Along the Boulevards

Jack and Charlie:

For years the most glittering display case for Cartier jewels, Hollywood faces, and London titles, “21” suffered something of a falling off during the recent wars when its proprietors inclined to take the inconveniences of rationing and austerity living a bit too seriously. The customers, knowing this was all the quintessence of folly, resented it and went elsewhere until the storm subsided, but now they are all back at the old stand, destroying each other's reputations and absorbing double bottles of Mumm's English Cuvée in one of the most beautiful restaurant rooms in the world. The Brothers Kriendler and Bern who, in a partnership of amazing complexity, own both “21” and “21” Brands of liquor, are amateurs in their own right of sumptuous living, and lunching and dining at “21” are ritual without which no name celebrity on the town would dare to circulate. Quite aside from its implications of social and professional smartness, “21” has always been (excepting a brief war interlude) a restaurant distinguished for its food, style of service, and remarkable cellars. It is probably the only establishment in New York making a specialty, for example, of vintage ports, and its Burgundy and claret bins are the wonder of collectors and oenophiles everywhere. Its “21 Sauce” is strictly a gag, confected by a cynical management to distinguish the sheep from the goats under their starched shirts. So hot it destroys all flavor with which it comes in contact, its acceptance by a customer marks him as emphatically no gourmet.

Lafayette:

So long and affectionately established a New York institution as scarcely to need mention, the restaurant of the Lafayette Hotel in University Place has been celebrated for generations as a resort of gentle manners and gentle folk and the finest moules marinière this side of Bienville Street, New Orleans. Sunday night dinner at the Lafayette is a Manhattan legend and its foie gras, baby turkey, squab in casserole, salads, and cheeses must be experienced to be believed. Atmosphere seekers like the white-tabled French café-bar in the front of the hotel where ancients of the French colony read provincial newspapers from the racks, play chequers, and watch the activities of the fencing academy across the street.

Luchow:

The old reliable of all German restaurants, Luchow's is knee-deep in solid respectability, solid woodwork, and solid customers. The finest dark beers in town are here, and a variety of wonderful German dishes, including a saddle of jugged hare and jelly pancakes, and enough varieties of herring and other delightful pickled fish to make you dizzy. Herr Seuter, the waiter captain, is a man to be trusted with any sort of gustatory trusteeship in the event your knowledge of German food or language is limited. Like the Metropolitan Opera or Central Park, and at times a great deal more comforting than either, Luchow's is a New York institution dating from way, way back and one that all lovers of good living hope will continue way, way on into the future.

Pavillon:

The most staggeringly opulent of the town's restaurants is celebrated as the Pavillon, and Henri Soulé himself ran the French Pavillon at the New York World's Fair of fragrant and gracious memory. This is the classic French cuisine in its finest and most formal flower, flourishing in a midst of mink and monocles, gilt and mirrors reminiscent of the best Paris restaurants in the spacious days. Soulé, who is the animate sublimation of what the amiable and prosperous restaurateur should be, knows that the visual appeal of food is a mighty power, and his cold buffets, ranked with Prague hams, delicate pink smoked salmon, and approximately a score of varieties of eggs in aspic and truffles are something to send patrons into a trance of delight even before they clap eyes on the menu itself. The motif of Soulé's is one of austere elegance with every course very plain and superlatively fine, with vegetables as separate courses, and all the formal amenities of eating in the great tradition. A recently added front room was feared by Soulé under the impression that his patrons might think it a sort of doghouse, like the backroom upstairs at Jack and Charlie's, but it turned out to be a singularly beautiful apartment and as a result is filled to capacity with the most aristocratic French poodles de luxe.

Plaza:

Under the stewardship of the incomparable Max Herring, onetime managing director of the Gotham Hotel, the Plaza's food and wine in its multitudinous restaurants and bars have been restored once more to the distinguished eminence they possessed before the wars. Bearing in mind always that hotel food must be characterized by a greater impersonality and less imagination than is possible in a small, private restaurant, the Plaza's is just about tops, whether it is absorbed in the Oak Room, sacred to businessmen at weekday lunchtime, in the Persian Room, in the old reliable café overlooking Fifth Avenue, or in the magnificent gold and crystal Terrace Room which is once more open for lunch and dinner Sundays. There is, too, a really good businessman's lunch served from a steam table on weekdays in the Men's Bar, where Ed Hutton's offices used to be, by Mr. Fischer, who in his other capacity is assistant to Jules, maître of the Oak Room. The big day in the Plaza is traditionally Sunday when decorous New Yorkers don their best formal morning attire and lunch of the Plaza's celebrated homemade chicken soup, eggs Benedict, and other restorative dishes until late afternoon. The Plaza cocktails are noted among boulevardiers as the largest and most potent money's worth anywhere.