O. O. McIntyre // It was the smartest re-opening of Gotham’s smartest supper club. The reservations included some of the creme de la creme of the social whirl. They came with their arms loaded with mysterious packages—bottle shaped. It was remindful of an old fashioned box party.
By 1 o’ clock all patrons were so tightly wedged in at their tables that it was impossible to reach the postage stamp dance floor. Only those who paid the enormous high tariff for ringside seats were able to dance.
The crowd at the roped entrance ran down two flights of stairs and around the corner in the street.
All the old subterfuges to gain admittance were used. Those who said they were members of the Astor and Vanderbilt parties and such.
The attraction was the debut of a young dancer currently reported to be the inamorata of one of New York’s richest men. There are many stories of her fourteen-room apartment in a Park avenue hotel and a flock of limousines and ropes of pearl.
She came out of a revue and has nothing but a property smile and a wistful look. There were thunderous applause and “Bravos.” It is the Manhattan manner of glorifying scandal. Flowers costing a fortune were heaped on her.
One of the noticeable features among the ladies was that every head was bobbed. The ubiquitous string of pearls were caught at the shoulders with orchids—a new fad. Every phase of life was represented—the underworld and upper.
Social queens, stage and movie stars, playwrights, novelists, millionaire idlers and those swarthy and sheek giglios who live off women. At 3 a.m. the most of them were floating in an alcoholic haze. It was the Twentieth Century Dance Micabre.
Syndicated Column, July 5, 1924