How to Review Landmark Restaurants, and How Not To

The events of this week provided an interesting object lesson on the tricky matter of how to review a landmark restaurant. Many reviewers feel that the same rules should be applied to all restaurants, whether 1 or 100 years old. If the food and service is bad or good, say so. No punches pulled. I find this perspective short-sighted. Historical eateries are not just places where people go to feed their face and have a nice time. They are part of the fabric and heritage of the city we dwell in. Their serve purposes well beyond culinary sustenance, just as City Hall is more than a building where politicians can get their work done, and classic skyscrapers more than a stacking of offices.

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"21" Club Bathroom Murals Safe After Renovation

I dread every change that is made to the "21" Club. Every alteration takes us that much further from the original item, that much along the road away from a New York historical marvel that needs no change. When they eliminated the coat-and-tie dress code, my stomach turned. When they removed the original bar and replaced it with a shortened facsimile, a bit of my soul died.

Recently, the owners, Orient-Express Hotels Inc., decided to sweep out the front lounge area and replace it with a modern cocktail bar, complete with stools and draft beer (something never before seen at "21"). The bar would displace the restrooms. My heart sank a bit at this news. While I welcomed the bar—which makes it easier for humble folk of limited means, such as myself, to patronize "21"—I worried about the bathrooms. The men's room—which has long been presided over by a men's room attendant, a gracious, loquacious character called "The Rev"—was home to some wonderful and witty murals.

The artworks, executed in the 1930s by the now-largely-forgotten society artist Charles "Top Hat" Baskerville, depict various well-heeled ladies and gentlemen relieving themselves in whimsical, highly unlikely ways. I worried about the murals' fate.
But while the entrance to the men's bathroom has been shifted from the south wall of the lobby to the west, the bathrooms are essentially to the same, and the murals are untouched. It was a great, uh, relief to see them again. 

How to Eat Old School

The folks at Eater, who like to map everything edible in the City, ask my to pick out of selection of old guard dishes from New York City's most venerable restaurants. Mutton Chops at Keen's, Pastrami on Rye at Katz's, that sort of thing. Such a task is a pleasure for me, so I was happy to do it. Thanks to Zachary Feldman for putting the post together. Here's the intro. You'll have to jump to Eater to read the rest, because the layout is too complex for me to copy here.

What are the makings of an iconic dish? While the critics and blogs dole out "least favorite food trend" memes annually, these stalwarts—provided, with commentary, by the erudite Brooks of Sheffield of our Who Goes There? column and the erstwhile Lost City—have stood the test of time to help define and inspire the city's ever-changing culinary landscape. Noteworthy dishes that offer something beyond the pizza, cupcakes, burgers, and fried chicken that seem to have strong-armed the market, you won't find this food on a truck anytime soon.- Zachary Feldman

Not What You Want to See

A tour bus parked outside "21." Has it come to that?

That's Kinda Neat

The New York Post notes how some restaurants like the "21" Club, The Palm and Peter Luger still keeps tabs for some steady customers. At "21," there are a whopping 5,000 such accounts. By contrast, Michael's has only six tabs left on the books. Given the tie-policy debacle of 2009, this is a nice reassurance that "21" retains some old-style policies.

The Post publishes another cool, old-restaurant story about the accounts book at Gino, the Upper East Side Italian joint. I've seen this thing. It's a huge, beaten-up, leather-bound monster, full of the names and debts of everyone who's ever eaten at Gino. Among those who have or have had Gino tabs: Frank Sinatra, Gay Talese, Harry Winston, Oleg Cassini and Bernie Madoff (did he pay his tab?). Early entries in the old book feature the hand of original owner Gino Circiello.

Me and Sidney Zion

I did not know Sidney Zion, the colorful career journalist who died yesterday. But I met him on one memorable occasion.

It was a party at "21." The restaurant's longtime director, a poised, manicured figure in tailored, white-collar French-cuff shirts named Bruce Snyder, was retiring after 35 years, and all the regulars who loved him—corporate titans, old-school pols and journos, heads of state—gathered in droves to say goodbye. Two floors of the restaurant were used, and they were full. There was a lot of food, "21" burgers and oysters, and lots of drink. Many speeches were made.

Toward the end of the evening, my wife and I settled down to a place at the main bar on the ground floor, under the trinkets and toys that cover the Bar Room ceiling. It took us some time to get the bartender's attention and order our drinks. A man next to us already had his poison in hand, a jumbo-sized martini with olive. He wore a blue blazer, tie and thick black glasses. His expressive pink face was framed by a rim of silver hair. And he was garrulous.

Spying our dilemma, he began lamenting that it was no longer possible to hang out at the "21" bar on a regular basis. "It's the smoking ban that killed it," he growled. "In the old day, the people were three deep at the bar, every day! There were clouds of smoke. Now it's dead." Apparently, he was a habitue of the old place. He said his name was Sidney Zion, a journalist. (My brain was not clicking at the time, and the handle meant nothing to me. Just another writer.) We talked some more. When he found out my wife and I were both journalists, we talked even more. He had a way with gabbing, about frivolous and serious things alike. Playing things close to the vest was not his style. He trusted you with his opinion; his thoughts were not a secret cache to which only he and a few worthies had access. You could see how he'd be adept at becoming intimates with all sorts of people quickly, how he could "get that story."

We eventually retired to a table. Our conversation ranged from politics to religion to family matters. I liked him, even admired him. He was open, willing to take an intense (if temporary) interest in someone he had never met before in his life—and at an advanced stage of life, too. He also reminded me of something that was missing for the New York journalism work of the 21st century, something I was constantly looking for and never finding: character, humor, raffishness, a kind of rough-hewn humanity, people who drank, smoked, ate, made the rounds of their favorite joints—in short, lived.

I never saw Zion again, except in the papers. I started reading his column. (His last perch was in the conservative New York Sun.) I didn't always agree with him. I still liked him.

Sidney Zion was 75.

Times Greets Tie-less "21" With Equanimity

No doubt wishing not to seem too stuffy, and to appear "hip" to what the "kids" are thinking these days, The New York Times soft-pedaled the whole "21" Club tie policy brouhaha. Glenn Collins penned an article all but yawns at the development, opening with "THE earth held firm in its orbit. The continents did not founder. Martial law was not imposed. This, despite the fact that the “21” Club has loosened its tie for the first time since it opened at 21 West 52d Street 79 years ago."

There are the requisite interviews with patrons, some disappointed in the dip in etiquette, some thinking it a fine thing.

Yours truly is mentioned. None of my fulminations are quoted. Instead, Collins acts on one of my hope-against-hope suggestions:

After the new tie policy was announced, one blog, Lost City (which describes itself as “a running Jeremiad on the vestiges of Old New York as they are steamrolled under”) asked: “Couldn’t we get the old-school La Grenouille to uphold the old ways and begin requiring ties again?”

Not likely, said Charles Masson, general manager of the 47-year-old restaurant that abandoned its tie-only policy in 2003 (but not its jacket requirement). “There used to be a time when men wore white wigs, too,” he said.

Ha, ha. One day, Masson'll be saying "There used to be a time when men wore pants, too." It's a slippery slope.

Also interviewed was the king of Four Seasons, who was his usual debonair, flip self:

Julian Niccolini, a partner at The Four Seasons restaurant, asked simply, “Why should I tell people how to dress?”

Funny, coming from a restaurant that's all about style and elegance and how things look.

A Velvet Revolution at "21"?

A well-placed source at the "21" Club—which, it was revealed last week, has abandoned a strict tie requirement at dinner—tell us that almost everyone seated at lunch today is wearing a necktie, even though such accessories have not been demanded at lunch for a decade. A quiet show of solidarity among the civilized? It's nice to think so.

Reactions to "21" Club's Dressing Down

The City's news organs piled on yesterday's startling report that the "21" Club, one of the last bastions of style and formality in New York, had thrown out its requirement that men wear jackets and ties at dinner. (It's still encouraged, but not a must.)

The New York Post ran a lengthy article, with people weighing in on both sides of the issue. (Big surprise: old people deplore the development; young people think its swell.) Of course, the sloppy daily got the main points wrong, calling "21" "one of the very last eateries in New York that still required male customers to wear a jacket and tie." It was the last one, dumbasses!

Also weighing in were NY Magazine's Grub Street; the Albany Times Union; and the Zagat blog. (Nothing at the sleepy NY Times or Daily News yet.)

Speaking of Zagat, it will no longer need to indicate in its New York guides restaurants which require a tie. There are none. As for ones that still require a jacket, there are a mere 13 in the 2009 guide: "21" Club, Four Seasons, Le Cirque, Daniel, Per Se, The Modern, Le Perigord, Le Grenouille, Jean George, Carlyle, Le Bernadin, River Cafe, and Rainbow Room (which isn't really functioning right now).

Couldn't we get the old-school Le Grenouille to uphold the old ways and begin requiring ties again?

The End of Civilization as We Know It

Eater reports today that it received notice of a dining deal from the "21" Club, which included this line:

"...we have (somewhat) relaxed our dress code in the lounge and bar areas, as well as the dining rooms. Ties are still preferred and greatly appreciated, but they are no longer a must."

Uh. This news upsets me, much more than it really should. It's more of an involuntary, visceral response. I feel physically ill.

I love "21." It's historic and alive and unique and cozy and convivial. Every visit is a celebration of what makes New York different from all other cities. The food is good, the wine list fantastic, the grasp of tradition firm, and the decor a riotous delight for the eye and mind (Remingtons on the walls, toys and things hanging from the ceiling, plaques, pictures, framed cartoons poking decades of fun at the place). It's a restaurant, a club, a haven and a landmark.

But this decision I must deplore. "21" has always rather marched to its own tune, not keeping up with the times, but adhering to its individual, somewhat formal way of doing things. It does not go around whoring after trends and tourists. When you go to "21," you dine "21" style. That doesn't mean they'll treat you haughtily or shabbily; quite the contrary, you'll be treated like a king. But there are rules of decorum. The place is worthy of respect and a little effort on the part of its patrons.

"21" was the last restaurant in New York City to demand that gentlemen wear a jacket and tie. Think of that. Thousands of places to eat in this town and the hoi polloi's penchant for sloppiness has become so enveloping that only one eatery has the guts to tells its patron to look decent when they go out to eat. It's truly discouraging. There were many more restaurants that required ties only a decade ago, but one by one they dropped the rule because too many affronted losers felt importuned and inconvenienced. San Domenico, for instance, abandoned the dress code because fat old Met Opera conductor James Levine liked to wear polo shirts!

Some while back, "21" caved in on lunch; no tie needed. But it held firm on dinner. I talked to a manager a year ago and he expressed his wish to get ties back for the lunch hour. But instead the reverse has happened. Open collars all around! Men really are children these days. "I like to be comfortable." "I feel strangled by a tie." "I hate dressing up." Why don't you just unbutton your pants, take off your shoes and prop your stocking feet up on the checkered tablecloth while you're at it? Grow up.

Do not give in "21." Reverse your decision! Times are tough, but you will prevail.

Maybe the Coolest Hotel in New York?

Now here's a bit of development to get excited about.

The New York Times reports of a new hotel on the horizon, and, from the sound of it, it may become the most unusual, freakiest, mostly utterly New Yorky hotel in Gotham.

Orient-Express Hotels Ltd., which owns tons of classy hotels and junk all over the globe, has inked a bizarre deal with—wait for it—the New York Public Library. Under the terms of the agreement, the NYPL will sell to Orient the property and the building housing its Donnell branch in Midtown for $59 million. But Orient isn't going to demolish the library, as you might expect. The deal specifies that the branch will own and occupy space on the first floor and underground of the coming 11-story hotel. So we've got a hotel with a built-in library. Weird, right? Kinda great, right?

But that's not all. The Donnell branch is on 53rd Street, just a block north from the great old "21" Club, which Orient also owns. The two buildings are so close that five floors of the hotel will connect to "21."

A low-rise hotel with a bonafied library in the basement and secret passageways to a former speakeasy. It's literary and liquored up! It's New York City in a neat little ball. Be still my heart. I think I want to live in this hotel.

Joan Crawford's Champagne Is Waiting

Recently, I was invited to have lunch in the wine cellar of the "21" Club on W. 52nd Street. The cellar of the former speakeasy is probably hands-down the most interesting and historic in the City. It is reached through a hidden door made of thick cement and opened by way of a trick lock sprung by inserting an long metal rod into a minute hole.

Inside are racks upon racks of wine in a low-ceiling space. Past this room, through what is basically a large hole in the wall, is a more posh, roomier domain where a long table is set amid more racks of wine. It is here that "21" hosts various lunches and dinners for whomever ponies up the dough to rent the room.

The front room is the more historic part of the cellar, and the most fascinating aspect of the space is a collection of private stock that has been gathering dust there for anywhere from 10 to 50 years. Back in the day, "21" would favor its more famous and well-heeled patrons by keeping for them various bottles, which the diner purchased from the wine list and then could call on at any time. Trouble is, sometimes these people didn't call on them, and the bottles remained untouched, taking up space, often outliving the would-be imbibers. There are bottles on hold for Joan Crawford, Sammy Davis, Jr., Eva Gabor, Richard Nixon, John Huston and many other dearly departed bigwigs, as well as a few for the still living, like Gov. Hugh Carey, Ivan Boesky and Chelsea Clinton.

"21" feels honor bound to keep the various vintages on hold, since, technically, the wine doesn't belong to them. And there's always the hope that the progeny of these dead celebrities will come in and claim their vino. Certainly John Huston has some well-known children out there. And I guess Zsa Zsa could help herself to Eva's bubbly. But I serious doubt any of Joan Crawford's adopted children are going to trade on their mother's name just to get some free booze.

The Loneliness of the Long Distant Restaurant Reviewer

I dropped by Bonnie Slotnick's wonderful used cookbook store on W. 10th Street the other night and picked up the 1976 paperback edition of "The New York Times Guide to Dining Out in New York," just because I thought it would be fun to see what was thought of some of Gotham's most famous restaurants 30 years ago. Only five chow houses were then given the fabled four stars: Christ Cella, La Caravelle, Le Cynge, Maxwell's Plum and Parioli Romanissimo. Not one of 'em is open today. In fact, I could only find a dozen or so eateries in the volume that were still around. I may be missing a couple, but here are the survivors:

Barbetta
Brasserie
El Parador
Four Seasons
Giambelli
Gino
Joe Allen
John's of 12th Street
Keen's
La Bonne Soupe
Le Cirque
Le Perigord
Le Veau d'Or
One If by Land, One If by Sea
Oyster Bar
Palm and Palm Too
P.J. Clarke's
Russian Tea Room
Sardi's
"21"

(There are, of course, other long-haulers left in New York, but they weren't mentioned in the '76 Times guide.)

The book was compiled by John Canaday, a man better known as an art critic who had a brief career at a Times restaurant reviewer, and he makes for rather crotchety guide through the Manhattan food world. Canaday was nearly 70 when the book was published and it shows. He complains constantly about excessive dining-room noise, drafts and being rushed through his meal. (I'm guessing John was the kind of guy to spend 45 minutes over his soup.)

But more than anything, Canaday comes off as a lonely man with a king-sized, Timesian chip on his shoulder about not having been invited to the Big Party. About a place called Joe and Rose, he says "The trouble is you don't feel really welcome unless you're one of the gang." Of La Cote Basque, he carps "Our only reservation about this nearly perfect restaurant is that it is notorious for playing favorites." La Grenouille "operates on a caste system." Le Perigord "has occasional lapses into snootiness." Everybody at Pietro's "seems to know the people at several other tables." And exclusive "21" gets a total drubbing: "Unless they know you at `21' there's not much point in trying to get in, and there's not much point in getting in if you're not already known once you're inside." He docks the club two whole stars for not treating every Joe (or John) like a king.

Time in a Bottle

So I was given a tour of the fabled wine cellar at the more fabled "21" Club last week. (Don't ask why.) What a wonder of a place. Few place drip in one-of-a-kind New Yorky history like this cavern, which was constructed back in Prohibition days—thus, the 5,000-pound, brick-and-mortar secret door fitted snugly under one of the arches in the building's foundations. The hidden chamber is opened by inserting an old meat skewer in a termite hole until it meet with a metal plate and triggers a mechanism. (Dunno how that works. They explained it, but it's hopeless. I'll never get it.) Prohibition must have been a fun time to be alive. Who wants to buy drinks legally? I wanna drink gin in teacups!

Inside, it's 61F degrees, 44F in the white wine room. Ceilings are low, space is limited, the woodwork is all original. Jimmy Walker, the law-breaking-est Hizzoner New York ever had, and the best-dressed (walking stick, derby, spats,etc.), used to come down here with his showbiz mistress. His private booth remains as it was.

Back in the day, the owners obliged their guests by storing bottles they purchased from the wine list for future guzzling. That tradition ended 10 years ago because people kept forgetting they left bottles down here, and "21" has only so much square footage for errant booze. Still, about 2,000 bottles of vino wait down there for the rich and famous to uncork them. Elizabeth Taylor, Joan Crawford, Richard Nixon, Sammy Davis, Jr., Jackie Kennedy, and a bunch of titans of industry.

Obviously, some of these worthies will pass no more through the iron gate of "21." Their children are welcome to some nice Bordeaux, Burgundy and Dom Perignon, though. Trish? You out there?

New Slob City

The New York Post reported Jan. 25 that New York City—that classy, swanky center of sophistication—now has only two restaurants that require a tie and jacket at dinner, down from 11 four years ago (and, say, a whole lot 40 years ago). The lazy public's demand for comfort done done them in. The sole holdouts: The Rainbow Room and the "21" Club. (And "21" actually doesn't enforce the dress code at lunch.)

As chance would have it, I went to "21" that very evening; not something I do very often, given the $27 hamburger, but, hey, it's Restaurant Week. There was New York manhood in all its splendor, in lapels and cravats, and no one complaining. I spoke to Jeff, one of the two managers, and mentioned the article. He told me that it privately drives him crazy that they can't make the clientele twist a piece of silk around their neck at lunchtime. There's a purist. I told him to keep up the good fight.

I also heard from a good source that the reason San Domenico rescinded its dress code was because of frizzy-haired, fat maestro James Levine. It seems he kept gliding in in shirtsleeves. And what Lincoln Center-area restaurant is going to turn away the 300-pound gorilla of the Met? Thanks Jimmy! You weren't pretty to begin with. And now a once suave corner of NYC is a little bit less handsome.

Levine doesn't seem to understand the truth that escapes much of the rest of the masses. Sure, we understand you want to be comfortable. But you're not the one who has to look at you. That's lucky us.