ts as "literary
landmarks." They are really much more than that--they are signposts,
psychical rather than physical, which show the trend of the times--or
of the neighbourhood. I suppose nothing in Greenwich Village could be
more significantly illuminating than its eating places. There are, of
course, many sorts. The Village is neither so unique nor so uniform as
to have only one sort of popular board. But in all the typical
Greenwich restaurants you will find the same elusive something, the
spirit of the picturesque, the untrammelled, the quaint and
charming--in short, the _different_!

The Village is not only a locality, you understand, it is a point of
view. It reaches out imperiously and fastens on what it will. The
Brevoort basement--after ten o'clock at night--is the Village. So is
the Lafayette on occasion. During the day they are delightful French
hostelries catering to all the world who like heavenly things to eat
and the right atmosphere in which to eat them. But as the magic hour
strikes, presto!--they suffer a sea change and become the quintessence
of the Spirit of the Village!

It is 10.20 P.M. at the Brevoort in the restaurant upstairs.
All the world and his wife--or his sweetheart--are fully represented.
Most of the uptowners--the regulation clientele--are going away,
having finished gorging themselves on delectable things; some few of
them are lingering, lazily curious; a certain small number are still
coming in, moved by that restless Manhattanic spirit that hates to go
home in the dark.

Among these is a discontented, well-dressed couple, seen half an hour
before completing their dinner a block away at the Lafayette. The head
waiter at that restaurant explained them nonchalantly, not to say
casually:

"It is the gentleman who married his manicurist. Regard, then--one
perceives they are not happy--eh? It is understood that she beats
him."

Yonder is a moving-picture star, quite alone, eating a great deal, and
looking blissfully content. There is a man who has won a fortune in
war-brides--the one at the next table did it with carpets. There is a
great lady--a very great lady indeed--who, at this season, _should_ be
out of town.

Swiftly moving, deft-handed waiters, the faint perfume of delicate
food, the sparkle of light upon rare wine, the complex murmur of a
well-filled dining-room. It is so far not strikingly different, in the
impression it gives, from uptown restaurants.

But the hands of