#16/52: Egg Cream Creation at Hinsch’s

As I enter the 1890’s building the series of forrest green bar stools beckon me back in time. The wallpaper patterned plastic booths invite 3 scoops and 2 spoons to savor Hinsch’s homemade ice cream. But I’ve got labor longer before I enjoy her rewards. At Hinsch’s, as delicious as the dinners are… it’s all about the drink.

I meet Raul, the ice cream professional who schools me on the subtleties of egg cream creation. With a passion for perfection, Raul instructs me on the proper proportions and the ideal order of ingredients. Raul corrects my mistakes as I make them – and there are many. The egg cream is an art form created at the fountain and focusing on 3 specific items: milk, seltzer and Fox’s u-bet brand chocolate syrup – in that order and with specific measurements.

I reach for the proper vessel but am overwhelmed by the shelf lined with banana split bowls and antique sundae dishes. Raul guides me to the classic coca cola glass and places it on the countertop. My tentative pours lead to much less milk than my recipe requires and my stirring ability lacks speed. The signature frothy foam atop my egg cream is in danger of losing its bright white color as I drizzle a dab of chocolate syrup in the wrong direction. Raul coaches me a few more times before I make an egg cream worthy of the next customer that wanders in.

I’ve never met a drink so ritualized and revered and with so many obstacles to perfection. My own Father often schooled me on the secrets of a excellent egg cream. His every-other-evening treat was an exercise in potions and portions. He offered me ingredients and insight as he spoke standing at his perch at our kitchen countertop and instructed in such a stoic manner as to signify the ultimate importance of: Milk, then seltzer, then syrup, then a speedy swirl of the spoon.  And even today, with Raul watching my every move and with my father’s voice echoing in my ears, the excellent egg cream eludes me.

Even the name egg cream is crowded in confusion and marred with mistakes. There’s no egg.  There’s no cream. And mysteries surrounding the moniker abound. One story suggests that the use of grade ‘A’ milk lead to the name:  “A” cream, which sounds suspiciously similar to ‘egg’ cream. Another theory attests that ‘egg’ is a corruption of the German word echt (meaning genuine or real) and that this drink was indeed an echt cream. Another argument in this unending debate travels all the way from Paris, France where the ‘chocolat et crème’ (chocolate and cream) morphed phonetically into our beloved Brooklyn beverage. A final sentiment on the subject suspects that the first version did, in fact, use egg and cream, but that those ingredients were eliminated due to food restrictions during WWII. And even though my cocktail technique may fall short of perfection, Raul appears impressed with my egg cream understanding.

All this egg cream investigation has me thinking about a few labels of my own. I wondered about the words we so regularly whisper but seldom scrutinize. Our cast of characters is filled with lovers and enemies, friends and foes – all playing overlapping roles. And what about the word family? How do we define a word that is littered throughout our lives so frequently, that it often escapes explanation.

I have an adorable uncle named Stanley who, by definitions sake, is not really my Uncle. Many years ago my Dear Uncle H passed away. My Aunt met a nice man at a meeting and although they’ve never married, Stanley is more my uncle than many others, though there is no bloodline between us. And from my vantage point, whenever I stand on my Cornelia Street stoop and look lovingly all around, I see my extended family: I have 15 blue shirted brothers who work behind the counter at Faicco’s at the beginning of our block. I have a best friend who also happens to be my boss. We all share one beautiful black coated canine named Charlie who resides at 29 Cornelia. And lastly, I have a husband at Home Restaurant and although he may not exactly fit the origins of the word (from the Old Norse meaning Master of the House) he serves as more of a husband than others who have held his position. Although none of them know this is their namesake, our Greenwich Village Family – while not ancestors, nor blood, nor brood – share a Cornelia Street kinship that is apparent to anyone who is willing to extend their dictionary definitions.

But this family – Hinsch’s happy family, like so many other families – is marred with mourning and near misses.  After 6 generations of family-run fun and countless egg cream creations – Hinsch’s was going to be history. On September 29, 2011 a sign in the front window read: HINSCH’S IS CLOSING AFTER 63 YEARS OF SERVICE. It struck me that, in NYC and beyond, you never know what you’re walking by until it’s gone. Well loved shops with long histories fall by the wayside, just as my Grandfather’s did. And Hinsch’s was about to suffer the very same fate. Hinsch’s originally opened in 1915 as Reichert’s Ice Cream Parlor before Herman Hinsch took over the business back in 1948. Hinsch eventually sold, in 1962, to the Logue Family who carried on the namesake – along with handmade chocolates and hand packed ice cream – until the current economic crisis, rising rent and desire to retire threatened this beloved brooklyn eatery.

Hinsch’s went the way that so many Happy Days era diners do. They were done for.

When the doors shut on that dark day, this story might have ended sharply. The headlines were headed to print (and printed) and the locals forced to find another hangout to call home. Another New York institution loses its life.

But Hinsch’s fate followed a less predictable path. She’s the little luncheonette that could.

Enter Roger Desmond: Local business owner. Neighborhood guy. Hero.

When the nostalgia nestled in Roger was inspired, then inquired and eventually acquired Hinsch’s. He remembered the Hinsch’s of his youth – he’d stop in after school whenever he was in the mood for a good old grilled cheese & some neighborhood girls. His heroism is not completely lost on him. As humble as he is, Roger does get a kick out of his newfound status. “I own Hinsch’s, for gosh sakes.” It’s a bit of a self esteem boost for him. “If you can make Hinsch’s come back, thats nice.” There’s something sweet and simple about the sentiment. But after all, there’s something sweet and simple about Hinsch’s too. And after 2 months of renovations, the doors eventually opened again. Long live the luncheonette.

Roger is the one-time bartender turn soda fountain owner responsible for saving our fair Hinsch’s. He’s the man that made is possible for Edna to eat her 3 meals a day – every day – here at Hinsch’s. He’s the guy who remembers where Vicki went on vacation when she comes in after a few weeks away. He’s the angel who allowed Julie and James to have a place to celebrate (on the house) the fact that today – on the day of my employ – their doctor informs them that they will soon be proud parents. Julie and NYC firefighter James always visit Hinsch’s for their small scale celebrations – as their family has for 3 (and soon to be 4) generations. Roger is the host who warmly welcomes his diners. With boldness and  brevity he simply asks, “a little lunch?”

And even if you’re not yet a regular, wait a little while – you surely will be soon.

And so Hinsch’s was saved – as the backside of the staff shirts proudly proclaim. Brought back from the brink and rescued from a harsh reality – as so many of us have. I, too, remember a time when I was feeling quite lost myself. And my savior? The city itself. To her, I am forever indebted. I recall a time in late August of 1998 when I wandered jobless and joyless just after grad school graduation. I moved from my small Hamptons hometown to live in the corner of a cousin’s kitchen on 77th and Columbus. I knew nearly no one except for the next-door neighbor I dated for a short time, only to discover he was also dating his next-door neighbor – one wall away from me. I’d listen at the door for the sounds of his arrival and often sat in silence when he wouldn’t return for a while. I figured it was time to find another friend so I turned to New York and asked for her assistance. She became my constant companion. I devoured her sights and sounds, block by block. I rarely took her subways  but preferred a more intimate approach. I pounded the pavement and after 3 miles to work and 3 miles back, a best friendship was born. And as strange as it may sound, as long as I’m in NYC surrounded by her skyscrapers and brownstones, and even when I’m alone, I am never ever lonely. She’s a warm blanket and a cozy cocktail. And only a New Yorker understands her offerings and gets her gifts.

So sometimes, as in the case of Hinsch’s, we save the city. And sometimes, the city saves us.

We all suffer in silence at select moments of our lives. And just when we need it most, sometimes someone swoops in and gives us a save. My only question to you is: Who or what saved your soul in these last few seasons of your life and are they even mildly aware of their influence?

In addition to egg creams and countless other items (I had the utterly amazing Chicken Cardinal with fresh local mozzarella and roasted red peppers on ciabatta lightly brushed with herb butter) that fare much finer than so many other diners, Hinsch’s still sells those sweet handmade confections as it has for 60 years. Their nonpareils are the best I’ve had and well beyond any boxed candy variety. And it’s perfectly appropriate that those dark chocolate discs dotted with white are Hinsch’s bottom line best seller since the French word nonpareil literally translates into: having no equal or unparalleled. I think it’s fitting.

Be sure to stop by Hinsch’s Luncheonette in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn and visit with our hometown heroes, Roger & Raul. And maybe even wave hello to Julie, and James of the FDNY.  And don’t forget to order an egg cream for an experience of unparalleled proportions.