A KFC Anti-Bucket Brigade
The windows of Sambas Deli are filled with Pop-Tarts and potato chips, with roach killers and cold remedies. It’s the kind of place Manhattanites depend on--a cluttered, grab-bag of a store where you can buy formula for a howling infant at 1 a.m. and hot coffee six hours later.
Gritty and functional, Sambas would hardly seem the site to wage a battle over the future of Manhattan’s Upper West Side. But when landlords recently announced plans to end the deli’s lease and replace the store with a Kentucky Fried Chicken, they struck a nerve among residents who have seen one too many chain stores take root on Broadway and drive out local shops.
“How much more of this can we take?” asked Arthur Ray, a longtime customer, buying coffee from Awni Sambas, the Palestinian merchant who has run the store since 1989. “They’re turning us into franchise central.”
Sambas grimaced, then rummaged through an ice cream freezer he may soon have to sell. “I help the community. Who fights for me?”
So far, more than 200 angry citizens have answered the call. Paul Reese, a retired teacher who has lived in the area for 30 years, has organized an online group of residents eager to fight the arrival of the KFC on the corner of 106th Street and Broadway any way they can.
“We always try to be good neighbors, and we will be,” said Michael Tierney, spokesman for Kentucky Fried Chicken. “There are lots of people in New York who are eager to find [food] solutions to their busy lives.”
The tension between chain stores seeking prime locations and the neighborhoods that resist them is hardly unique to Manhattan. With varying results, similar wars have raged from coast to coast in communities in transition.
But the battle forming on the Upper West Side--an area running from 110th Street to 66th Street and from Riverside Drive to Central Park West--is different. Until recently, this community has never been thought of as a particularly hot retail or residential area.
Indeed, the west side is primarily known as a place where people live, far from the glitz and glamour of other Manhattan communities. It’s famous for a long history of progressive politics. Last year, after a sustained battle, protesters living near Sambas Deli forced a CVS chain drugstore on 102nd Street to close after it abruptly replaced a popular supermarket.
Residents are considering similar tactics for the KFC, which would push out Sambas and a previously closed Spanish restaurant.
“People here are feeling their oats,” said New York Assemblyman Edward Sullivan, who represents the area. “The feeling is, we have a very special environment here on the Upper West Side, and these new stores, whether they are drugstores or fast-food outlets, don’t always fit in.”
For decades, small, independent shops--none particularly glamorous--have dominated the area. People never came here for three-star dining or trendy fashion boutiques. Until the late 1980s, street crime was a big problem.
Filled with academics, retirees, Columbia University students and working-class folks, the community had a messy, chaotic feel, very much like the real-life Tom’s Restaurant, where “Seinfeld” characters got together.
Some residents still cling to this lovable, schleppy image. In a current ad touting the neighborhood, the weekly Westside Spirit ran the photo of a gap-toothed, pigtailed girl and said: “Your daughter just did an impression of a car alarm for show and tell,” adding: “It’s different up here.”
But that difference began fading in the 1990s, when real estate values on the Upper West Side--and in the rest of New York--started to soar. A small two-bedroom condominium in the area that sold for $280,000 in 1992 would now command $800,000. Bidding on one-bedroom apartments starts at $300,000.
In less than 10 years, the west side became a magnet for upscale families with children, a neighborhood no less desirable than the affluent east side. And as the price of some apartments zoomed, reaching millions of dollars, the value of commercial real estate on Broadway also increased.
Some landlords stood by longtime tenants, but others could not resist the lure of more upscale clients. Why stick with the corner florist or hair salon when you might double your rent if the Gap comes calling? Property owners had a free hand, as New York has no commercial rent control.
In recent years, the west side has been invaded by a wave of chain stores that would have been unthinkable before. Locally owned diners and coffee shops now compete with a profusion of Starbucks. Small pharmacies are battling a steady influx of chain drugstores. The few independent bookshops that remain are locked in battles with two Barnes & Noble superstores.
Today there are 11 chain drugstores on the 30 blocks of Broadway from 106th to 76th streets; the same area has five independently owned pharmacies. The street has six Starbucks and three locally owned coffee shops.
These changes have distressed many. And while the Kentucky Fried Chicken on 106th Street is nothing new--the latest restaurant would replace an older, smaller outlet two blocks away--it represents a last straw to those residents who see yet another valued neighborhood shop disappearing.
“You wake up and ask yourself: What’s happening to the identity of this community?” said Reese, who bemoans the passing of Sambas. “This should be a neighborhood that meets local needs. Who needs another fast-food store?”
Awni Sambas tells a story that is familiar up and down Broadway. He has paid $4,000 a month rent for more than 10 years and hoped to sign a seven-year renewal. Instead, he said, the owner abruptly told him he was going to cut the size of his store in half and raise the rent to $5,000.
“They said take it or leave it, but I can’t do business this way,” Sambas said. Benjamin Huder, the landlord, did not return several calls seeking comment.
The specter of small-business owners being squeezed out by higher rents is one example of economic conflict, said Rick Dana, vice president of Insignia Douglas Elliman, one of the city’s largest real estate firms. But sometimes shopkeepers are their own worst enemies, failing to pay rent on time.
“For every story about a greedy landlord on Broadway, there’s a story about a small-business owner who just can’t make things work,” Dana said.
Sambas concedes he’s had friction with his landlord over water bills and has refused to pay rent until it’s resolved. But he insists the larger issue is whether the community needs his store or another fast-food outlet.
Unless Sambas pulls off a miracle (he has a court date this week to try to block the termination of his lease), his shop will disappear. And when it does, residents will add it to a lengthening list of stores now departed.
But miracles do occur. Last year, many here were stunned when landlords terminated the lease of the Broadway Farm, a cluttered yet friendly market that specialized in fresh fruit and vegetables. Anger grew when people learned the store would be replaced by a big, pink Victoria’s Secret.
Buoyed by public support and media coverage, owners of the Broadway Farm managed to lease a storefront across the street. Meanwhile, activists threatened to boycott the new lingerie store, scrawling angry graffiti on the plywood walls surrounding the neighborhood’s newest arrival.
But across the street, there were different signs in empty storefront windows welcoming back the Broadway Farm: “Hurry up and reopen!” they read. “We’ll all be seeing you soon!” and “We missed you.”
