The Lost 1897 Delmonico's -- Fifth Avenue at 44th Street

photo circa 1898 by Byron Company, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC07UT&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

In 1896 two of Manhattan’s most fashionable eating and catering establishments, Delmonico’s and Sherry’s, were feeling the pinch of competition.  The elegant Waldorf Hotel, opened three years earlier conveniently close to the mansion district on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 33^rd Street, was the newly favored spot for cotillions and dinners.  To make matters worse, the Astoria Hotel (at the time temporarily called the Schermerhorn) was under construction and the combined Waldorf-Astoria would be a formidable threat.

In response both restaurants made plans to move upward along Fifth Avenue—a full ten blocks above the Waldorf.  The rival caterers acquired large plots diagonally across from one another on Fifth Avenue and 44^th Street.  On May 3, 1896 The New York Times recognized the intended moves as part of a trend.

“As significant moves as have been made in recent years are those on the part of the restaurant men, Delmonico and Sherry, who have secured corners on Fifth Avenue at Forty-fourth Street for their future places of business.  They are trying to follow the northward movement of what may be termed the night life of the city—the life of after the opera and the theatres.  Both, too, apparently feel the need of providing for their patrons more elegant and sumptuous surroundings, so as to meet the competition of the Waldorf and the new Schermerhorn Hotel now constructing.  Another purpose is probably to be nearer the homes of those to whom they cater.  The two establishments right at the edge of the new club centre will help to change the character of the neighborhood most thoroughly.”

Over a year later, on March 17, 1897, architect James Brown Lord filed plans for the new Delmonico’s.  Lord had recently completed the monumental Beaux Arts-style Appellate Court building and he was riding a wave of favorable press.  The plans called for an eight-story structure of brick, Indiana limestone and terra cotta that stretched 140 feet back along 44^th Street.

“The entire front on Fifth Avenue will, on the ground floor, be devoted to the dining room,” advised The New York Times.  “Above will be the ballroom.  In the rear of the dining room will be the palm garden, encased by glass partition walls, and back of this, separated only by glass, is the café proper, with a separate entrance on Forty-fourth Street.  The main entrance is also on the side street, where there is a private entrance to let into an elevator to the ball and assembly rooms, which may be cut off from the rest of the house.”

Six floors of the building were devoted to the restaurant.  The top two floors were income-producing bachelor apartments.  Above it all was a roof garden (so popular in days before air conditioning) that would be enclosed by a vault of glass 30 feet high in the winter.

The roof garden was covered during the cold months -- photo by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

The land on which the new building would rise was leased to Delmonico by the Havemeyer family.  As the building neared completion in 1897, family patriarch Theodore Havemeyer died; throwing into question whether the family would be present at the restaurant’s opening.  The New York Times mentioned on October 31, 1897 “Mr. and Mrs. Havemeyer are in mourning, but their appearance at the public christening of the really beautiful building which that clever young architect, Mr. James Brown Lord, has given New York in the new Delmonico’s, and in which the late head of the Havemeyer house, Mr. Theodore Havemeyer, was so peculiarly interested, would certainly be pardonable and would seem most fitting.”

The New-York Tribune published a sketch of the new building (copyright expired)

The Astoria Hotel and the new Delmonico’s were neck-and-neck as the finishing touches were completed and openings planned.  But, although the Astoria beat Delmonico’s by about ten days; the elaborate interiors previewed by reporters promised stiff competition.  The New York Times said “It is too early for any predictions to be made as to the probably effect upon New York society life of the opening of the new Astoria.  Delmonico’s new building, which is now understood will be quietly opened at Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street on or about Nov. 10, without any flourish of trumpets, may compete in the matter of drawing fashionable patronage with the Waldorf-Astoria more than is at present expected, and with music and the permitting of smoking in the palm garden at the dinner hour the new establishment may prove so attractive as to win back the favor which Delmonico’s once held in New York society.”

The kitchen staff (above) and the wait staff posted in 1902 -- photograph by Byron Company, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

The “informal opening” was held on November 15.  Nearly 1,000 guests strolled through the various period rooms.  On the ground floor the ladies’ restaurant was paneled in oak and “upholstered in green” and was deemed by a newspaper as “a dainty room.”  Also on this floor were the palm garden and the Elizabethan-style café.

The cafe was done in the "Elizabethan" style -- photograph by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

On the second floor were the private dining rooms “artistically decorated in quiet effects,” according to The New York Times.   The Louis XVI ballroom engulfed the eastern half of the third floor and was “lighted by electroliers, screened by a mass of small glass beads.”  The woodwork in the 71 by 60 foot room--designed to accommodate 600 persons--was stained green and the walls were covered with rose-colored silk.  On the Fifth Avenue side of this level was the “supper room.”

The kitchens, larders, refrigerating rooms, butcher shop and other culinary departments were housed in the two floors below street level.

Below street level workers in the confectionery department (above) fashion compotes from spun sugar.  An army of chefs prepare gourmet foods.  photograph by Byron Company from the Collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

The New-York Tribune said “The new building, which stands at Fifth-ave. and Forty-fourth-st., beautiful and impressive in its architectural outlines and furnished within on a lavish and costly scale, is a monument to the wise and successful business management which has directed the affairs of this famous eating institution.”

On reporting on the opening of the new building, which it deemed “a good example of the Italian Renaissance,” The New York Times opined “The opening of the new house marks another epoch in the social history of New York.”  The newspaper was correct.

The ornate banquet room featured two lofts for musicians -- photograph by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

A week later the first ball was given in the sumptuous new ballroom.  A subscription dance, the first of four, it was under the patronage of six prominent socialites who dared not to engage the ballroom of Caroline Astor’s new hotel.  If there was a question of Delmonico’s holding its own against the mammoth Waldorf-Astoria, the November 25^th ball set the matter to rest.

A full orchestra played following the 11:30 supper and a reporter commented that “The dance was most successful, and instead of the 150 guests expected, 190 were present.”

Across the street to the south were the butcher shop and tavern, the presence of which on 5th Avenue mightily annoyed several New York socialites -- photograph by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894&PN=1#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894&PN=1

On December 9 Mayor Strong held a dinner here to discuss “the funeral of Old New York.”  With the merging of Brooklyn, Manhattan and the Bronx scheduled to go into effect on January 1, 1898; he sent invitations to about 100 prominent citizens, neatly engraved on official stationery, to lay plans for a memorial service to be held in the Metropolitan Opera House.

Reflecting the morose attitude of Manhattan residents concerning the consolidation, he planned a “solemn service.”  “In the language of the Mayor,” said The New York Times, “it will be ‘the funeral’ of the old city, whose life is then to be terminated, not as a result of the ravages of old age, but by legislative enactment.”

Stenciled, beamed ceilings adorn one of the private dining rooms -- photograph by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894&PN=1#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894&PN=1

A year later, on Christmas Eve 1898, the New-York Tribune considered Delmonico’s move uptown.  “Time has demonstrated, however, that the step was a wise one.  Society folk took kindly to the change of site, and with the new building offering exceptional and unusual attractions for dinners, both big and little, it became almost immediately a fad.”

Earlier that year wealthy debutante Josephine W. Drexel had proven that when she raised social eyebrows by throwing herself a lavish ball here.  Five hundred invitations were sent for the affair which was held on February 8, 1898; despite Josephine’s formal coming-out in December hosted by her mother.

“The ball was rather unique among the social events of this city,” said The New York Times, "as it was given by a debutante of the season, and not, as usual, by her mother or other relative, in her honor.  Miss Drexel, who conducted the management of the affair herself, was formally introduced to society at a large reception given for her at her mother’s home some weeks ago.”

Josephine booked the 20-piece Lander’s Orchestra and invited the cream of New York and Philadelphia society—“chosen almost entirely from the younger set.”  The cotillion began directly after the 12:30 a.m. nine-course dinner.  The guest list read like the Social Register, including “Mr. and Mrs. James Abercrombie Burden, Sr., Mrs. William Astor, Mr. and Mrs. John Jacob Astor, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Orme Wilson, Mr. and Mrs. De Lancey Nicoll, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Livingston; who danced among Dahlgrens, Beekmans, Mortons, Kernochans and Schieffelins.

Meanwhile, the Church Temperance Society parked its coffee van outside in the freezing February night air to offer comfort to the rows of coachmen sitting in the vehicles of their wealthy employers.

The bachelor apartments on the upper floors were reserved for only the most fashionable young unmarried men.  Among its first residents was the 34-year old widower Thomas Henry French.  A dramatic agent and publisher of plays, he took a suite of rooms.  Although the often-elitist Manhattan society normally looked askance at theater types; French was a member of the New York Yacht Club, the Manhattan Club, the New York Club and the Lambs.  He had managed Madison Square Garden upon its opening and later built the Grand Opera House and the Broadway and American Theatres.  The representative of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, London; he also managed the Lillian Russell Opera Company.

In November 1902, after living here two decades, French became ill.  At 7:35 p.m. on December 1 he died in his bedroom crowded with his business manager of 30 years, his secretary, Dr. J. H. Emerson, personal friends, and the entire staff of his publishing office.

Wealthy diners were frightened just before midnight on August 2, 1903 when the cry of “Fire!” was heard in the corridor.  A small electrical blaze had burned for about 20 minutes in the basement engine room before being noticed and by now the faint smell of burning wood was reaching the dining rooms.

“There were 150 men and women in the large dining room on the first floor, and in the café were a number of men,” reported The New York Times.  The guests rushed to the doors; “Many of them did not go through the formality of getting their hats, coats or wraps.”

Although the fire was small, at the height of the confusion it crippled the electrical system, plunging the building into darkness.  The tony patrons filed across the avenue to Sherry’s for shelter while the fire department responded.

When the fire was extinguished, some of the customers returned for their belongings and more than 30 waiters scurried about to light candles which they carried in the silver candlesticks of the dining room.

Apparently unperturbed by the excitement, some of the patrons went back to their plates.  “By the light of these [candles], the guests who had returned, sat down and finished their dinners,” said the newspaper.

In 1908 the restaurant was incorporated for the first time since its establishment in 1827 by brothers John and Peter Delmonico.  Now sisters Josephine and Jeanne Delmonico ran the business.  Three years later, as the lease on the Havemeyer land neared expiration, rumors spread that Delmonico’s would move once again.

On August 5, 1911 The New York Times noted “Delmonico’s has always moved with society as is evinced by the fact that the great-grandmothers of the present social leaders dined at the restaurant in Beaver Street.”  However the newspaper put to rest any thoughts that the grand Fifth Avenue building would be abandoned.  “But the uptown march of the famous restaurant has been retarded now for at least sixteen years,” it said, and reported that a new lease had been signed.

Earlier that summer, as Manhattan’s millionaires abandoned the city for Newport, Bar Harbor and Long Island, management began redecorating the interiors.  Patrons returning for the Winter Season of 1911 would find refurbished dining rooms and new culinary offerings.  Managing Director Taupier had spent the summer in Europe “looking up novelties for the coming season of banqueting.”

Tragedy visited Delmonico’s during the parade for the 165^th Infantry returning from action in Europe on Monday, April 28, 1919.  Bartender Robert Provenzano went to a fifth story window to watch the parade high above the throng that crowded Fifth Avenue.  Several bystanders in the crowd looked up to see Provenzano leaning far out of the window, then losing his grip and falling.  Shouts of warning went out to those directly below.

Among the parade-watchers was 65-year old Grace Laflin Whitehead of Chicago who was accompanied by her daughter and a friend.  “Mrs. Whitehead either was too intent upon the marching columns to heed the cries or did not suspect their portent.  Provenzano’s body came down squarely upon her.  An ambulance surgeon declared she had been killed outright,” reported the New-York Tribune the following day.

The bartender suffered internal injuries, a fractured skull and broken legs; which proved fatal as well.

It was not the uptown movement of society nor the aging structure that tolled the death knell for Delmonico’s—it was Prohibition.  As with so many other hotels and restaurants, the loss of income once provided by the sale of wine and liquor was debilitating.  More than once the classy restaurant was raided by Dry Agents in the first years of the 1920s.  Finally, on May 20, 1923, nearly a century after its founding, Delmonico’s announced that it would close.  The New York Times ran a sub-headline that read “Famous Fifth Av. Restaurant Succumbs to Prohibition.”

“At Delmonico’s last night,” the newspaper reported, “it was said that the lease, which was to run until July, 1927, had been canceled by agreement.  The Harriman National Bank, it was said, now located on the opposite corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street, plans to erect a bank and office building on the site of the famous restaurant.”

The New York Times was acerbic in its assigning blame.  Two weeks later it wrote “Prohibition, however, was the finish of the venerable establishment.  The typical Delmonico frequenter regarded dinner as a rite and the drinking of choice wines and liqueurs  as a semi-public ceremony.  The old guard at Delmonico’s was composed of wine connoisseurs.  To those who went there it meant something to have a dusty, cobwebbed bottle of Pontet Canet or Chateau Yquem brought on in a little straw basket with its neck tilted at just the right angle and the contents exactly at the temperature of the cellar.  The Delmonico patron beamed when he saw a champagne cooler visibly alongside.  Delmonico belonged to the days when sauterne or chablis stood guard over the oysters; when ruddy wine came with the redhead duck; and champagne was due with the dessert, and port and cordials or fifty-year-old brandies were borne in with the coffee pot.”

On May 21, 1923 Delmonico’s served dinner guests for the last time.  At 9:00 that evening the orchestra struck up “Auld Lang Syne” and the doorman was told to close the doors and admit no one else.  One exception was made.

John Lynn had been a patron of the restaurant for decades, since it was located at Fifth Avenue and 26^th Street.  The 73-year old was determined to be there for the last night and so he laid down in the afternoon for a long nap in his apartment in the Hotel Ritz-Carlton.  He overslept.

When the elderly gentleman knocked on the doors of Delmonico’s he was let in.  Newspapers reported that “there were a few moist eyes among the diners,” many of whom were prominent in New York society.  Talk centered around the long history of the restaurant, which over the decades in several locations had served Louis Napoleon, later Emperor of France; Abraham Lincoln, Charles Dickens, Whitier, Longfellow, William Cullen Bryant and Ralph Waldo Emerson.  Political and military figures included Ulysses S. Grant, General Winfield Scott, William Seward and Andrew Johnson. 

When the lights were turned out that night, it would seem to have been the last entertainment held in Delmonico’s.  But there was one more in the future.

When the above photograph was taken in 1924, the end of the line for Delmonico's was near-- photograph by Wurts Brothers, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWC0C0C&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=894

In the summer of 1925, as the building was reduced to a pile of bricks and dust, a workman found a rare bottle of wine in a subterranean vault that had been a cellar.  The “honest workman,” as described by The New York Times, turned over the dusty relic.

On August 19 a nostalgic group of stalwart men dressed in dinner clothes gathered in the ruins to consume one last meal at Delmonico’s—including the vintage wine recovered from the cellar.  “While bricks and lumber crashed within a few feet of them, fifty men sat down to luncheon yesterday in the ruins of Delmonico’s, at Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street, the last meal under the arrangement of a family which has catered to New York palates for 100 years,” reported The New York Times.

Among the diners was E. H. Nies, who had started out as a boy in one of the downtown Delmonico restaurants and had risen to assistant manager by the time of its closing.  For the occasion he had written a poem, the first verse of which read:

No more the grape with fire divine

Shall light the torch of pleasure gay,

And where the gourmand paused to dine

Hot dog and fudge shops have their day

Despite the demolition going on around the table, the luncheon was served with all the propriety and embellishments of the restaurant’s glory days.  “The tables were ornamented with candy made in the shape of flowers, the fruit was served in dishes made of ice with ferns frozen in them, there were plates of dainty sweetmeats, and the soup and chicken and ice cream and coffee were worthy of the name of Delmonico,” said The New York Times.

When the last sip of champagne was gone the 50 gentlemen left the ruins of Delmonico’s.  The “social epoch in the history of New York” that began with the opening of the restaurant’s doors 28 years earlier was over.

photo by Alice Lum

When Terra Cotta Outdoes Itself -- No. 1082 Park Avenue

When bricklayer John P. Thorton hired Frederick T. Camp to design eight five-story buildings along the western block front of Fourth Avenue between 88^th and 89^th Street in 1887, the thoroughfare was still only marginally acceptable for respectable living.   Although the soot-coughing trains that had run up and down the center of the avenue had been covered over in 1875, the stigma hung on.

Considering Thorton’s profession, it is not surprising that the new structures were brick-clad.  One year after their completion, the road was renamed Park Avenue, perhaps in an effort to upgrade its reputation and marketability.

Over the next two decades, the face of Park Avenue would change dramatically.  Once lined with small business buildings like groceries and butcher shops, and minor residential structures, by the turn of the century the avenue saw the arrival of handsome rowhouses.  

On the opposite side of Park Avenue from the Thornton buildings, Simon Ginsberg operated his upholstery and furniture shop.  In 1905, he purchased No. 1082 Park Avenue and relocated his shop.  Business was apparently good for Ginsberg, for his upholstery business engulfed most of the building by 1911.

Elegant private homes worthy of Fifth or Madison Avenue began appearing along the Avenue by the advent of the first World War.  The Ginsberg family was living upstairs at No. 1082 when son Herman joined the U. S. Army to fight for his country.  Tragically, on October 14, 1918, The Official U. S. Bulletin listed Private Herman Ginsberg among those missing in action.

When the New-York Tribune announced that Simon Ginsberg purchased the abutting corner building on January 29, 1922, Park Avenue was undergoing change again.  The private homes and remaining older business buildings were rapidly being razed and replaced with modern Art Deco apartment buildings.  The eight brick-clad buildings between 88^th and 89^th Street would soon be threatened.

A real estate development syndicate eyed the buildings as the site for a cooperative apartment house.  In 1924, they began construction of 1088 Park Avenue, building around Ginsberg’s two five-story buildings that he stubbornly refused to sell.

With everything else on the block demolished, Ginsberg looked to update his two structures.  He commissioned architect Augustus N. Allen to create a new eye-catching façade for No. 1082.  Why he chose to initially ignore his newest real estate purchase is unclear.  At any rate, the transformation of 1082  Park Avenue was astounding.

A deep Mediterranean-inspired cornice shades the multi-colored facade.

Entirely faced in vividly-colored terra cotta, Allen’s refurbished façade was a Mediterranean fantasy.  Decades later the AIA Guide to New York City would deem it “Sicily in terra cotta.”  Below a deeply-overhanging cornice, five stories of brilliant tiles executed by the Federal Terra Cotta Company of Woodbridge, New Jersey took the form of twisted engaged columns, heraldic designs, three-dimensional panels and rondels.  Above the arcade shop window, framed in an intricate terra cotta band, a broad panel allowed for the announcement of Ginsberg’s business name.  His name reappeared in the blank spaces below the fifth and third floors.

Ginsberg's business name originall filled the blanks above the show window and over the second floor.

Eventually the upholster/landlord redid No. 1080 as well.  In 1927, Harry Hurwit designed a new stucco-covered façade which retained several of the 19^th century elements.

Twisted engaged columns, exuberant capitals, and fantastic heraldic motifs cover the facade.

By the mid-1930s, Simon Ginsberg was still operating his upholstery business in the building, yet he relinquished the income-producing ground floor to an Atlantic & Pacific Tea grocery store.  Before mid-century, Ginsberg would be gone and the upper stories filled with private medical offices.

In 1938 the A & P Store was still at ground level.  Ginsberg's name has been removed from the blank panels.  photo by Wurts Bros., from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/Collection/1082-Park-Avenue-24UFQEPSPSP.html

The doctors’ offices would remain in the building until 1978 when the upper floors were converted to a single apartment per floor, with two duplexes in the fourth and fifth stories.

Tragedy struck 1082 Park Avenue in June 1996.  Since 1980, the sidewalk level commercial space had been home to the Dutch Girl Cleaners, co-owned by Evelyn and Walter Alvarez.  Known locally as the “lollipop lady,” the kindly Evelyn was familiar to neighborhood children for the candy she doled out from behind the counter.

Around 4:30 on the morning of June 11, the 65-year old Evelyn arrived to open the shop.  At 4:51, a 911 operator received a report of two screams and responding police found Evelyn lying in the doorway of the cleaners, bleeding from the head, the victim of an attempted robbery.

Three hours later, the gentle woman known only for her thoughtfulness and compassion died in Metropolitan Hospital Center.

The magnificent hood over the entry is breathtakingly intact.

The Dutch Girl Cleaners still operates from the former upholstery shop-turned-grocery store space.  Amazingly, Augustus Allen’s exuberant façade survives intact, a splendid example of architectural terra cotta as much art as building material.

 photographs taken by the author

The 1904 Robt. McCurdy Mansion -- No. 39 East 51st Street

photo by Alice Lum

Jennie S. Parker was no stay-at-home housewife at the turn of the last century.  The wife of John H. Parker, a major real estate developer, she held a directorship in the John H. Parker Co. and was responsible for the erection of her own buildings.

In 1902 she began the project of constructing three handsome abutting mansions along the north side of East 51^st Street between Madison and Park Avenues.  The speculative homes would sit  within Manhattan’s most prestigious neighborhood—just over a block east of Fifth Avenue.

Over a century later the Historic Districts Council would attribute the three houses to the architectural firm of York & Sawyer; while the City’s East Midtown Rezoning and Related actions committee would confidently declare them “designed by the architectural firm of Clinton & Russell.”  But at the time the plans were announced, the New-York Tribune had a third opinion.

On January 9, 1902 the newspaper ran the headline “Woman Architect Files Plans” and announced “Plans were filed yesterday by Jennie S. Parker, an architect, who designed the Parker Building, for three six story brick dwelling houses to be built on the north side of Fifty-first st…at a cost of $225,000.”

A mention in American Architect and Architecture a month later supports the York & Sawyer commission; and perhaps any aspirations Jennie Parker had for designing the residences herself were put aside.

The three mansions were completed in 1904; including No. 39 a strikingly dignified six-story home of red brick, limestone and marble.  A short stone stoop led to the parlor floor of rusticated white marble.  The Italian Renaissance-inspired design featured a handsome entablature surrounding the doorway, with fluted Doric pilasters.  The arched parlor windows were embellished with scrolled keystones among carved festoons.  Above it all a mansard roof with three projecting dormers sat behind the bracketed cornice.

The builder, Richard L. Walsh Co., used the mansion to advertise its abilities -- Architecture, December 1907 (copyright expired)

James A. Robinson purchased the house and quickly leased it in August 1904 to Frank A. Vanderlip, the Vice President of the National City Bank.  The banker’s move was no doubt precipitated by his recent marriage to Mabel Narcissa Cox on May 9 the year before.

Exuberant carvings embellished the openings -- photo by Alice Lum

Two years earlier Vanderlip had stepped down from the position of Assistant Secretary to the Treasury under President William McKinley.  While in that office he negotiated a $200 million loan with National City Bank to finance the Spanish American War.  Perhaps as a sort of commission, he landed the job as the bank’s vice-president upon leaving office.

photo by Alice Lum

The Vanderlips lived in the house for two years; then on March 7, 1906 James Robinson sold 39 East 51^st to his tenant.   Real estate operators were most likely stunned two days later when The New York Times reported on what it called it a “quick turn for F. A. Vanderlip.”  The banker sold the house nearly before the ink on the bill of sale was dry.

The mansion became home to Robert Henry McCurdy, a trustee of the Mutual Life Insurance Company (founded in part by his father, Richard A. McCurdy) and a trustee of the Continental Insurance Company.  He held directorships in the Merchants’ Exchange Bank, and the American Exchange National Bank, and was a prominent member of the Chamber of Commerce.

Photograph from "History of the City of New York 1609-1909" (copyright expired)

McCurdy, whom historian John William Leonard in 1909 said “enjoyed the advantage of an excellent education,” married Mary Suckley in 1898.  As was most often the case with wealthy homeowners, the deed to the 51^st Street mansion was put in Mary’s name.  The couple by now had a country home in Morris Plains, New Jersey which was deemed by The New York Times to be a “palatial” dwelling” where they lived “in the luxury of the very rich.”

Two years after moving in Robert McCurdy partnered with Norman Henderson and Lewis H. Hatzfeld to establish the banking and brokerage firm of McCurdy, Henderson & Company; becoming its principal.  Within a year he would hold additional directorships with the First National Bank of Morristown, New Jersey; the International Bell Telephone Company, Limited; the Windsor Trust Company of New York and at least two other large firms.

Robert McCurdy’s mother died in 1910 and his retired father lived in seclusion in his Morris Plains mansion.  The New York Times said that “Richard A. McCurdy, in the opinion of many, for years was more powerful in the business world than any other figure.”  But by 1912 the physical condition of the 76-year old “has caused some worry to his family from time to time.”

Around the holidays in 1911, the McCurdy patriarch came to New York City to visit in the 51^st Street house.  The former insurance magnate left on the train back to New Jersey late in January, and it was on the trip home that he was stricken with a serious gout attack.  For the tycoon who was accustomed to the extremes of luxury, this trip would be somewhat humiliating.

“Mr. McCurdy made the last stage of the trip, from Hoboken to Morristown, on a stretcher in the baggage car of the Lackawanna Railroad train,” reported The New York Times.  “He was accompanied by his physician, Dr. George H. Willis of Morristown.”

The elderly man recovered and lived another four years.  Upon his death The New York Times said “he was recognized as one of the most masterful men who ever entered the life insurance field.”  Robert McCurdy had large shoes to fill.

Along with Mary and Robert in the house was a staff of eight.  The McCurdys relied mostly on Irish immigrants—six of the servants were from Ireland—although Mary McCurdy’s “lady’s maid” was French and her laundress was Swedish.

photo by Alice Lum

By May 24, 1925, when Mary McCurdy died, the midtown neighborhood had noticeably changed.   Business buildings were replacing the refined mansions and wealthy citizens were moving further north along the Park.  The 51^st Street house, which she left to Robert, was assessed at $150,000 at the time of her death—about $1.5 million today.

A fortunate fluke of timing was most likely responsible for the McCurdy mansion’s survival.   At the time of Mary’s death, the St. Nicholas Club, “one of the oldest and most exclusive clubs in New York,” according to The New York Times on January 16, 1926, was considering a move from its clubhouse at 7 West 44^th Street.

When it sold the old building in January 1926, the newspaper said “Heavy tax assessments and the rapid advance of land values in the Grand Central zone made it impossible for the club to hold its present site.”

The club hinted at the time that the McCurdy mansion “is being seriously considered as the most favorable location.”  Negotiations with Robert McCurdy apparently moved quickly and within days the deal was sealed.  By August that year the directors announced an $80,000 improvement budget that would pay for “equipment and the construction of an additional floor for bedrooms and a roof garden.”

The bedrooms upstairs would be used by wealthy members throughout the next decade.  Among them was 28-year-old Augustus Phelps Dunham.  Formerly a Chicago resident, he had been employed by the Lawrence Stern & Co. investment securities firm there.  His father was president of the Chicago Park District.

Now, in 1937, young broker was living in the St. Nicholas Club.  On March 12, his father’s 61^st birthday, he was on Wahackme Road in New Canaan, Connecticut alone in his automobile.  “Witnesses said that the car was traveling downhill at high speed, with the horn pealing,” reported The New York Times.  The car skidded out of control and into an embankment.  The promising young man died shortly after the crash.

Two years after Dunham’s tragic car accident, on March 23, 1939, the St. Nicholas Club sold the house to “an investor,” who quickly leased it to the French art dealer DeMotte, Inc.  At the time, two of Jennie B. Parker’s original three houses still survived—next door was the town house of Mrs. Charles D. Dickey.

The DeMotte firm had been leasing the former mansion of the late Stuyvesant Fish at No. 25 East 78^th Street.  The move into the McCurdy mansion would bring the art dealer closer to other similar high-end art houses like Jacques Seligmann and Rosenbach galleries.

Throughout the 1940's, DeMotte staged repeated exhibitions of Czechoslovak art; often for the benefit of Czechoslovak War Relief.  Among other fascinating exhibits here was one of reproductions of ancient Irish art hosted by the Irish Academy in America in 1948 and another of twenty-five sculptures by fifteen American artists executed for Catholic churches and promoted by the Liturgical Arts Society a year later.

In 1946 the art advertising firm of Frank A. Lavaty moved into the building, sharing space with the art dealer. 

In 1952 plans were announced by the new owner, Talon, Inc. “for altering the six story building into offices.”  In 1954 the conversion to Talon’s headquarters was completed, resulting in offices on five floors with a lounge in the penthouse. 

Even the bronze-and-glass entrance doors survive intact -- photo by Alice Lum

Today the handsome townhouse is the last vestige of a time when millionaires came and went from their luxurious mansions along East 51^st Street.  Amazingly, little has changed to the outward appearance of the striking brick-and-stone survivor.

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The J. Theus Mund House -- No. 121 East 64th Street

photo by Alice Lum

In the decade following the Civil War architect and builder John McCool threw himself headlong into the rapid development of the Upper East Side near the newly completed Central Park.  The developer purchased long rows of building plots in the 60s and 70s and erected brownstone rowhouses intended for the financially-comfortable merchant class.

Among his speculative developments was a row of 10 townhouses stretching from No. 115 to 133 East 64^th Street, between Park and Lexington Avenues.  Construction began in 1876 and was completed a year later, resulting in handsome (if not exceptional) brownstone-clad neo-Grec homes.  Unfortunately for McCool, his overly-ambitious projects collided with the long-lasting Financial Panic of 1873.  By the time the East 64^th Street row was completed, he was in dire financial trouble.

On April 4, 1878 the New-York Tribune noted that twelve of John McCool’s creditors were seeking to “throw him into bankruptcy.”   By summer it was all over for the real estate developer.  His total liabilities totaled a staggering $2,757,391—more than $56 million today.  On June 22, 1878 the Tribune reported on his bankruptcy.

Among the brownstone houses along the row was No. 121 East 64^th Street, which became home to attorney Herman Joseph and his family around 1889.  Joseph had taken a position with Samuel Hirsch, a well-known attorney at No. 315 Broadway where he received his hands-on legal training; finally graduating from New York University Law School in 1877.

By the time the turn of the century approached, he had established himself as a specialist in commercial law and an authority on bankruptcy.  Politically-active, he was known as a “Tammany Hall Democrat” and was a member of the Progress Club, the Bnai Brith Club, and Algonquin Club.  His charitable nature resulted in his sitting on the boards of the Mount Sinai Hospital, the Hebrew Orphan Asylum, Montefiore Home for Incurables, the Home for the Aged and Infirm and the Passover Relief Association.

In 1898, at the age of 42, Herman Joseph was appointed by the new mayor, Robert Anderson Van Wyck, to the post of Justice of the Municipal Court.  The Tammany Times said on July 17, “Among the new appointments of Mayor Van Wyck none is more popular than the well-known and deserving Democrat, Judge Herman Joseph.”  Perhaps surprisingly, considering Joseph’s age, the political newspaper explained “It is said that the reason why Mr. Joseph gave up a lucrative practice for the position of Justice of the Municipal Court is that he is by reason of delicate health, unable to cope with the requirements physically of his profession.”

Judge Herman Joseph -- The Tammany Times, July 17, 1898 (copyright expired)

As it turned out, Judge Joseph’s “delicate health” did not deter him from hearing and ruling impartially and, at times, rigorously.  If physical requirements prevented him from continuing his legal practice, they did not prevent him from carrying out investigative jurisprudence. 

In May 1904 the judge was presented with the case of damages to a White Clover Dairy Company truck.  George A. Young had driven his milk wagon along 124^th Street on October 19, 1903 when a low-hanging branch ripped the canvas top off the truck.  The dairy sued the city for the $155.80 cost to repair the wagon.

Counsel for the city argued that the branch did not hang low enough to damage a vehicle.  So Judge Joseph packed up his entire courtroom staff including the stenographer, affidavit clerk, chief clerk and court officer and declared that court would be held on May 14 on the brownstone steps of the house at No. 308 East 124^th Street.

Because the court case was being held in the open air, the judge permitted reporters to wear their hats.  George Young appeared with the repaired truck, and a make-shift courtroom was established on the stoop.  Just as the case was about to commence, Judge Joseph was infuriated by the arrival of a street sweeper.

“Taking his place on the second step of the brown stairs, Justice Joseph declared court open.  A street sweeper in duck uniform came down the street making a furious dust with his broom,” reported The Evening World later that day.

“’Evict that man from the court,’ demanded the Justice of Court Officer Moran.  The white-wing was summarily chased a half block.”

After the rival attorneys presented their cases, Joseph ordered the driver to recreate the incident.  “The limb struck the top and was carrying it away when Moran and a dozen other coppers grabbed the horse and threw it back on its haunches,” said The Evening World.  “’Do you think the city wants to pay for another top?’ demanded Moran.”

The city’s lawyer brushed off the demonstration, saying that the repaired wagon was taller than it was before the accident.  With judicial wisdom the judge ordered “Get a tape measure and we will find out.”

Since no one had a tape measure, a policeman was sent to a store.  “Court took a recess in the interim and everyone smoked.  Every window up and down the street was filled with heads watching the unusual court proceedings,” said the newspaper.

No doubt to the city attorney’s dismay, the wagon measured 7 feet, 9 inches high; while the damaged wagon was 8 feet, 4 inches.  “The city has lost its case,” declared Herman Joseph.

The house on East 64^th Street was the scene of joyful entertainment on April 11, 1909 when the Judge and his wife gave a reception to announce the engagement of their daughter, Rose, to Richard Bauer.  Perhaps it was Rose’s leaving the house the prompted the couple to sell No. 121 two months later.

Dr. Paul W. Kimball purchased the old brownstone, putting the deed in his wife’s name.  By now wealthy homeowners were either razing the outdated rowhouses or radically renovating them into modern residences.  Immediately upon purchasing No. 121 Dr. Kimball and his wife planned their own renovations.

On June 15, 1909 The Sun reported “Plans have been filed for enlarging the three story and basement residence at No. 121 East Sixty-fourth street and making it over into an American basement dwelling.”  The newspaper noted that the chosen architect for the project was Donn Barber.

Barber’s alterations resulted in the stoop being removed and the entrance lowered to street level.  The original doorway on the parlor floor was remodeled as a window.  While the renovations did not totally mask the Victorian brownstone, they provided the Kimballs with a more modern American basement design.

Dr. and Mrs. Kimball would stay in the house for nine years.  In the meantime, on October 25, 1917, a socially-significant wedding took place in St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue—that of J. Theus Munds and Elsie Welsh Saltus.  The ongoing war in Europe was reflected in the wedding party.  The New York Times reported that “One of the ushers in the army khaki and another in the blue uniform of the navy broke the usual monotony of the ushers’ dress.”

The Sun advised readers that “Mr. Munds is a son of the late Mr. and Mrs. James Dickson Munds of Wilmington, N.C., and a grandson of Mrs. Louis Nicholas de l’Aigle of the Georgia family of that name.”  The bride, it reported, “was one of the debutantes of last winter…She is fond of outdoor life and is prominent in the younger contingent in the Cedarhurst colony, where she is a member of the junior polo team.”

The newlyweds moved in to No. 470 Park Avenue where their frequent entertainments were noticed by society page columnists.  But within a year they would be in the market for a permanent home.

In September 1918 Dr. Kimball sold No. 121 East 64^th Street to Frederick J. Sterner.   The architect had already made a reputation of purchasing old Victorian brownstones and transforming them into Mediterranean, neo-Gothic and Tudor fantasies.  If he anticipated a similar project for the Kimball residence, he soon changed his mind.

One month later, on October 24, he resold the houses to the Munds.  The deal prompted The Sun to say he “made a handsome profit on the transaction.”  Indeed, he had done well.  In the four weeks he owned the house he made $8,000 on the sale—a tidy $85,000 or so in today’s dollars.

Two entrances provided separate access to servants (left) and family and guests--photo by Alice Lum

Like the Kimballs, the Munds had renovations in mind—but theirs would be far more sweeping.  The couple commissioned James E. Casale to completely revamp the old home.  The architect transformed the neo-Grec façade to a neo-Tudor fantasy.  A full story under a pointed gable was added and the building slathered in rough stucco.  A romantic two-story oriel at the second and third floors was roofed in slate shingles, and six tall, arched windows clustered together behind a stone balustrade at the second floor.  The outmoded Victorian now emerged as an up-to-date Edwardian residence—inside and out-- fit for the socially-active couple.

Elsie Saltus Munds is dressed for the Patriot's Ball the year the couple moved into their new home -- photograph Arts & Decoration, March 1920 (copyright expired)

The renovations were complete early in 1920 and by April it was ready to receive guests.  On April 5 The Sun noted that “Mr. and Mrs. J. Theus Munds will give a reception in their new home, 121 East Sixty-fourth street, on next Saturday afternoon.”

The Munds dining room opened onto a glass-covered courtyard -- photo Architectural Forum, September 1921 (copyright expired)

The Saturday afternoon reception would be just the first of many entertainments in the renovated house.  The same year that the couple moved into the house they celebrated the birth of their son, James Theus Jr. 

photo by Alice Lum

One of Elsie Saltus Munds’ most prominent social roles came in 1922 when she was named chairman of the Victory Ball.  The socially-important event was organized to raise funds for “those who are still suffering from the effects of the war and for whom no armistice has been signed,” as explained in the New-York Tribune.

Only a few years after their extensive renovation of No. 121 the Munds moved to No. 15 East 61^st Street.   The house on East 61^st Street would become home to Walter Naumburg and his wife Elsie.  The Naumburg name was well-known in New York for the family’s appreciation and support of music.  In 1905 Naumburg’s father, banker Elkan Naumburg, funded free concerts in the Central Park’s cast iron pagoda-style  bandstand.

By 1912 the old bandstand had become inadequate and Elkan Naumburg donated a new structure.  After his death, sons Walter and George took up the cause and continued the free concerts.

Like his father, Walter Naumburg was a banker.  After his retirement in 1931, he devoted his life to music and philanthropy.  The house on East 64st Street would regularly be the site of impromptu musicales as the Naumburgs’ guests brought their instruments with them.

“Friends, including some professionals, used to gather at my home on Wednesday nights and play the great quartets and quintets—the Beethoven Quartet 135 in C sharp, the late Brahms chamber pieces, things like that,” he later told a reporter.

As Elsie Naumburg grew ill in early 1953, Walter put down his cello, never to play again.  The 73-year old Elsie Binger Naumburg died in New York Hospital in January 1954.  The remarkable woman was a research fellow on the staff of the department of birds at the American Museum of Natural History.  Although she was a well-known ornithologist, she shared Walter’s interest in music, holding the posts of secretary and treasurer of the Naumburg Musical Foundation and the chairman of the board of An Hour of Music, Inc.

Elsie Naumburg had written a report, “The Birds of Matto Gross, Brazil,” on the ornithological finds of Theodore Roosevelt’s Brazilian expedition.

Following Elsie’s death, Walter Naumburg wistfully remembered the musical evenings in the house and told a New York Times reporter, “I still have the cello my father gave me with I was 17.  It had once belonged to the last King of Hanover.”  He continued to live in the house at No. 121 East 64^th Street until his death on October 17, 1959 at the age of 91.  

photo by Alice Lum

Comedian Robert Brackett Elliott purchased the house.  He had become famous through his radio prograph Matinee with Bob and Ray, with his long-time partner Ray Goulding.  The show became the televised The Bob and Ray Show from 1951 to 1953.   Elliott would go on to appear in television shows like Happy Days, the Newhart Show, and Laraine & Gilda.

In 2013 the wonderful neo-Tudor home was listed for just under $13 million.  In its listing the realtor suggested that “if it feels too collegiate-Gothic, just rip out the heavy wood paneling.”

The 1896 Alexander Building -- No. 636 6th Avenue

Twenty-six year old Andrew Alexander opened his first shoe store on Eighth Avenue in 1857.  As the better residential areas inched northward along Fifth Avenue and to the east, the Scotch-Irish merchant recognized the retail potential of just a block to the west.  Later the Christian Nation would recall “He was among the first to note the tendency of the retail trade toward Sixth Avenue.”

In 1877 he relocated to the northwest corner of 23^rd Street and Sixth Avenue at the northern fringe of what would soon be called The Ladies’ Mile.  Eleven blocks to the south, at Sixth Avenue and 12^th Street, was the shoe store of Alexander’s greatest competitor—Alfred J. Cammeyer.

By the beginning of the 1890s Sixth Avenue from 14^th Street to 23^rd Street was lined with mammoth emporiums catering to New York’s carriage trade.  In September 1893 Cammeyer moved squarely into the fashionable shopping area, taking over the newly-built structure on 6^th Avenue and the southeast corner of 20^th Street.  The New York Times called it “probably the largest and best equipped boot and shoe establishment in this country, if not the world.”

Andrew Alexander would not be long in answering the challenge.  Developers Lachman, Morgenthau & Goldsmith purchased and demolished a row of seven brick rowhouses along West 19^th Street, reaching to the corner of Sixth Avenue.  Late in 1896 their new retail structure was completed--filling the southern half of the block where the Cammeyer Building stood.  Designed by Buchman & Deisler, it was a dignified neo-Renaissance building faced in limestone and brick.  Expansive show windows at the second floor ensured that attractive merchandise caught the eye of female shoppers passing along on the 6^th Avenue El.

Restrained ornamentation preserved the dignity of Buchman & Deisler's design.

On February 5, 1897 The New York Times reported that Andrew Alexander had purchased the new building and “will take possession on March 1.”  Alexander declined to tell reporters the price he paid for the structure; but the newspaper took notice of the abutting monster shoe stores.  “He intends to abandon his old stand, at Twenty-third Street and Sixth Avenue, where he has been for twenty years, and to remove his entire stock to this new building, occupying the entire ground floor and basement.  Thus that entire block will be given over to the shoe trade.”

The building, now known as the Alexander Building, was “rated as a fire-proof structure.”  Two years after moving in, that rating would be tested.

Around 9:00 on the evening of January 18, 1899 defective insulation of electrical wires in the adjoining Cammeyer building sparked a fire in the basement.  By the time fire equipment could arrive, the blaze had spread to what The Times called an “inferno” and the store was nearly destroyed.

Andrew Alexander rushed to the scene around midnight.  “He said there was a four-foot brick wall between his building and the one on fire,” reported the newspaper, “and he did not expect to lose at all, unless in a small way from water.”  Surely enough, while Alfred Cammeyer suffered half a million dollars in damages (around $11 million today); the Alexander Building was unscathed.

In what must have been a somewhat daring full-page ad, a customer shows her maid her new shoes (and ankles!) in 1900 -- Scribner's Magazine, December 1900 (copyright expired)

Alexander was a religious and socially-conscious man.  He would serve as an elder in the Reformed Presbyterian Church on 39^th Street for nearly 50 years, was an active Sunday school worker, and a board member on the church’s Foreign Missions and Church Erection committees.  He was a member of the Board of Directors of the National Temperance Society and a member of the Presbyterian Union of New York.  His concern for his fellow man extended to his employees.

That concern manifested itself on the night of March 12, 1901.  Just as the emporiums of Sixth Avenue were closing for the night, a well-dressed woman was seen staggering along the avenue at 15^th Street.  A large crowd of unruly boys jeered and shoved her and, as she reached the corner of 19^th Street, she lost her balance and fell headlong on to the pavement.

William Parsons was a salesman at Alexander’s and he witnessed the woman’s fall.  Several people on the crowded avenue tried to help her, including Parsons.  As they were attempting to get her to her feet, rookie Policeman Neil Brown arrived on the scene.

The Times reported “Swinging his club as he shouldered his way, he ordered the crowd to clear away.  Most of them did so, but Parsons lingered for a moment.  Then it is said Brown grabbed him by the coat, hurled him out to the curb, and struck him twice on the head with his club.  Parsons protested, and for answer the policeman struck him again and pushed him back into the crowd.”

The last blow knocked Parsons unconscious and “cries of ‘Brute’ and ‘Shame’ went up from the crowd.”

Brown, who had only six months on the force, was enraged by the reaction of the throng of shoppers.  He “went at the crowd, striking men over the head, face, and arms, and striking women in the face, until the people ran in all directions, leaving him the master of the entire block.”

By now Parsons had regained consciousness and was on his feet.  The woman was still unconscious on the sidewalk when the patrol wagon arrived.  Both the woman and Parsons were loaded into the wagon and as it drove off, the crowd of infuriated witnesses and victims ran behind it.  When the wagon arrived at the station house and discharged its involuntary passengers, there was a mob of no fewer than 500 persons on the street and in the police station, according to newspaper accounts.

“There were groans and hisses from those in the room and louder noises from those without as the policeman brought in the man and woman,” said The Times.

The woman was deemed “to be utterly stupefied with drink, and she was dragged to a cell until she should be sober enough to give her name.”  Despite the hoards of protestors, Sergeant Murtha locked up the bruised William Parsons as well on the charge of interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty.  A doctor from the New York Hospital was called to dress his wounds.

While the angry crowd refused to leave the street in front of the station house; a long row of victims issued formal complaints against Officer Brown.  In the meantime Andrew Alexander had heard of the plight of his Good Samaritan employee.  He left his home at No. 14 West 47^th Street and furnished bail for the battered salesman.

In June 1903 Andrew Alexander attended a church synod in Hopkinston, Iowa.  On July 29, as he was aboard a train heading back to New York City, he was stricken with what was most likely a heart attack.  He never recovered and on July 29 the 72-year old shoe merchant died.  His funeral was held in the 47^th Street house a few days later.

Alexander’s will, probated a week later, reflected his charitable nature.  His estate was estimated to be around $3 million and he left substantial amounts to Presbyterian causes and $5,000 to the Board of Trustees for Indian Missions.  Interestingly, while he left $750 to his sister; he left $1,000 to one of the house servants, Margaret Lindsay.

Along with his widow, Matilda, only two daughters of his six children survived.  His will requested “that they continue his business.”

The most lavish ornamentation was reserved for the 19th Street elevation, rather than the avenue.

The business did, indeed, continue and in 1911 a second store, on Fifth Avenue, was opened.  

In August 1915 a reporter for Boot and Shoe Recorder stopped by the store to see its end-of-season sale items.  “Mr. Bemis, the manager of the business, which is owned by the two daughters of the late Alfred Alexander, told me that the season now closing had been fairly satisfactory, trade keeping up well until the first of the month, while the present clearance sale was well patronized.”

Bemis did not seem to have an acute merchandising strategy.  “In women’s lines we don’t know what women will want.  We buy a few of what we think they will like, and if they go, we order more.  If they don’t sell, we’re stuck, that’s all.”

The manager blamed the unpredictability of shoe fashions on his female customers.  “Women’s tastes are so fickle that only after the season is fairly opened can we tell what they will decide upon.  But of one thing I am certain, styles will be quieter.”

Earlier that year a writer for the New-York Tribune commented on the Spring styles.  “Here I saw women’s Colonial pumps in patent colt, with medium heavy soles, especially priced at $3.  These can be had for the same price in gun metal kid.  Oxford ties with gun metal vamps and inlay sand colored backs are also $3.”  Shoppers were spending the equivalent of about $50 today on the stylish shoes.

The article reinforced the fact that Edwardian women had a broad range of shoe styles from which to choose.  “The ‘Court’ pump, a copy of one of the new smart models, has gray cloth back and gun metal vamp and is moderately priced at $3.  A specially reduced high boot has dull or patent vamp and smart dark gray top, with leather trimmings—laced--$4.35.  Satin dancing slippers in the usual evening shades cost $3.”

Five years after the Tribune article, prices had not risen appreciably.  Boot and Shoe Recorder noted that the Sixth Avenue store offered “At $3.65 a pair, pretty slippers in colored satins; at $4.85, beaded slippers—black, white and bronze; also gold and silver cloth—all with Louis heels; and some at $4.85—oxfords for street wear.  Black and brown calf with Cuban heels.  Dull black kid and patent leather with Louis heels—all sizes in this lot.”

While nearly all of the great retailers abandoned the Ladies’ Mile for Fifth and Madison Avenues; Alexander’s would sell shoes from the Alexander Building well into the 1920s.  In 1924, after daughter Isabel Alexander Robey sold the building to the Sixth Avenue Leasing Corp., architect Herman Wolf was hired to redesign the first floor storefront.  Then in 1937 the buildings of the former shoe rivals—Cammeyer and Alexander—were joined internally.

The stretch of Sixth Avenue fell into neglect during the middle to latter parts of the 20^th century as the grand emporiums were turned into factory and small office space.  A rediscovery of the district finally came and in 1993 the Alexander Building was renovated into four floors of photo studios and offices; with a billiard parlor and lounge on the first floor.

In 2010 the Cammeyer Building was converted to 67 residential condominiums; once again separated from the Alexander Building.  A year later William Macklowe purchased the Alexander Building for $45.2 million.  Renovations continue on the building and although the street level has been obliterated, the distinguished façade above is mostly intact.  Where Edwardian women with fickle taste for footwear shopped in 1915, 21^st century sports enthusiasts browse through running shoes, shorts and tee-shirts.