For years I walked past the Oyster Bar every single day and never thought to go in. It had become, for me, a kind of architectural feature. Then one day I did.
For years I worked in the Chrysler Building, which sounds glamorous but mostly meant the same elevator every day and the same sad salad. Across the street was Grand Central Station, and inside Grand Central was the Oyster Bar. I walked past it thousands of times. The Oyster Bar became, for me, a kind of architectural feature, like a doorframe. You don't think about going through a doorframe for lunch.
Then one day I did. I sat at the swivel stool counter on the right as you walk in, ordered six oysters and a bowl of Manhattan Clam Chowder, and that was it. I was a person who went to the Oyster Bar now.
The place opened in 1913. It sits at the nexus of the ramps between the upper and lower halls, with three rooms. The big formal dining room on the left, where you need a reservation. The lunch counter on the right, with its serpentine swivel-stool setup and a vaulted tile ceiling. And then there is the third room, which I think is the most New York room in New York.
The lunch counter — swivel stools, vaulted tile ceiling, 1913.
Every day, thousands of commuters pour through Grand Central with no idea it is sitting right there, a few feet away. I find this astonishing. I want to grab people by the shoulders.
You walk through a door at the end of the lunch counter and you are in the Saloon. It looks like 1950 in there. Dark wood, low light, the kind of moody air that suggests Mickey Mantle could walk in at any moment with a cigarette and a drink and no one would even look up. The Saloon has the haunted quality of a place that has absorbed about a million conversations and is not telling you any of them. Every day, thousands of commuters pour through Grand Central with no idea it is sitting right there, a few feet away. I find this astonishing. I want to grab people by the shoulders.
The Saloon. Dark wood, low light. Looks like 1950.
The oysters are good, which you would hope, given the name. They have varieties from all over the country and a chalkboard tells you what came in fresh. I tend to go West Coast. Kumamotos. Hama Hamas. Smaller, a clean kind of sweetness, almost like melon. I am aware that describing oysters as tasting like melon makes me sound insufferable, but there it is.
The thing I really go for, though, is the Manhattan Clam Chowder. Most people know New England Clam Chowder, which is the cream-based one. Manhattan is tomato-based, thinner, red. I have always preferred it, and the Oyster Bar version is the best one I have ever had. I have eaten it in the Saloon. I have eaten it at the counter. I have, on at least one bleak occasion, taken it back to my desk in a paper cup.
My recommendation, if you find yourself in midtown with an hour to spare, is this. Go into Grand Central, head down the ramp like you are going to the lower hall, and the Oyster Bar is right there halfway down. The hostess will ask if you have a reservation. Say no, you are just going to the Saloon. Walk through. Order a drink. Get the oysters. Order the chowder. Sit there for a while.
It is a strange and wonderful thing that the best bowl of clam chowder in New York is probably thirty feet under the street, in a room most New Yorkers have never seen. Although now that I have told you, I suppose you can't really say that anymore.