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Old Mr. Flood
In a fictional portrait of the quintessential old-time New Yorker, retired house wrecker Hugh G. Flood is determined to live to be 115 years old on a diet of fresh seafood, harbor air, and the occasional good scotch.
122 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1948
About the author
Joseph Mitchell
149 books203 followersThere is more than one author with this name
Joseph Mitchell was an American writer who wrote for The New Yorker. He is known for his carefully written portraits of eccentrics and people on the fringes of society, especially in and around New York City.
-Wikipedia
Joseph Mitchell was an American writer who wrote for The New Yorker. He is known for his carefully written portraits of eccentrics and people on the fringes of society, especially in and around New York City.
-Wikipedia
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 39 reviews
May 4, 2018
I am one of the devotees of the cult of Joseph Mitchell. I was introduced to his work (O Happy Day!) by Noel Perrin's book A Reader's Delight, which advised me to go forth and read The Bottom of the Harbor. [Perrin was one of the causes of the "Mitchell revival" that brought all his books back into print.] I did so, and have just about worked my way through the canon (rereading The Bottom of the Harbor in the meantime) in the years since. Last year I read My Ears Are Bent, and this year it was time for this one.
The occasion for reading it was that I was flying halfway across the country to visit a dying in-law, which turned into a trip to the funeral. I will tell you that reading Mitchell made me feel better, it quieted the soul, it reminded me that there is beauty in life and in writing.
In Charles McGrath's foreword, he compares Mitchell to Twain for uniqueness of voice, and then makes this strong, and perfectly defensible, claim: "If Mitchell wasn't the single best writer who ever appeared in The New Yorker, then it was a tie between him and E. B. White."
This work is a form of what is now called "creative nonfiction" in that it reads like reportage, but the title character is an amalgam of several people, including, it is strongly felt, Mitchell himself. The details are all real, just not entirely true. The book is a collection of three related long pieces that came out in 1944 and 1945.
Mr. Flood is a retired gentleman who is in love with the Fulton Fish Market (in its original location), and the whole trade of seafood, from trap to belly. He is a "character" and he gravitates to other characters, which makes for good storytelling. Mitchell is showing us the acts that we put on to get through life, and telling us the stories that pass the time.
Favorite lines:
"Twain and [Haywood] Broun are Mr. Flood's favorite writers. 'If I get to heaven,' he once said, 'the first Saturday night I'm up there, if it's OK with the management, I'm going to get hold of a bottle of good whiskey and look up Mr. Twain and Mr. Broun. And if they're not up there, I'll ask to be sent down to the other place.' A moment later he added uneasily, 'Of course, I don't really mean that. I'm just talking to hear myself talk.' "
"He had the habit of remarking to bartenders that he didn't see any sense in mixing whiskey with water, since the whiskey was already wet."
[Regarding the former Still's Oyster and Chop House] "'Oh, God, Hughie,' said Mrs. Treppel, 'it was a wonderful place. I remember it well. It had a white marble bar for the half-shell trade, and there were barrels and barrels and barrels of oysters stood up behind this bar, and everything was nice and plain and solid -- no piddling around, no music to frazzle your nerves, no French on the bill fare; you got what you went for.''"
This is a lovely gem of a book. I look forward to reading it again.
The occasion for reading it was that I was flying halfway across the country to visit a dying in-law, which turned into a trip to the funeral. I will tell you that reading Mitchell made me feel better, it quieted the soul, it reminded me that there is beauty in life and in writing.
In Charles McGrath's foreword, he compares Mitchell to Twain for uniqueness of voice, and then makes this strong, and perfectly defensible, claim: "If Mitchell wasn't the single best writer who ever appeared in The New Yorker, then it was a tie between him and E. B. White."
This work is a form of what is now called "creative nonfiction" in that it reads like reportage, but the title character is an amalgam of several people, including, it is strongly felt, Mitchell himself. The details are all real, just not entirely true. The book is a collection of three related long pieces that came out in 1944 and 1945.
Mr. Flood is a retired gentleman who is in love with the Fulton Fish Market (in its original location), and the whole trade of seafood, from trap to belly. He is a "character" and he gravitates to other characters, which makes for good storytelling. Mitchell is showing us the acts that we put on to get through life, and telling us the stories that pass the time.
Favorite lines:
"Twain and [Haywood] Broun are Mr. Flood's favorite writers. 'If I get to heaven,' he once said, 'the first Saturday night I'm up there, if it's OK with the management, I'm going to get hold of a bottle of good whiskey and look up Mr. Twain and Mr. Broun. And if they're not up there, I'll ask to be sent down to the other place.' A moment later he added uneasily, 'Of course, I don't really mean that. I'm just talking to hear myself talk.' "
"He had the habit of remarking to bartenders that he didn't see any sense in mixing whiskey with water, since the whiskey was already wet."
[Regarding the former Still's Oyster and Chop House] "'Oh, God, Hughie,' said Mrs. Treppel, 'it was a wonderful place. I remember it well. It had a white marble bar for the half-shell trade, and there were barrels and barrels and barrels of oysters stood up behind this bar, and everything was nice and plain and solid -- no piddling around, no music to frazzle your nerves, no French on the bill fare; you got what you went for.''"
This is a lovely gem of a book. I look forward to reading it again.
January 31, 2015
This is a short, simple account of the staunchly independent and seafood-obsessed Mr. Flood, an elderly bachelor who is determined to live to be 115 and thinks he knows just how to do it. It’s also a wonderful sketch of life in lower Manhattan during the 1930s-1940s. The writing is crystal clear and smooth, making the simplicity of Hemingway’s work look like James Joyce, and to be honest, Mitchell has none of Hemingway’s egoisms or his choppy style (I like most of Hemingway, but admit it, the guy writes dialogue like a film script that has seen the underside of a lawn mower). There’s no “plot” to this 120-page story; the author simply discusses life, death, religion, food, whiskey, and the various characters in Mr. Flood’s life over several encounters, and every stitch of it is amusing, charming, and honest. This is my first taste of Mitchell and it will not be my last. It’s a fantastic character study, and thus it’s a must read for any writer. Even better, the book contains addresses of the various seafood restaurants, hotels, and bars mentioned throughout. I’ll have to go see if any are still standing and partake of a fine "Flood-ian" meal!
October 27, 2016
Old Mr. Flood is determined to live to 115 on his steady diet of whiskey, oysters, and good stories in these wonderful New Yorker pieces.
This book makes me so sad that the only "oysters" near me are the Rocky Mountain kind (and yes, I've tried them - deep-fried). When I lived in Seattle, a few friends and I made a day trip to Quilcene to go oyster hunting. I had never eaten an oyster before, and was unsure I would enjoy the taste or the texture. Raw shellfish? What? But being a fan of sushi (shout-out to Baek Chun Sushi, the most amazing sushi I've ever had, believe it or not), I decided to give oysters a chance.
My friends and I went out in our boots in the oily tidal flat mud, gathered up a number of thick knobby shells in a bucket, and went back to the beach to pry them open. All we had - and all we needed - was Sriracha and lemon juice. We cracked the oysters open in the cool winter sunshine and slurped them out of their brine, discarding the empty shells on the beach. The oysters, as it happened, were sublime. I have dreams about those oysters.
I'm with the Walrus.
But I won't eat seafood in a state with no ocean view; no oysters for me in Colorado.
So when I read about Old Mr. Flood in one of my favorite book blogs, I immediately bought it on my Nook. It's made up of three short New Yorker pieces from 1948, basically character studies of a vigorous old man named - you guessed it - Mr. Flood. Obsessed with living to 115 on his diet of seafood and whiskey, he tells stories to the narrator and is pretty much great at being an old man, living the good life.
Coming straight from An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine, I was ready for another lovely character study, despite the fact that I'm normally only hooked by a fast-paced story. But these pieces made me willing to also check out more of Joseph Mitchell's collected short stories about the denizens of New York City: Up in the Old Hotel .
I lift my glass of 12-year Scotch to you, Mr. Flood, and to you, Mr. Mitchell. Sláinte.
Quotable:
"Ask the man for half a lemon, poke it a time or two to free the juice, and squeeze it over the oysters. And the first one he knifes, pick it up and smell it, the way you'd smell a rose, or a shot of brandy. That briny, seaweedy fragrance will clear your head; it'll make your blood run faster. And don't just eat six; take your time and eat a dozen, eat two dozen, eat three dozen, eat four dozen." - 14
"'Well,' he said, 'there are days when I hate everybody in the world, fat, lean, and in between, and this started out to be one of those days, but I had a drop to drink, and now I love everybody.'" - 30
This book makes me so sad that the only "oysters" near me are the Rocky Mountain kind (and yes, I've tried them - deep-fried). When I lived in Seattle, a few friends and I made a day trip to Quilcene to go oyster hunting. I had never eaten an oyster before, and was unsure I would enjoy the taste or the texture. Raw shellfish? What? But being a fan of sushi (shout-out to Baek Chun Sushi, the most amazing sushi I've ever had, believe it or not), I decided to give oysters a chance.
My friends and I went out in our boots in the oily tidal flat mud, gathered up a number of thick knobby shells in a bucket, and went back to the beach to pry them open. All we had - and all we needed - was Sriracha and lemon juice. We cracked the oysters open in the cool winter sunshine and slurped them out of their brine, discarding the empty shells on the beach. The oysters, as it happened, were sublime. I have dreams about those oysters.
I'm with the Walrus.
But I won't eat seafood in a state with no ocean view; no oysters for me in Colorado.
So when I read about Old Mr. Flood in one of my favorite book blogs, I immediately bought it on my Nook. It's made up of three short New Yorker pieces from 1948, basically character studies of a vigorous old man named - you guessed it - Mr. Flood. Obsessed with living to 115 on his diet of seafood and whiskey, he tells stories to the narrator and is pretty much great at being an old man, living the good life.
Coming straight from An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine, I was ready for another lovely character study, despite the fact that I'm normally only hooked by a fast-paced story. But these pieces made me willing to also check out more of Joseph Mitchell's collected short stories about the denizens of New York City: Up in the Old Hotel .
I lift my glass of 12-year Scotch to you, Mr. Flood, and to you, Mr. Mitchell. Sláinte.
Quotable:
"Ask the man for half a lemon, poke it a time or two to free the juice, and squeeze it over the oysters. And the first one he knifes, pick it up and smell it, the way you'd smell a rose, or a shot of brandy. That briny, seaweedy fragrance will clear your head; it'll make your blood run faster. And don't just eat six; take your time and eat a dozen, eat two dozen, eat three dozen, eat four dozen." - 14
"'Well,' he said, 'there are days when I hate everybody in the world, fat, lean, and in between, and this started out to be one of those days, but I had a drop to drink, and now I love everybody.'" - 30
March 7, 2017
When this book was written, Depression was a fresh memory and New York was changing, and so was the world. Mr. Flood, a spirited old man in his 90s, who was charming in his own eccentric way, ate only seafood, had curious opinions on almost everything, and who was fierce in his desire to live till 115 of age, was a subject worthy of Joseph Mitchell. The traces of the world he inhabited have long wiped out. Flood, along with many other characters, in and around the Fulton Fish Market now survive only in the archives of New Yorker, and in generous reprints of Mitchell's gorgeous books. We can readily connect to their laments that surprisingly sound relatable still. Here's one in which Mr. Flood uses a stainless steel knife:
"Stainless Steel. They don't care if it's sharp or not, just so it's stainless, as if anybody gave a hoot about stains on a knife blade. I wish they'd leave knives alone, quit improving them. Look at it. Shiny. Stainless. Plastic handle. Only one thing wrong with it. It won't cut."
Mitchell was a master in getting out of the way and letting the characters speak. He is never bothering you with too much of himself. It works amazingly well here. He'd make you think that a book with just Mr. Flood talking would be nothing less than literature.
"Stainless Steel. They don't care if it's sharp or not, just so it's stainless, as if anybody gave a hoot about stains on a knife blade. I wish they'd leave knives alone, quit improving them. Look at it. Shiny. Stainless. Plastic handle. Only one thing wrong with it. It won't cut."
Mitchell was a master in getting out of the way and letting the characters speak. He is never bothering you with too much of himself. It works amazingly well here. He'd make you think that a book with just Mr. Flood talking would be nothing less than literature.
November 2, 2009
Why have I not read everything that Joseph Mitchell ever wrote? When I read The Bottom of the Harbor a number of years ago, I was enthralled by Mitchell's brand of journalism-as-literature. Today, I found a copy of Old Mr. Flood being remaindered. I not only snapped it up, but roared through it in a single sitting.
Both books I have mentioned deal primarily with the world of New York Harbor, comprising the boatmen, buyers and sellers of fish, and anyone else even remotely connected with the getting and distribution of seafood. What makes them particularly poignant is that the world has changed. Oysters are no longer a major part of the American diet, when at one time they were perhaps the main source of protein in coastal American cities.
Now we have factory ships, fish farms with diseased fish, and the price still keeps going up for a commodity whose quality continues to plummet. Mitchell not only reminds us this wasn't always so, but he has such a canny ear for dialog that it is a positive joy to read him.
Both books I have mentioned deal primarily with the world of New York Harbor, comprising the boatmen, buyers and sellers of fish, and anyone else even remotely connected with the getting and distribution of seafood. What makes them particularly poignant is that the world has changed. Oysters are no longer a major part of the American diet, when at one time they were perhaps the main source of protein in coastal American cities.
Now we have factory ships, fish farms with diseased fish, and the price still keeps going up for a commodity whose quality continues to plummet. Mitchell not only reminds us this wasn't always so, but he has such a canny ear for dialog that it is a positive joy to read him.
April 23, 2017
Small stories about small people in a small cosmos in a time past. To relish those stories, it helps to have a fondness for grumpy old men, odd food and plain story-telling. Otherwise, the glimpses of the daily life of fishmongers in New York's eastside of the late 40's will leave you cold.
The three stories are fictional stories which is unusual for Mitchell who mostly wrote real-life essays for New Yorker. Nonetheless, they are inspired by real persons Mitchell met at the Fulton fish market. These are average working-class people. They have their quirks as everybody, they are happy or sad. Nothing outstanding but described so vividly that it feels like you just visited this market and ate some quahog oysters. Not this fancy bouillabaisse stuff every gourmet is raving about nowadays, just plain old American food. Better ignore this nonsense about a healthy living they tell you on this modern invention, radio. Now, where can I try some sea urchins?
The three stories are fictional stories which is unusual for Mitchell who mostly wrote real-life essays for New Yorker. Nonetheless, they are inspired by real persons Mitchell met at the Fulton fish market. These are average working-class people. They have their quirks as everybody, they are happy or sad. Nothing outstanding but described so vividly that it feels like you just visited this market and ate some quahog oysters. Not this fancy bouillabaisse stuff every gourmet is raving about nowadays, just plain old American food. Better ignore this nonsense about a healthy living they tell you on this modern invention, radio. Now, where can I try some sea urchins?
December 28, 2019
I adore Joseph Mitchell! Being immersed in the life of the Fulton Fish Market during 1940s NYC as seen through the wisdom of Mr. Flood who only eats seafood and distrusts almost all modern “progress” made me happy and delighted to be alive and know there are likeminded souls around me at all times...I just have to up my oyster intake and the only side to my ocean diet is to eat fresh Italian baked bread that I buy daily and bring to all restaurants & homes I ever frequent.
June 25, 2026
Just so good. Reminded me of one of my bygone mentors who even back in the 2010s felt like a fading type of persona: full of anecdotes, quick to infuse every conversation with laser focus like it's the last conversation you'll ever have, and it's all so enriched with high-quality storytelling and relentlessly wonderful humor and wit. Mitchell at his best that I've seen here. The fact Mr. Flood is a composite makes it all the stronger from a craft perspective. Like my mind can't stop thinking of Mr. Flood and it's so his story that you almost forget about the Mitchell-piece of it all, that this is even created or his story; Mr. Flood is just so vivid and alive, his and all the other characters' sense of VOICE is so damn strong -- but, of course, all the voices rattling around in here are ultimately Mitchell's. Even when they're fully based on the people he knew, it's not like these are transcribed from tape recordings. They've been filtered and distilled into the voices of Mitchell's mind, and so I think this proves how he is such a maestro listener, always absorbing the people around him: attuned to the character-ness of them, the beating heart they have underneath, the unique quirks in their affect and voice; I think that capacity to listen also goes hand-in-hand with Mitchell's imaginative powers, and to whatever extent this is created vs. absorbed, it is all a form of both recollection and fiction fused together, overtly, which puts it in that Tim O'Brien "Things They Carried" vein. And that's a goddamed good vein to be in (or as we call it in the medical business, a happy needle).
"I love those good old oyster names. When I feel my age weighing me down, I recite them to myself and I feel better. Some of them don't exist any more. The beds were ruined. Cities grew up nearby and the water went bad. But there was a time when you could buy them all in Still's."
"There are days when I hate everybody in the world, fat, lean, and in between, and this started out to be one of those days, but I had a drop to drink, and now I love everybody."
"I don't know. Nobody knows why they do anything. I could give you one dozen reasons why I prefer the Fulton Fish Market to Miami, Florida, and most likely none would be the right one. The right reason is something obscure and way off and I probably don't even know it myself. It's like the old farmer who wouldn't tell the drummer the time of day."
"Consider the egg. When I was a boy on Staten Island, hens ate grit and grasshoppers and scraps from the table and whatever they could scratch out of the ground, and a platter of scrambled eggs was a delight. Then the scientists developed a special egg-laying mash made of old corncobs and sterilized buttermilk, and nowadays you order scrambled eggs and you get a platter of yellow glue. Consider the apple. Years ago you could enjoy an apple. Then the scientists..."
"In the Department, we call such people full-mooners. It's been my experience that they're particularly numerous among the Irish and the Scandinavians and the people who come up here from the South. On a full-moon night the saloons are like magnets. The full-mooners try to walk past them and they get drawn right in."
"'When I think of all the trouble it's caused me, I feel like I ought to pick some distillery at random and sue it for sixty-five million dollars. Still and all, there've been times if it hadn't been for whiskey, I don't know what would've become of me. It was either get drunk or throw the rope over the rafter...I've come to the conclusion there's two ways of looking at whiskey -- it gives and it takes away, it lifts you up and it knocks you down, it hurts and it heals, it kills and it resurrects -- but whichever way you look at it, I'm glad I'm not the man that invented it. That's one thing I wouldn't want on my soul...When you stop and think of the mess and the monkey business and the fractured skulls and the commotion and the calamity and the stomach distress and the wife beating and the poor little children without any shoes and the howling and the hell raising he's been responsible for down through the centuries -- why, good God A'mighty! Whoever he was, they've probably got him put away in a special brimstone pit, the deepest, red-hottest pit in hell, the one the preachers tell about, the one without any bottom.' He took a long drink. 'And then again,' he continued, 'just as likely, he might've gone to heaven.'"
"Gus liked to cry. He really enjoyed it. Next to doing something mean to somebody, he liked to cry."
"It takes almost a lifetime to learn to do a good thing simply."
"Don't put any of that red sauce on them, that cocktail sauce, that mess, that gurry. Ask the man for half a lemon, poke it a time or two to free the juice, and squeeze it over the oysters. And the first one he knifes, pick it up and smell it, the way you'd smell a rose, or a shot of brandy. That briny, seaweedy fragrance will clear your head; it'll make your blood run faster. And don't just eat six; take your time and eat a dozen, eat two dozen, eat three dozen, eat four dozen. And then leave the man a generous tip and go buy yourself a fifty-cent cigar and put your hat on the side of your head and take a walk down to Bowling Green. Look at the sky! Isn't it blue?...Aren't you ashamed of yourself for even thinking about spending good money on a damned doctor? And along about here, you better be careful. You're apt to feel so bucked-up you'll slap strangers on the back, or kick a window in, or fight a cop, or jump on the tailboard of a truck and steal a ride."
"I love those good old oyster names. When I feel my age weighing me down, I recite them to myself and I feel better. Some of them don't exist any more. The beds were ruined. Cities grew up nearby and the water went bad. But there was a time when you could buy them all in Still's."
"There are days when I hate everybody in the world, fat, lean, and in between, and this started out to be one of those days, but I had a drop to drink, and now I love everybody."
"I don't know. Nobody knows why they do anything. I could give you one dozen reasons why I prefer the Fulton Fish Market to Miami, Florida, and most likely none would be the right one. The right reason is something obscure and way off and I probably don't even know it myself. It's like the old farmer who wouldn't tell the drummer the time of day."
"Consider the egg. When I was a boy on Staten Island, hens ate grit and grasshoppers and scraps from the table and whatever they could scratch out of the ground, and a platter of scrambled eggs was a delight. Then the scientists developed a special egg-laying mash made of old corncobs and sterilized buttermilk, and nowadays you order scrambled eggs and you get a platter of yellow glue. Consider the apple. Years ago you could enjoy an apple. Then the scientists..."
"In the Department, we call such people full-mooners. It's been my experience that they're particularly numerous among the Irish and the Scandinavians and the people who come up here from the South. On a full-moon night the saloons are like magnets. The full-mooners try to walk past them and they get drawn right in."
"'When I think of all the trouble it's caused me, I feel like I ought to pick some distillery at random and sue it for sixty-five million dollars. Still and all, there've been times if it hadn't been for whiskey, I don't know what would've become of me. It was either get drunk or throw the rope over the rafter...I've come to the conclusion there's two ways of looking at whiskey -- it gives and it takes away, it lifts you up and it knocks you down, it hurts and it heals, it kills and it resurrects -- but whichever way you look at it, I'm glad I'm not the man that invented it. That's one thing I wouldn't want on my soul...When you stop and think of the mess and the monkey business and the fractured skulls and the commotion and the calamity and the stomach distress and the wife beating and the poor little children without any shoes and the howling and the hell raising he's been responsible for down through the centuries -- why, good God A'mighty! Whoever he was, they've probably got him put away in a special brimstone pit, the deepest, red-hottest pit in hell, the one the preachers tell about, the one without any bottom.' He took a long drink. 'And then again,' he continued, 'just as likely, he might've gone to heaven.'"
"Gus liked to cry. He really enjoyed it. Next to doing something mean to somebody, he liked to cry."
"It takes almost a lifetime to learn to do a good thing simply."
"Don't put any of that red sauce on them, that cocktail sauce, that mess, that gurry. Ask the man for half a lemon, poke it a time or two to free the juice, and squeeze it over the oysters. And the first one he knifes, pick it up and smell it, the way you'd smell a rose, or a shot of brandy. That briny, seaweedy fragrance will clear your head; it'll make your blood run faster. And don't just eat six; take your time and eat a dozen, eat two dozen, eat three dozen, eat four dozen. And then leave the man a generous tip and go buy yourself a fifty-cent cigar and put your hat on the side of your head and take a walk down to Bowling Green. Look at the sky! Isn't it blue?...Aren't you ashamed of yourself for even thinking about spending good money on a damned doctor? And along about here, you better be careful. You're apt to feel so bucked-up you'll slap strangers on the back, or kick a window in, or fight a cop, or jump on the tailboard of a truck and steal a ride."
May 23, 2011
Crank, codger, salty old coot? Sure, Mr. Flood is all of that, but he’s also 100% original American (from that time when we had originals, before television, political correctness, and wireless techno-selves). Even in his mid 90s he speaks his mind without hesitation, drinks his liquor straight, and has a good 10,000 stories on tap to amuse and educate--and even if he’s told you most of them before, it won’t stop him from doing so again. Yes, it’s homo americanas: tough, crass, filled with bizarre imaginings, a self-involved exterior thinly disguising a generous and endearing heart.
February 19, 2014
I CANNOT CONCEIVE OF A SITUATION WHERE I WOULD GIVE THIS FEWER STARS.
May 12, 2019
By Erin Overbey
February 17, 2013
"Mitchell was New York’s first true biographer; he paired a reporter’s precision with a novelist’s sense of narrative to create a series of intricate and revelatory profiles of the city in The New Yorker. An excavator of lost souls and eccentric visionaries, his genius lay partly in a natural ability to connect with those living on the margins of society. (A 1943 Times review of his work was wryly titled “Nostalgic Portraits of the Lunatic Fringe.”) He was a staff writer for the magazine for nearly thirty years and then spent another thirty coming into the office each day but failing to publish a single word. The mystery behind this blockage has nearly eclipsed Mitchell’s astounding literary legacy."
Mitchell’s Profile of the octogenarian Hugh G. Flood (which he later admitted was a composite of several old men who used to hang out around the Fulton Fish Market) offers a poignant, yet wildly humorous, look at a man who, while devouring oysters and downing scotch, fears that he’s frittering his life away:
“I’m ninety-four years old and I never yet had any peace, to speak of. My mind is just a turmoil of regrets. It’s not what I did I regret, it’s what I didn’t do. Except for the bottle, I always walked the straight and narrow; a family man, a good provider, never cut up, never did ugly, and I regret it. In the summer of 1902 I came real close to getting in serious trouble with a married woman, but I had a fight with my conscience and my conscience won, and what’s the result? I had two wives, good, Christian women, and I can’t hardly remember what either of them looked like, but I can remember the face on that woman so clear it hurts, and there’s never a day passes that I don’t think about her, and there’s never a day passes that I don’t curse myself. ‘What kind of a timid, dried-up, weevily fellow were you?’ I say to myself. ‘You should’ve said to hell with what’s right and what’s wrong, the devil take the hindmost. You’d have something to remember, you’d be happier now.’ She’s out in Woodlawn, six feet under, and she’s been there twenty-two years, God rest her, and here I am, just an old, old man with nothing left but a belly and a brain and a dollar or two.”
July 22, 2018
Picking up this book is like pulling on a pair of comfy slippers.
Beautifully written in that spare journalistic style of New Yorker columnists. Thurber sans humour. He humour is replaced by Flood’s common sense observations on modern life - many still relevant today - eg why put vitamins into food that God originally created with vitamins in it?
The author also captures a moment in time, as Balzac might have done, mid-century New York. Told through the eyes of the people living their lives in and around the fish market, rather than from the perspective of a heroic protagonist. This refreshes, like the cool slip of a quahog down the throat with a dash of lemon.
There is also a touch of Melville in there with the careful cataloguing of all the various types of seafood Mr Flood pursues.
Delightful read.
Beautifully written in that spare journalistic style of New Yorker columnists. Thurber sans humour. He humour is replaced by Flood’s common sense observations on modern life - many still relevant today - eg why put vitamins into food that God originally created with vitamins in it?
The author also captures a moment in time, as Balzac might have done, mid-century New York. Told through the eyes of the people living their lives in and around the fish market, rather than from the perspective of a heroic protagonist. This refreshes, like the cool slip of a quahog down the throat with a dash of lemon.
There is also a touch of Melville in there with the careful cataloguing of all the various types of seafood Mr Flood pursues.
Delightful read.
February 4, 2019
Joseph Mitchell sure did like just sitting and listening to old people talk. Also in this short book: large quantities of oysters, a meal I’ve never had that apparently has semi-mystical properties when taken in the unit of dozens. Guess I’ll try some??
All three stories are pretty much descriptions and cross-talk that each eventually build to one final story (told by Flood or someone else) that lasts like a page and a half and I liked that about it. I like Mitchell’s writing because it reminds me we’ve all been the same for a while, you just may not remember or be looking in the right place to discover the attitudes belonging to the people you know have been around for forever. And the best of his writing sounds like it could’ve been written by someone recently and not by some 1940s newspaperman. And also most of it is just transcribed speaking.
All three stories are pretty much descriptions and cross-talk that each eventually build to one final story (told by Flood or someone else) that lasts like a page and a half and I liked that about it. I like Mitchell’s writing because it reminds me we’ve all been the same for a while, you just may not remember or be looking in the right place to discover the attitudes belonging to the people you know have been around for forever. And the best of his writing sounds like it could’ve been written by someone recently and not by some 1940s newspaperman. And also most of it is just transcribed speaking.
January 13, 2018
I wish I could meet Mr. Flood, the 93 year old seafoodetarian at the heart of Mitchell’s story. What a guy! This book brings alive the sights, sounds, and smells of the Fulton Fish Market in 1940s New York City. Along with Mr. Flood, I enjoyed getting to know the other characters that are part of Mr. Flood’s daily life. Did Mr. Flood make it to 115 as was his hope? The reader is left with that question unanswered. I choose to believe he did.
November 1, 2019
Not quite as effective, I think, as the compounded force of the sketches collected in McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon, but this was still a great read. I mean, c'mon, it's Joseph Mitchell. Next up on my Mitchell reading list is At the Bottom of the Harbor.
August 5, 2017
Joseph Mitchell is a wonderful storyteller. I thoroughly enjoy his characters and his ability to portray the backdrop of NYC in a way that is as alive as the real thing.
April 7, 2020
Read for Food History of NY with Francis Morrone
May 24, 2020
A beautifully written gem of old New York. A must for all NYC history buffs. And for everyone who loves to dine on fish.
March 20, 2023
Craved seafood the whole time while reading this and could basically smell the fishmarket :)
Will send Mr.Flood my regards when he finally turns 115
Will send Mr.Flood my regards when he finally turns 115
August 22, 2025
outstanding
Mr Flood is someone we all should have the pleasure of meeting. This book is an opening into a world gone by.
Mr Flood is someone we all should have the pleasure of meeting. This book is an opening into a world gone by.
June 19, 2017
4,5 stars
October 2, 2022
"When I was a boy on Staten Island, hens ate grit and grasshoppers and scraps from the table and whatever else they could scratch out of the ground, and a platter of scrambled eggs was a delight."
"...and one was a captain of a seiner in the old Long Island Sound gurry-fleet that caught moss-bunkers for fertilizer factories."
"'I've got a pig toe, a pistol grip, a heel splitter, a warty back, a maple leaf, a monkey face, a rose bud, a rabbit's foot, and a butterfly,' he says with pride. 'I had a washboard, a lady finger, and a mule ear, but I came home one night in poor order and I was reeling around and I couldn't find the light cord and they were on the floor and I stepped on them."
"...an exuberance of clams."
"The meat was a rosy yellow, a lovely color, the color of flesh next to the stone of a freestone peach."
"'I come from the womb and I'm bound for the tomb, the same as you, the same as King George the Six, the same as Johnny Squat."
"He is slight, edgy, and sad-eyed, a disappointed man, and he blames all his troubles on cellophane."
etc etc etc
"...and one was a captain of a seiner in the old Long Island Sound gurry-fleet that caught moss-bunkers for fertilizer factories."
"'I've got a pig toe, a pistol grip, a heel splitter, a warty back, a maple leaf, a monkey face, a rose bud, a rabbit's foot, and a butterfly,' he says with pride. 'I had a washboard, a lady finger, and a mule ear, but I came home one night in poor order and I was reeling around and I couldn't find the light cord and they were on the floor and I stepped on them."
"...an exuberance of clams."
"The meat was a rosy yellow, a lovely color, the color of flesh next to the stone of a freestone peach."
"'I come from the womb and I'm bound for the tomb, the same as you, the same as King George the Six, the same as Johnny Squat."
"He is slight, edgy, and sad-eyed, a disappointed man, and he blames all his troubles on cellophane."
etc etc etc
April 25, 2011
Mitchell has a very different writing style than you see in fiction today. Use of short, clear, simple sentences with an active voice. Hyper descriptive, short on metaphors. This is a mesmerizing story, and one that will energize you next time you're feeling old or sorry for yourself. It also touched off my fascination with eating raw oysters (that's where I can be found most Friday evenings now, at one of the many $1 raw bars here in Boston, with a lemon wedge in my hand and a smile on my face)..
July 23, 2017
This book isn't about one Mr. Flood - it's about several characters working at or hanging out at the Fulton Fish Market along the East River in Manhattan in the early part of the twentieth century. Serious fishermen along the East Coast would love this book. Apparently "industry" started to take out these prime oyster and clam beds over 100 years ago. Destruction of wildlife by pollution comes up several times in the book. What would these characters think today?
April 25, 2010
i wish i could rate this book a 3.5. it is a solid b+. i loved mitchell's restraint- he manages, with plain declarative sentences, to render authentic characters and a vivid world - all without much fanfare. so far so good...but outside of a character study, it doesn't amount to much more. it was enough for me.
December 23, 2012
Joseph Mitchell is one of my favorite writers. He is incapable of penning a bad sentence, let alone a bad story. The title says it all... this is a book about a real-life character of the New York streets. The story is told with compassion, dignity, humor and should be a must read for any student of writing. A good read, well worth the money.
December 26, 2013
One of the best written books I have ever read. It was a slow read though, only because I wanted to take in every word. Mind you, this is a book about a 95 year old man, who spends his days at piers to look at fish, talk about fish and eat fish. His ultimate goal is to live to 115 to prove that fish is good for you :)
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May 22, 2012His colleague A.J. Liebling may be better known, Mitchell wrote accounts of low-life and everyday life New York City in the 1940s that are like nothing else. Mr Flood, actually a composite of a number of denizens of Fulton Fish Market, brilliantly resurrects a world long gone. Funny, too.
January 15, 2014
A charming, delightful and marvelous evocation of a vanished place and time. I posted some more thoughts and a couple of great excerpts over at my blog.
April 10, 2013
Three thematic magazine pieces presented in a slim volume. This is the only acknowledged fiction ever published by the reporter Joseph Mitchell, and in his introduction to the work Mitchell codifies Stephen Colbert's concept of truthiness half a century early.
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