Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 4, April, 1953

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One minute a man can be sitting and drinking — the next, he can he dead.

All it can take is.

New York is lousy with night clubs. There are strip joints, clip joints, jive joints, live joints, square joints, hip joints, crash joints, splash joints, crumb joints, class joints.

The Long-Malamed is class. All the way.

It is located on Fifty-fifth Street at the southeast corner of Madison Avenue. It is a narrow, two-story, rust-red building with a shimmering, scarlet, patent leather canopy, and a shimmering, scarlet-adorned doorman. Three steps up are heavy translucent glass doors and, when you push through, you’re in the small ante room which is the cocktail lounge of the Long-Malamed.

Separating the cocktail lounge and the night club room are two winding white marble stairways, each — I had been informed by Tobias Eldridge, the amiable genius behind the bar — leading upstairs to the well-furnished town apartment of Joe Malamed, one of the owners of the club.

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