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Sadly, the modern-day Algonquin is a pale shadow of its former self, the legendary haunt of literary alcoholics like Dorothy Parker. The bar (named for the color of its upholstery and not to be confused with the hotel's Oak Room) attracts older drinkers, who like to be served by even older men in black tie, and publishing types enthralled by the romanticized history and framed Hirschfeld cartoons. Small groups of sophisticates hold court in the high-backed wooden booths, while older loners watch TV at the bar. It's not a bad place to hide from trendy Manhattan, and the tourist quotient is mercifully minimal. Still, the place just feels kind of...blue. — Shana Liebman