A Good Sign: Gramercy Cafe

Get rid of the awning. The neon sign is all this cafe needs. In Gramercy Park.

A Good Sign: The Park Gramercy

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Rolf's"?

I finally made it to Rolf's, the happy-looking German restaurant on Third and 22nd. I hope the quirky place sticks around for a long time. I also hope it's taken over in the near future by someone who gives a damn.

Who Goes There? Rolf's

Who goes to Rolf's, the 41 year-old German curiosity on a nowhere corner of Gramercy Park? Almost not me, that's who. I strolled in one night last week at 7 PM, took in the sardine scene at the narrow bar, and was told by the unsmiling, bevested maitre d' of a reservation book full up until 10 PM. "You could eat at the bar," he suggested, not believing the words even as he spoke them. Unable to make any headway through the thicket of human flesh between me and a stool, I gave up and turned heel.

I returned the next week with a reservation. But minutes before the appointed time, my companion bailed out. I faced the same grim maitre d' as a solo. "We don't seat singles," he said. "It's too busy." He proffered the old eat-at-the-bar dodge. If I hadn't gotten pretty grim-faced myself, I wouldn't have been seated. (FYI, four empty booths yawned at me throughout my meal.)

My difficulty in penetrating Rolf's, which is hardly a headline-maker in the food world, had to do with timing. It's December. During the holidays, tiny Rolf's drapes itself with enough tinsel and garland to fill the Crystal Room of the late, lamented Tavern on the Green. The ceiling drips with fake evergreen boughs, silver, white and purple balls, plastic icicles, dolls, Santas, angels and ornaments. Christmastime tunnel vision seizes you the moment you step in, and the crowds love it. The restaurant is packed from Thanksgiving to January, with people coming from as far as Long Island, Connecticut, Pennsylvania and California, according to my waitress. In other words, tourists—many of whom saw Rolf's featured on the Travel channel.

The bar, meanwhile, seems to attract a steady swarm of working types: beer-drinking men in suits and ties and wine-drinking women in smart, neat, unfashionable ensembles. One man informed me that the patronage, once quite old, has skewed younger in recent years. They drink and chat gaily, seemingly unfazed by the fact that only centimeters separate them from their fellow man. I have never seen a barroom so crowded. It resembled a holiday-themed clown car. People at the door who spot a friend at the far end of the bar take a shortcut around the tables as the only possible way of joining their friend.

Couples, hypnotized by the baubles, routinely waltz in expecting to be seated, only to have their hopes immediately dashed. Rarely have I witnessed such crestfallen faces. They look like they've been informed there's no Santa Claus. I'd like to tell them that they're not missing much. The warmth of the place doesn't extend much beyond the festive decor. Aside from a couple cheerful waitresses, the staff goes about their duties sourly, as if doing penance. The place isn't hosted, it's managed. And, food-wise, my sausage plate was okay in theory (the wurst come from Queens' Karl Ehmer), but in reality overcooked and bland. The huge German beer was better, but it cost $10.

Perhaps Rolf's is too removed from it's founder to care. Rolf Hofsmann came from Munich but, according to my waitress, died at 49. His partner carried on until he died, and then another partner carried on, etc., etc. So at this point the place is like a German cousin several times removed. Still, it beats visiting Santa's workshop at Macy's.
—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City's Guide to Gramercy

Most New York neighborhood have their ups and downs. Not Gramercy Park. Ever since land developer Samuel B. Ruggles drained the swamp that was here and set up a private park, Gramercy has been swanksville, boasting the most genteel air of moneyed aristocracy to be found in the entire city. There may not be many Olde New York aristocrats around any more, but you can fairly breathe money in the area, as well as the strong scent of civilized reserve and principled preservation. It's the closest Gotham gets to Mayfair, or the New York Edith Wharton must have experienced. One can feel more evolved simply by walking down E. 20th from Park to Third.

THE ROOSEVELT HOME: Start at 28 E. 20th Street between Broadway and Park Avenue South. This is Teddy Roosevelt’s birthplace. Or, rather, a facsimile of it. People assume this brownstone is the original. But Teddy’s house was torn down in 1916 and replaced by a commercial building. Citizens loyal to Roosevelt, however, bought the new building in 1919, tore it down, and built the image of Roosevelt’s birthhome. Weird. It wouldn’t happen today. No. 26, a museum now, was Theodore’s uncle Robert’s place.

No. 1 GRAMERCY PARK WEST: Walk east to Gramercy Park West and turn left. In the 1850s, Dr. Valentine Mott lived here, the most renowned surgeon of his day and founder of Bellevue. I just mention it because I love the name Valentine Mott.


No. 4 GRAMERCY PARK WEST: Notice the twin lanterns that mark the gate. This used to be a sign to all New Yorkers that a mayor lived or had lived in the house. In this case, it was James Harper, mayor of New York in 1844 and founder of the Harper publishing house. What are the chances of a literary man being elected mayor today? Great, New Orleans-like ironwork all over the place.

GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL: Turn right at Gramercy Park North and stop at Lex. At 2 Lexington Avenue, near the park, is one of the city's legendary hotels. Built in 1925. It had an attractive bohemian character, having been home at times to Edmund Wilson, Mary McCarthy, Humphrey Bogart, S.J. Perelman, Bob Dylan and such. It's owned by Ian Schrager now and not as bohemian. Used to have a great bar, and a beloved bellhop named Pinky.



GRAMERCY PARK: The only private park left in Manhattan. It's 1 ½ acres of beautifully preserved land, and contains a statue of Edwin Booth playing Hamlet. You need to live on the park to get a key to the gate, which sucks, and can get your back up in a Marxist kind of way. But it's not hard to befriend someone who has access to a key, and gain access. They used to open up the park to the Great Unwashed once a year, but that practice was discontinued in 2007. The land was laid out in 1831 by Samuel B. Ruggles—who also mapped and named lower Lexington Avenue, and named Irving Place after his friend Washington. The area became the home of the elite for quite a while. Can’t speak for how elite the people are today, but it's just as expensive a place to live as it ever was. Still elegant, too.


THE BROTHERHOOD SYNAGOGUE: Round the park to where Gramercy Park East meets Gramercy Park South. Built in 1857 as a Friends Meeting House, this was converted to a synagogue in 1975.


THE PLAYERS CLUB: Turn right, walk to 16 Gramercy Park South. Actor Edwin Booth bought this handsome building, revamped it and formed the Players Club back in 1888, when actors were outcasts and had no smart club to call their own. It's still in business, though hardly the center of the theatre world that it once was. If you're invited to go inside, do. The walls are full of grand old paintings and drawing of the great actors of America's past, including a couple by John Singer Sargent. Also, in various cabinets, are props and costumes used by the likes of Booth, Barrymore, Jefferson and more. The charming Grill in the basement makes for a wonderful lunch date. Booth lived on the top floor and his rooms are kept exactly as they were. Spooky.


NATIONAL ARTS CLUB: Right next door is the National Arts Club. Founded in 1898 by Charles de Kay, a literary and art critic for The New York Times then, forgotten today. It was conceived of a gathering place for artists, patrons and audiences in all the arts. The building, 15 Gramercy Park, used to be the mansion of the Al-Gore-of-his-day, Samuel Tilden. Tilden was Governor of New York, but is most famous today for having won the national popular vote in 1876, but lost the Presidency to Rutherford B. Hayes, due to Electoral College mischief on the part of southern Republicans. (Florida was one of the disputed states, if you can believe it.) Tilden has taste. He hired architect Calvert Vaux (Central Park) and stained-glass genius John LaFarge to revamp the place. Glass master Donald MacDonald created a stained glass dome for the building. After the election, Tilden feared for his safety. Under the building there is supposedly a tunnel to 19th Street, perfect for a quick getaway.


IRVING PLACE: Backtrack to Irving Place, which takes up on the south side of the park the path Lexington traced to the north. It's not often that New York honors its literary sons with street names. Irving Place, named after Washington Irving, New York City's first author superstar, is a rare exception.


PETE'S TAVERN: Walk down to the corner of 18th Street. Forever warring with McSorley’s for the title of New York’s oldest saloon is Pete’s Tavern, which has ridden the coattails of writer O. Henry for a century now. A well-known drinker, the short story writer is supposed to have been a habitué and written “The Gift of the Magi” while sitting in the second booth to the right as you enter. The story, so specific in its claim, sounds fishy. But I’m willing to bet O. Henry darkened the door once or twice. The front room is the place to be; it’s the original space. The back rooms have less charm. Eat if you must, but the food is exceedingly indifferent. (O. Henry lived at 55 Irving Place, btw.)


190 THIRD AVENUE: Walk over to Third Avenue and down to 17th. A curious building that has somehow escaped destruction. It was built in 1894 as Scheffel Hall, a German music hall named after German balladeer Joseph Victor von Scheffel. It was later Allaire's, a restaurant that was yet another haunt of O. Henry (can't get away from the guy in Gramercy), and Joe King’s Rathskeller, and then Fat Tuesday’s Jazz Club, where Les Paul was a regular. Signs of its past existences can be found on the façade.

Something Fishy

This solemn looking building with the mansard roof was once the center of high society in New York. Situated at the southeast corner of Gramery Park South and Irving Place, No. 19 was the home of Mary "Mamie" Fish, who succeeded Mrs. William Astor as the head of the "400" families in the last 19th century.

Mamie, wife of Stuyvesant Fish, was a revolutionary in her way. Tired of sitting through dinners that lasted several hours, she cut hers down to a brief 50 minutes. Soon, everyone did the same. She called people by their first names, which was not done at that time. She hated opera; once, when asked what her favorite instrument was, she replied, "The comb."

One time, she sent out invitations to a dinner honoring a mysterious prince. The honored guest turned out to be a monkey dressed in white tie and tails, which I'm sure handed her (but not many others) a great laugh. I think I would have liked Mamie's parties.

As liberal as Mrs. Fish was, I think she might have been shocked to find out that, after her family vacated this address, dissolute actor John Barrymore live here for a time.

Inside at Last

One of the consolations of remaining in New York City over many years, of enduring the biting winters and sweltering summers, the congestion and antic sidewalk energy, the high cost of living and the high cost of four straight terms of Republican Mayoral rule, is that, every now and then, you gain access to one of the City's unique rabbit holes of mystery and history, places that exist nowhere else in the world and fairly throb with echoes of the past.

I had one of these moments yesterday when I finally, finally, finally gained access to Gramercy Park, the last private park in Manhattan, regularly accessible only to residents of the buildings that line the park. It is opened to members of the working class a couple times a year, but I always seem to miss those occasions. But yesterday, after having lived here 19 years, two months and 19 days, I finally swung open that heavy wrought-iron gate.

My main reason for desiring entrance was not so much to see the sculpted park—though it is peaceful and lovingly manicured—but to observe up close Edmond Quinn's sculpture of actor Edwin Booth, which stands dead center. It's been there since it was dedicated almost exactly 89 years ago by members of The Players, the club Booth founded on the south side of the park as a dignified refuge for actors.

The statue was the first ever erected to honor an actor—not so long ago a very disreputable profession in America. It's made of bronze and is life-size. It depicts Booth in his most famous role, Hamlet. He is rising from his chair and about to deliver the "To be or not to be" soliloquy. Booth's "Hamlet" was renowned in its day for running for 100 performances at the Winter Garden—a blockbuster run in those days.




Booth, alone, is honored in the park. His only company is a small fountain to the west which bears the likeness of Samuel Ruggles, who created the park. He looks a little melancholy.

Lunch at the Players

The other day, I enjoyed what it surely one of the more obscure and hard-to-get lunch tickets in town. I was invited to have lunch at the basement grill of the old Players Club in Gramercy Park by one of theatrical club's members. The grill is only open to members so the only way you can dine there is to join the club or get an invite. There's a doorman with a list making sure no pretenders get in. He wouldn't even let me wait inside until my host arrived.

The grill is as old-fashioned as can be. Red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, a few banquets, wooden chairs with red-leather backs, a wooden bar at the end of the room. The waiters are dressed in white jackets and ties. The menu is limited (burger, french onion soup, ceasar salad, etc.). No money changes hands; the member signed a slip of paper and the bill is charged to his account.

The walls decorated with many portraits, drawings and caricatures of past and present members (mainly past). Bert Lahr, John Barrymore, Noel Coward, and a lot more you've never heard of unless you're a theatre geek. Some of these are quite wonderful and probably worth a lot of money. The club used to have a John Singer Sargent of Edwin Booth but sold it some years ago to raise money. There's a pool table at one end of the grill and an array of cues lining one corner of the room. Apparently, the pool tourneys here were once quite competitive.

The grill was about half-full. The conversation was mainly gossip about other actors not present. The food was fine, nothing special. Food at private clubs never is. But decent. It's the atmosphere that makes it convivial and relaxing.

I Brake for Booth

Are Manhattan motorists attempting to drive through Gramercy Park?
Passing the southern side of the private park the other day, I noticed the iron gate facing Irving Place was adorned (if that's the word) with two orange traffic arrows pointing to the right and a string of red reflector lights. This could only mean that, sometime in the recent past, some dope driving north on Irving Place didn't realized a gated park stood between him and Murray Hill, and almost moved down the park's statue of Edwin Booth as Hamlet.
For added protection, a huge, bulbous SUV was parked in front of the gate, though I don't know if this was expressly to guard the gate, or if some driver was just flouted parking rules.