The sidewalk in front of Elaine's smells like perfume.  Inside, the midnight bar crowd generates a thrum that swallows words and even whole lines.  Two guys clap each other's shoulders and yell at the umpire on TV as their wives attempt a conversation.  There's no space here for a late arrival, but in the next room there is an empty two-top.  In a single motion a waiter sets it with fresh white cloth and heavy silverware.  A woman in big glasses stares impassively from her own table on the cover of the menu, gripping a fork in one hand and a book in the other.  The two pages convey less personality: fried calamari, linguini with clam sauce, and veal piccata.  One wall is all dark wood and mirrors; the opposite is covered in a blurry mural that must be Venice, judging by the gondolas that float down the street.  Around the ceiling are shelves lined with exhibition posters from unknown museums, a Hirschfeld sketch, some dozens of first editions signed by authors you've never read.  A large photo print declares that Everyone Comes to Elaine's, and there are the same fantastic glasses, sitting with friends and smiling widely, not so imposing in this shot.

Most of the dining room is older than you.  Even the young couple by the wall seems more mature.  He's parted his hair to one side; she tugs at his vest; they exchange greasy kisses and no one is embarrassed.  A party of four is ignoring their dinner.  One of the ladies stops a passing server to reminisce, "She was the only..." but it's impossible to hear over the burst of applause that comes with the delivery of red wine.  The waiter pours into round glasses, smoothly wiping the bottle on a napkin folded over his arm and setting it down.  He clears their unfinished food, taking all four plates in one trip.  Then he returns to you with a steaming plate piled with pasta, and a garlicky cloud envelopes your head.  Spaghetti with anchovies and capers — something you might make at home, only with more salt and oil.  The noodles are hot and perfectly cooked, just what you want with your fifth or sixth chardonnay.

Excitement mounts among the rowdy bunch when one of the gentlemen whispers, "It's the police commissioner!"  His friends turn to look and a glass tips in over anticipation.  There's a cry but a waiter appears magically with a towel and the glass is refilled.  Finished the spaghetti and wipe some sauce from your glasses.  Coffee is bitter but not as sobering as the check.  The man at the loud table is laughing as he takes bills from his wallet.