The Elegant Lobby of The Algonquin Hotel
I came across a little pamphlet the other day called Tribal Tales of the Algonquin. I had picked it up at the hotel a hundred years ago one night when Peter and I met there to have a drink. It’s just SO ELEGANT sipping a martini sitting in large overstuffed club chairs surrounded by aura, charm, history and mystery and you might even get to spot Matilda.
This pamphlet is a reprint of a series of advertisements appearing in The New Yorker during 1931. From time to time I’ll print one of the Tales – there are quite a few and too many for one blog!
There are so many incidents, anecdotes and sagas connected with The Algonquin that have helped to give that noted inn its peculiarly individual character, that the minstrel appointed to sing its lays hardly knows where to begin. But a start must be made somewhere, so we’ll lead off with:
The Last Three who Came
There’s a rule at The Algonquin that every clerk, waiter and bell boy must be able to address guests by name. On one occasion a bell hop overflowing with zeal to prove that he knew his traditions said to the proprietor, “We are getting quite a lot of literary people the last few days Mr. Case. “Really?” questioned the boss. “Why yes” returned the boy. “Last night Mark Twain registered, the night before William Makepeace Thackery and tonight Edgar Allen Poe has just gone upstairs.” Having a suspicion that these illustrious three were at that moment inhabiting even more celestial realms than his own inn, Case inquiring of the night clerks learned that (humorist and practical joker) Frank Ward O’Malley had been seen about for several nights, which explained everything.
Trivia about The Algonquin
First to have electronic locks.
Charleston oilman Ben Bodne bought the hotel as a gift for his wife.
Bill Ding and his band of clowns are the security patrol for this blog site. He is a favorite toy from the 50*s. By the way sometimes a blog is just an ego-maniacal stream of conscience.
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