far better to have way extra, than not enough if you can swing it. There’s nothing worse than running out, especially if you’re all cranked out on some sort of drug like speed or acid. I have many sorrowful memories of being gooned out of my gourd on one thing or another and opening the refrigerator to one of the most horrific sights in the world: One lone beer. And you knew you’d be up climbing the walls for at least four more hours. Sure, there were a few all night convenience stores in Peoria, but sometimes it would be a real chore to navigate there and pull off the purchase without going directly to jail. Anyway, that’s why we always over-bought if our wallets permitted.
As I had a belt out of my bottle of Southern Comfort I glanced to my right and the two kids were staring at Jim and I. One of them kind of looked like a lankier version of Beaver Cleaver and the other had braces and patches of zits all over his face. They both had hair down to their shoulders and couldn’t have been over 16-years-old.
I leaned over to Jim and said, “Watch this.”
Then I leaned into the Beaver Cleaver look-a-like and said, “You want a slug?” I held the bottle out for him to grab.
He smiled and looked at his friend and said, “Sure!”
Pretty soon the four of us were passing the bottles back and forth. Right after Cheap Trick hit the stage to a thundering welcome, my brother lit up a joint, which our new found pals were happy to indulge in. Soon they were pretty well out of their minds. Everybody was on their feet and Cheap Trick was putting on a great show, as they always do. About twenty minutes into the set, Rick Nielson banged out the familiar opening chords to their anthemic song, “Surrender.” Everybody was on their feet clapping and singing. My next memory of this show always plays out in slow motion, because that’s the way it seemed to happen that night. Rick Nielson had just started his solo on his black and white checkered guitar. Beaver Cleaver let out a whoop, jumped up in the air and fell down on me. I grabbed him before he fell into his seat.
“You okay?” I screamed at him.
“Yeah, I’m fucking great!” He slurred back.
I wasn’t so sure, he didn’t look too good. And that’s when it happened. I think to prove to me that he was fine, he stood up straight, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Rock...”
I think the next two words he wanted to shout were, “and roll,” but the next thing you know, his hands flew down to his stomach and instead of words, a steady stream of vile and violent vomit came spewing out of his pie hole. All over the woman if front of us.
She let out a scream and her boyfriend looked at her and froze for a second. He was a big guy, with short hair and the both of them were dressed a little too nicely for your standard 1979 Cheap Trick concert. In fact, my brother was a little nervous the guy was cop or a narc when they first got in their seats. We relaxed when someone passed him a joint and he took a hit off of it. After staring at his girlfriend and assesing the situation, he turned around and stared daggers at Beaver and his buddy. I grabbed Beaver and kind of pushed him out towards the aisle and yelled one word.
“Run!”
He took off with his friend close behind. The cop-looking guy grabbed his girlfriend and they hightailed it out of there. I looked at my brother and we started laughing our fucking asses off. We continued to laugh all through the concert and afterwards we went to a bar and told the story to anyone who would listen to it and even those that wouldn’t: "The tale of the teen that couldn’t puke straight."
I’ve told that story thousands of times and I never get tired of telling it. I always wonder what that kid is doing today. I’d like to buy him a beer for making that Cheap Trick concert my favorite concert of all time.
Some Things I Did Before Work Today Checked my email. I got an email from the band Night Ranger announcing, “Pre-sale tickets for the 2011 Eclipse Tour.” Really, Night Ranger? Pre-saletickets? Shouldn’t you just be worried about selling just plain old tickets? You are Night Ranger after all. Listened to Cheap Trick’s first album. Had a craving for M & M’s. Massaged and rubbed my itchy eyeballs.
Papaya King @1:07 am Upper East Side Okay, it’s Monday evening and if you’ve been following this blog, you know what that means—The Papaya Wars continue! Tonight I’m traveling to the Upper East Side. There’s a Papaya King up there and I read on Grub Street that it got a makeover last September. Grub Street reported that there’s vintage photos in here and one of Anthony Bourdain in the hotdog house. So it’s off to Papaya number five, to see how they fare. Oh, and I hope you realize that the Papaya Wars are brought to you exclusively via MAD, you won’t find this reporting anywhere else. And yeah, I know it’s because I’m making the whole thing up, but still, it sounds good. Right?
I had to work late tonight, it's almost one in the morning and a little deserted outside on this Monday night.
We'll catch a cab out here on 6th, I'm tired and want to get this shit over with can't wait to start this fun evening of mayhem and hot dogs.
And here we are headed to the Upper East Side, we'll be there in minutes.
Wow, this looks like a good Papaya!
I love their neon, let's go get a dog, I'm in the mood for this all of a sudden!
The hot dog pictures look inviting, but the door is locked, what's going on here?
This fellow told me through the glass that they were closed. Closed? Papayas never close. This is sad news, indeed!
And it's a shame, this looks like a first-class Papaya King...except it's closed.
You may be the original, but you go to bed too early, Papaya King. What about all of us late-shift workers who long for a dog at one in the morning?
I wish I could back this boast up...but you're closed!
One last ebony and ivory, ketchup and mustard photo. Shot through the window. So close...but yet so far away. Sob!
Lets see if there's anything else open, this whole neighborhood is kind of dead.
Sheesh! This is the only all-night hot doggery on the block open all night. This is my cue...
To get back in a cab...
To come home and say hello to my little friends. Goodnight everybody and see you after dark.
Okay, I got home and did some research. I found out from a review in New York magazine that they close at midnight on weekdays and are only open till two in the morning on weekends! What kind of a sorry-ass Papaya King is this? I thought they all were open 24 hours. Well, it certainly doesn’t bode well for their rating in the Papaya Wars, here’s the new numbers. As always the rankings go from worst to the best.
5.Papaya King on the Upper East Side, I have no clue what this place is like because they close at midnight. They may be the original and the oldest in Manhattan, but still, they should be up all night to wage war against the 7-11 down the street. Come on, those clowns are selling hot dogs all night, where’s your fighting spirit, Papaya King? You disappoint me, sadden me and now I’m crying Papaya tears. They’re tasty! 4. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya, because it’s not there anymore. 3. Chelsea Papaya, it’s clean, people were nice in there, but there’s no beer. 2. Gray’s Papaya on the Upper West Side, it brings back good memories and the signage is nice, but there’s no beer here and I don’t know if I’ll ever get that horrible taste of the papaya drink out of my mouth or mind. 1. Penn Station Papaya...they’ve got beer!
Last night I Twittered about this cruel and bitter Papaya moment, and the Papaya King took note. Here’s the Tweet’s.
I posted a twitpic of the closed hotdog hut.
They replied with this Tweet.
And so, the dance begins! I'll let you know on further updates.
If they stay true to their word and stay open later, I’ll pay them a return visit and maybe their rating will improve. I’m nothing but fair...in the Papaya Wars!
Stay tuned to see who wins in the ratings of the Papaya Wars only here on MAD!
Papaya King 179 E. 86th St. (Near Third Ave.) 212-369-0648
It’s with sheer fucking joy mixed emotions that tonight I tell you that the Papaya Wars are over. There’s still a couple left I didn’t go to, but I just can’t stand this anymore feel it’s time to end the battles and let the obvious winner emerge victoriously. I’m happy to see peace, but as in all wars, sadness accompanies the final pounding of the war drum. There’s losers and casualties that have piled up, some places fared better than others and lots of hot dogs gave their lives in the name of the Papaya Wars. Let’s have a moment of silence for them. Jesus Christ, I think I’ve finally lost my fucking mind.
We'll be taking the subway to the final battle field.
The back escalator is always much more calm than the front one.
I couldn't believe it, as soon as I got to the tracks there was a train about ready to take off. I jumped in and we're ready to go, no waiting! A magical night indeed!
Okay, just a few blocks and we'll announce the victor in the Papaya Wars!
But first, a little neon in the night.
One block away!
And here we are, The Papaya King, the winner of the Papaya Wars!
The King is the original, after all, the first Papaya dog stand in Manhattan. All others are heirs to this throne of hot doggery. Let's go in and proclaim The King the winner. The employees will probably be thrilled!
Well...the soldiers here must be a little shell-shocked. They looked at me like I was nuts when I told them that they had won the Papaya Wars and reluctantly posed for this photo with the banner I had specially made for the occasion. This guy said he'd only pose for the photo if I didn't photograph his face. Must be some sort of intelligence-gathering operative. I complied to the orders.
And now time for the last Papaya meal. I brought the secret ingredient for the Screwdapaya drink.
And here's the last supper. War is over (if you want it) and soon so is the meal.
I have to confess tears are welling up as I take my last Ebony and Ivory ketchup and mustard shot.
Okay, it's out the door to see the public's reaction to the end of the Papaya Wars.
Wow, word travels fast! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
9. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya: Because it’s not there anymore.
Six Kings
King Tut
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