One of those damn theme joints has invaded the hallowed precincts of,
arguably, New York's finest Art Deco structure (at least south of the Grand
Concourse), the 57th St. Horn and Hardharts(sic).

Not only does its fussy presence destroy the essence of the building, its
unbelievably-priced fare is an insult to the memory of the ten cent bowl of
beans, and no number of mini-skirted waitpersons can make up for the
absence of the exciting banks of glass-doored vending machines.

I preferred the building during the years it remained empty. Sometime the
ghost of a building has more integrity and charm than any adaptive reuse
could ever have, especially when that ghost houses the ghost of my youth.

Bruce