It is, so far as is visible to the naked
eye, quite well conducted, yet there is something mysterious about it.
Doubtless this is deliberately stage-managed and capitalised, but it
is effectively done. It is an unexpected sort of place. One evening
you go there and find it in full blast; the piano tinkling, many
cramped couples dancing in the two tiny rooms, and every table covered
with tea cups or lemonade glasses. Another night you may arrive at
exactly the same time and there will be only candlelight and a few
groups, talking in low tones.
Here, as in all parts of the Village, the man in the rolling collar,
and the girl in the smock, will be markedly in evidence. Yes; they
really do look like that. Lots of the girls have their hair cut short
too.
And "Polly's"!
In many minds, "Polly's" and the Village mean one and the same thing.
Certainly no one could intelligently write about the one without due
and logical tribute to the other. Polly Holliday's restaurant (The
Greenwich Village Inn is its formal name in the telephone book) is not
incidental, but institutional.
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