At The Algonquin
Earlier this week, I happened to find myself in Midtown proper for the first time in a while. I was on the north side of 44th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, to be precise, and I happened to walk by an awning that said "The Algonquin".
I did a double-take: I'd always meant to visit the Algonquin but never had, even though I'd seen it at random once or twice before. I knew this had to be the time.
I walked in and could only see a cramped space with tables and chairs and a waiter or two. I figured I must have gone in a secondary entrance and ended up in the place's restaurant. I hesitated and almost turned around, but instead asked a doorman if this was the lobby. He told me it was.
After six years in and around New York City, you'd think I'd know better by now. Hadn't I written a blog entry about how all the interiors in Manhattan are much smaller than you'd expect, with the possible exceptions of the art museums and opera houses?
But all the same, my first thought was that the place was much too small to be the lobby of the Algonquin. Well, I was wrong. Right across a narrow aisle from the eating area were two elevators and a little reception desk I hadn't noticed before, probably because the place was covered all over with a dark, almost black, paneling. To be honest, it did make the place a little gloomy.
The one real spot of color was a picture in the rear of the eating area of all the Round Table luminaries. I couldn't tell from a discreet distance if it was a painting or maybe stained-glass.
A thing I love about hotel lobbies is that, as long as you're not too scruffy, no one's going to challenge your right to be there. So I took my time reading all the display cases about Dorothy Parker and the other wits. It didn't take long for me to realize that I'd basically never heard of any New York intellectuals of the 1920s, not even the two besides Parker who got mentioned the most, Robert Benchley and Alexander Woollcott. The one name I dimly recognized (and he was only an occasional rather a regular) was Douglas Fairbanks. Even Parker herself I only know of through a couple quotables -- "a single perfect limousine" and suchlike. I guess it was a bit like going to a temple when you have no idea who the gods are that are worshipped there. Ah, but so what. Maybe I'll now be inspired to read up on these folks.
On my way out, an old woman who was from Cleveland (as she was constantly telling everyone) asked the doormen "where the cat was". Having noticed the portrait of the Round Table included a cat walking upside down on the ceiling, I decided to tag along. Turns out one of the Algonquin's famous quirks is that it has a resident Himalayan. The doorman explained that the females are always named "Matilda" and the males "Hamlet". He opened a big black door that had a little brass cat-flap in it to reveal a small utilitarian room where the staff probably changed in and out of their uniforms. From inside this room Matilda (15 years old, he told us) stared defiantly back at us and even trotted up to us, staying just out of arm's reach and eventually turning her back on us haughtily and indulging in a big stretch.
All in all, a great little slice of the Old New York. I'll have to go back there for drinks someday. After all, when the Cleveland woman helpfully informed me, "This is where all the intellectuals used to meet!", the doorman loyally corrected her with, "Still do, ma'am."
I did a double-take: I'd always meant to visit the Algonquin but never had, even though I'd seen it at random once or twice before. I knew this had to be the time.
I walked in and could only see a cramped space with tables and chairs and a waiter or two. I figured I must have gone in a secondary entrance and ended up in the place's restaurant. I hesitated and almost turned around, but instead asked a doorman if this was the lobby. He told me it was.
After six years in and around New York City, you'd think I'd know better by now. Hadn't I written a blog entry about how all the interiors in Manhattan are much smaller than you'd expect, with the possible exceptions of the art museums and opera houses?
But all the same, my first thought was that the place was much too small to be the lobby of the Algonquin. Well, I was wrong. Right across a narrow aisle from the eating area were two elevators and a little reception desk I hadn't noticed before, probably because the place was covered all over with a dark, almost black, paneling. To be honest, it did make the place a little gloomy.
The one real spot of color was a picture in the rear of the eating area of all the Round Table luminaries. I couldn't tell from a discreet distance if it was a painting or maybe stained-glass.
A thing I love about hotel lobbies is that, as long as you're not too scruffy, no one's going to challenge your right to be there. So I took my time reading all the display cases about Dorothy Parker and the other wits. It didn't take long for me to realize that I'd basically never heard of any New York intellectuals of the 1920s, not even the two besides Parker who got mentioned the most, Robert Benchley and Alexander Woollcott. The one name I dimly recognized (and he was only an occasional rather a regular) was Douglas Fairbanks. Even Parker herself I only know of through a couple quotables -- "a single perfect limousine" and suchlike. I guess it was a bit like going to a temple when you have no idea who the gods are that are worshipped there. Ah, but so what. Maybe I'll now be inspired to read up on these folks.
On my way out, an old woman who was from Cleveland (as she was constantly telling everyone) asked the doormen "where the cat was". Having noticed the portrait of the Round Table included a cat walking upside down on the ceiling, I decided to tag along. Turns out one of the Algonquin's famous quirks is that it has a resident Himalayan. The doorman explained that the females are always named "Matilda" and the males "Hamlet". He opened a big black door that had a little brass cat-flap in it to reveal a small utilitarian room where the staff probably changed in and out of their uniforms. From inside this room Matilda (15 years old, he told us) stared defiantly back at us and even trotted up to us, staying just out of arm's reach and eventually turning her back on us haughtily and indulging in a big stretch.
All in all, a great little slice of the Old New York. I'll have to go back there for drinks someday. After all, when the Cleveland woman helpfully informed me, "This is where all the intellectuals used to meet!", the doorman loyally corrected her with, "Still do, ma'am."