Coney Island Memory

Murray Handwerker is dead. He was 89.

For one who shares his given name fading into obscurity, except for the occasional comedic or animal character in movies and sitcoms, it’s an occasion to mourn, especially if you grew up in Brooklyn and enjoyed the legacy of Murray Handwerker and his parents, Nathan and Ida. For it was Murray Handwerker who took his parents’ busy Coney Island hot dog stand at the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues (and another unit in Oceanside, Long Island) and made it into a national, if not international, sensation. Across the country today there are 234 Nathan’s Famous outlets. The franks are sold in more than 18,000 locations worldwide. Last year, according to the company, Nathan’s sold more than 425 million hot dogs. They no longer sell for a nickel, but they remain among the tastiest you can sink your teeth into. And the crinkly-cut French fries are a meal unto themselves.

Truth be told, I wasn’t a big fan of hot dogs when growing up. I preferred Nathan’s hamburgers smothered in grilled onions. Grease extraordinaire. Delicious!

Any trip to Coney Island, about three miles from my parents’ home, required a stopover at Nathan’s. My most memorable visit came before the one and hopefully only time I would be mugged.

One Saturday afternoon in late spring, when I was 14, my friends Jerry and Stanley talked me into going to Coney Island with them. Jerry and Stanley came from more Orthodox Jewish families. They weren’t supposed to ride on the Sabbath, or spend money. I was supposed to hang around home because my cousin Michael was coming over, but the lure of friendship and the enticement of Coney Island, back then a less than secure venue, trumped blood lines. Besides, Jerry and Stanley said they’d spring for the rides and food.

We took the BMT train from Neck Road a few stops to the end of the line, Stillwell Avenue. After eating at Nathan’s, the 90 degree turns of the Wild Mouse ride almost made us give back our food. Undeterred, we were walking toward Steeplechase Park with our entry fee money in our hands when we were jumped from behind by several ruffians. We didn’t know what hit us, but we quickly realized our $20 was gone with the tussle.

With no more mad money to spend, we headed back home. I caught a lot of flack from my parents for not being around to play with Michael. I fibbed I was playing ball at the schoolyard a few blocks away and had lost track of time.

Years later, in 1977 while a field editor for Nation’s Restaurant News, I interviewed Murray Handwerker. I did not tell him of my escapade that day in 1964.