Poseidon Bakery: In times of unrest, turn to an oldie but goodie like this Greek bakery

“It’s the family—it’s for my family.” In 1983, Paul Fable was 13 and working the night shift with his dad at Poseidon Bakery. That year, the New York Times profiled a group of family-owned food shops “lovingly preserved” and passed along from generation to generation. When asked why he helped out around the store, Fable testified to the importance of a family destiny: “I have the experience. My life will go on, and I know I have someplace to go.”

Nearly three decades later, Poseidon Bakery squats on the same Ninth Avenue spot between 44th and 45th streets. The neighborhood has changed—sex shops and adult movie theaters have become American Apparel and Starbucks and Pinkberry. But on Poseidon’s block, it is still possible to imagine a Ninth Avenue before both gentrification and degeneration—a world of vivacious diversity. In 1973, Lili Fable, Paul’s mother, co-founded the Ninth Avenue International Food Festival. Signs of a transnational, cosmopolitan America remain visible. Here, however, the city has become a great fondue where Chipotle and Ollie’s mingle in melting pot bliss. Poseidon Bakery is a holdover from a New York largely consigned to the memories of memories.

Customers patronize Poseidon because they grew up on the hand-rolled phyllo dough, read about it on a blog or food forum (the one and only useful service provided by such websites is to save old beauties from decay), or were wandering through Hell’s Kitchen on a lunch break, wanted a little nosh, and were attracted by a glimpse of the dingy interior. It’s crowded with picture frames, candy jars, hairy mounds of kataifi, skewed rows of poppy seed strudel, sour cherry strudel, prune strudel, kourambiethes snowed in under drifts of powdered sugar, and glass cases packed with Greek pies kept warm for immediate consumption.

For a proper lunch, go with the spanakopita: spinach bound up in a triangle of lustrous, fragile phyllo. Walk back along 44th. Munch away and watch the wind leaf through the translucent pages of dough like a cheap and riveting paperback. Kreatopita, a similar phyllo pie filled with meat, is just greasy enough to hoard stomach real estate. That space is better developed for pastry purposes.
A finikia is the best finish to a Poseidon lunch. Made with walnuts and almonds, it’s a heavy cookie absolutely saturated with honey syrup—sweet enough to attract the wayward November bee, dense enough to occupy hours of nibbling. The baklava isn’t so shabby either. Rich as a warm salt ocean, it provokes a moment of pure, peaceful, pleasurable reflection. Times Square is circled and sways peacefully upon its plant-like stem.

I heard a tale of old Manhattan. I’d never been there but I wanted to go. Poseidon Bakery is a peaceful protest against the corporate takeover of history. When the people are rocked by a rebellion, if they see a man remarkable for righteousness and service, they are silent and stand attentively. In a similar fashion, Poseidon Bakery controls our passion with its pastry.