As long as you’re at Coney Island, you may as well wander down the boardwalk to one of the Russian restaurants with seaside seating. I won’t lie—these places don’t have the greatest food, but the people-watching more than makes up for it. Order some cold vodka, maybe some smoked fish or other low-commitment nibbles, and watch the parade of Brooklyn characters flow past. Maybe you’ll spot a washed-up Russian model at a nearby table, singing sad Slavic songs at the top of her lungs and terribly off-key, then yelling and laughing angrily at the wind. Is she crazy? you wonder. Or just impressively drunk? The waiters stop by her table every so often and talk to her convivially, as if nothing is out of sorts, confusing you even more. You swallow a glug of vodka and notice it’s warming up, getting harder to drink. An old, bald man rides languidly by on a bike, big-bellied and tanned to wrinkles from a lifetime spent shirtless in the sun, just as he is now. Behind him come families, teenagers, the destitute, lovers, bruisers, and thieves.
Old New York is alive and well at Coney Island, despite the city’s best efforts otherwise. Savor it.
