My Turn: A Brooklyn candy store opened my eyes to the world

Around August 1953 my parents, Andrew and Concetta Alamia, bought a small candy store/luncheonette in the East New York section of Brooklyn. I had just turned 12 and was spending a few summer weeks with my mother’s cousin and her family in upstate Peekskill, so my parents’ acquisition, at Glenmore and New Jersey avenues, was a surprise when I returned home.

My dad was born in Sicily and came to America in 1924 at age 23. He worked in various construction-related jobs, always with other Italian-speaking workers. Thus, at the age of 52, when he bought the candy store, he could not read or write English and spoke in broken English. Being the proprietor of a candy store/luncheonette, where he would interface with the public every day of the week, was the last thing anybody might think he would undertake.

Mom’s situation was not a whole lot different. Although she was born in the United States, she and her family returned to Sicily when she was 2; she didn’t return to the States until she was 15. Mom could read and write English reasonably well, and she spoke with a less-pronounced accent than did Dad.

Nevertheless, Andrew and Concetta together with their three children, Salvatore, 12, RoseAnn, 10, and Ignazio, 7, embarked on this new business adventure.

I will never forget my father’s frustration at having to assemble for customers a Sunday newspaper that had nine large sections, some delivered on Wednesday and Saturday; he didn’t believe anyone could possibly read all nine sections and, if not, why have them?

Another frustration involved that classic Brooklyn beverage, the egg cream. A customer came into the store during the first full day of operation and asked Dad for an egg cream. Dad proceeded to the kitchen — Mom’s domain — in the rear of the store and asked her for an egg. My mother questioned why he would need an egg for anything from the fountain.

Dad answered that he needed an egg because there was a guy out front who wanted an egg cream.

My mother, never too shy to ask a question, thought it best to speak to the customer. She explained that they had just bought the store and didn’t know much about fountain service. Then she asked him how to make such a drink. Understanding their dilemma, he explained the process. From that day forward, Dad made the best egg cream in all of Brooklyn.

East New York was a predominantly Jewish neighborhood at that time, but the area around the candy store was an amalgam of families of Italian, Jewish, Polish and Irish heritage, a cross-section of western European immigrants. Some of the customers were survivors of the Nazi concentration camps, with tattooed ID numbers still visible on their wrists; there were Italian immigrants who enjoyed homemade wine (that I still believe to be little more than wine vinegar) and an occasional “de nobile” cigar (more commonly called a stogie).

Diagonally across from the candy store and closer to Pennsylvania Avenue (the main north-south thoroughfare) was a large Russian Orthodox Church. Every Sunday between 10 a.m. and noon, while the women and children were at services, men would frequent the candy store for coffee, danish and conversation. The church's annual Christmas service was late at night and involved a procession around the exterior of the church between midnight and 1 a.m. The churchgoers became so much a part of the store that Dad stayed open until 1 a.m. that night.

Typical of the era, the store attracted a troupe of regulars. Their colorful nicknames were straight out of a Damon Runyon story: “Two-Dollar Bill,” “Crazy Jake,” “Pickles,” “The Russian” and “Louie the Tile Layer.” These men loved to play cards and wager on the horses.

It was life in and around the candy store, which my parents owned for about a decade, that broadened my horizons and opened my eyes to different cultures and instilled a desire to travel the world. Though I didn’t think about such things back then, I now appreciate the diversity that was a part of my life.

Salvatore Alamia,

Islip