Architect Andrew Tesoro transformed a cramped 400-square-foot superintendent's apartment into a unique three-story A-frame penthouse on Manhattan's Upper West Side, turning what began as a fantasy inspired by watching helicopters from Riverside Park into a decades-long architectural adventure. The distinctive chalet-style home at 210 West 78th Street represents one of the most unconventional approaches to securing dream housing in New York City's competitive real estate market.
Tesoro's vision originated in the late 1980s while sitting in Riverside Park, where he imagined a helicopter lifting a trailer from New Jersey and placing it atop a Manhattan building. As an architect more than a decade out of school with his own firm, he recognized this helicopter fantasy wouldn't work, but it crystallized his desire for a New York home with views, drama, outdoor space, and abundant light. His previous work on a Lexington Avenue penthouse had taught him about development rights and using unused airspace above buildings to expand upward.
The search for the perfect rooftop began in 1988, with Tesoro scouting Manhattan buildings for a top-floor unit with room to build. His requirements included a roof terrace with views and available development rights for purchase. Several prospects proved disappointing: a West End Avenue apartment overlooking the Hudson would have required an awkward Z-shaped structure, while various four- and five-story brownstones lacked elevators, making them impractical for his vision.
Tesoro repeatedly returned to 210 West 78th Street, a ten-story Tudor-style cooperative built in 1926. The building housed a 400-square-foot penthouse that was originally the superintendent's unit, featuring views of the Museum of Natural History and East Side skyline, plus elevator access. Most importantly, the roof's layout would accommodate his construction plans. However, the asking price of $205,000 plus roughly $1,000 monthly maintenance far exceeded his budget.
After two years of persistent negotiation, Tesoro finally secured the apartment for $158,000 in 1990, plus an additional $15,000 for development rights from the cooperative board. However, closing fees left him with virtually no money for renovations, and the recession beginning in summer 1990 further strained his architectural business. "My business was in a bit of a slump," Tesoro recalls, admitting he lacked confidence to take on significant debt at the time.
For nearly six years, Tesoro made the tiny studio work despite its limitations. The space featured a cramped Pullman kitchen and basic shower, prompting his partner Joseph Uguccioni to wonder "Oh my God, where's the other room?" upon first seeing it. Tesoro hosted parties where guests slept on the floor and spent most of his time on the expansive rooftop terrace when weather permitted, eating all his meals outdoors and essentially living his life in the open air.
By 1995, Tesoro had saved enough money to begin construction, though his plans faced unexpected obstacles. The cooperative board had approved his original sketches for a large two-story box designed to showcase light, structure, and space. However, the Department of Buildings intervened with zoning concerns, noting the penthouse's proximity to the property line prevented expanding walls outward. The solution became an A-frame triplex with a sloped roof that could legally overhang into the backyard area.
Construction began on April Fool's Day 1996, inauspiciously marked when contractors burst a water supply pipe, flooding three apartments below. "I'm still a little superstitious about April 1," Tesoro admits. Despite this setback, the project progressed smoothly from there. Budget constraints led him to use discarded materials from other projects and Home Depot-grade fixtures to control costs.
The building's unique features reflect Tesoro's resourcefulness and architectural background. The stairway connecting the second and third floors incorporates part of a fire escape he salvaged from the former Gospel Tabernacle Church near Times Square, where he had worked on a pizzeria conversion project. To fund the roof's copper cladding, he sold his red 1995 Saab, which he had received as a client bonus. The design ultimately became a three-story structure with dormers on the south side, three bedrooms on the second floor, and a slender third-floor attic.
In summer 1997, finding double rent payments unsustainable, Tesoro moved into his unfinished construction zone. "There was no kitchen, no doors, zero railing," he remembers, though the bathrooms functioned and the roof didn't leak. This move coincided with his plans to start a family, and in 2000, he adopted his son Victor, with Uguccioni moving in shortly afterward.
Victor's childhood in the unique penthouse turned the space into an elaborate playground. Despite some safety concerns from visitors about features like the temporary stairwell without railings, Victor and his friends raced up and down steps and held Nerf gun fights throughout the multi-level space. The boy took pride in his father's creation, always telling visiting friends, "My dad designed this." The rooftop terrace hosted barbecues, featured a mini-pool for children, and even served as the venue for Victor's bar mitzvah.
Three decades after beginning renovations, Tesoro acknowledges his dream home remains unfinished. An electrical line hangs from the wall awaiting a light fixture selection, closet doors remain uninstalled with temporary curtains providing privacy, and the third floor originally planned as a winter terrace and painting studio now serves as storage space for items like Victor's surfboard and various artworks. His perpetual to-do list includes replacing worn Home Depot countertops with stone and installing a sink faucet that has sat boxed for years.
Despite the penthouse's estimated multi-million-dollar value and ongoing imperfections including occasional leaks and unpainted Sheetrock patches, Tesoro remains committed to his unique home. "People say, 'Oh, you could sell that apartment for millions,' and it's probably true," he notes. "But if I love living here, then why?" His greatest disappointment involves losing three of his four directional views as residential skyscrapers rose around the building, though he treasures his remaining eastern view toward a landmarked block and continues to cherish the rooftop terrace that represents his original vision of New York living.
