something of a shock. Less than two
decades ago, Connecticut’s largest city
was a mess, ridden with violent drug crime
and emptied of industry. The middle class
fled to wealthier areas, and in 1991 Bridgeport became the first major American
municipality to declare bankruptcy. Since
then, the city has wobbled back toward
solvency, weathering setbacks and scandals (ex-mayor Joseph P. Ganim is serving
nine years in federal prison on corruption
charges) along the way.
But the crises had an odd effect.
They depressed housing costs just
as immigration was on the rise. And
though Bridgeport could no longer
boast industries like Remington—a significant provider of munitions during
the World Wars—it did have one major
advantage over its neighbors.
“If you were to take a compass and
draw a circle an hour outside New York
City, this is the cheapest place to buy a
home, or even rent,” says Ruben Felipe,
deputy chief of staff to the current
mayor, Bill Finch.
And so, like the Poles, Lithuanians,
Irish, Italians, Hungarians, Portuguese,
Puerto Ricans and Germans in the first
half of the 20th century, immigrants
from Latin America and the West Indies
moved to Bridgeport. In 2006, more
than a quarter of Bridgeport’s 137,000
residents were foreign-born, according to the U. S. Census. Leaving aside
all issues of politics and economics, an
influx of immigrants means one thing to
chowhounds like me: cheap, ubiquitous,
authentic, delicious ethnic foods.
