LABOR: Fold Arms

At 6:45 one evening last week, several hundred guests were dining beneath the serene gold and plum-colored Sert murals of Manhattan's Waldorf-Astoria, secure in the knowledge that their slightest whims would be instantly accommodated by the precise and fluent machinery of the nation's best-known hotel. Fifteen minutes later something went wrong. The hors d'oeuvres ceased to arrive. Famed Oscar's dishes failed to appear. Wine bottles stopped popping. The Waldorf, that pillar of bourgeois good-living, had temporarily ceased to function. With a feeling akin to that felt in Moscow, March 1917, the...

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