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Swing by Docks after work and you'll be treated to an iconic sight: Beneath a soaring Deco-style ceiling and along an immense wooden bar, the city’s financial class, mostly middle-aged men in their shirtsleeves, knock back beers, dip fat shrimp into cocktail sauce, and flirt—or at least commiserate—with a minority of businesswomen in white blouses. These aren't the Masters and Mistresses of the Universe—they're the proletariats, the ones with kids, mortgages, and a decade or two of experience in the markets, or in marketing, and they bring to mind Thoreau's line from Walden: "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." Can Docks help? Perhaps, with a couple dozen expertly shucked oysters from both coasts. But anyone looking for transcendent seafood had better stop there, for the hunks of fish that Docks grills up by the boatload fall somewhere between dull and unspectacular. The salmon tastes like salmon, the swordfish like swordfish. Better stick to the bartender's brews, some Fire Island bivalves, and a bowlful of New England clam chowder. — Matt Gross

Oysters, m/p; clam chowder, $8